The Birthplace

The Birthplace // 1

THE BIRTHPLACE

Joe Dever and John Grant

The Birthplace // 2

DEDICATION

To Brian Williams and Peter Jones

– JD

For Polly – all right?

– JG

The Birthplace // 3

CONTENTS In Earlier Days . . . 1

Qinefer

2

Lone Wolf

3

Banedon

4

Lone Wolf

5

Banedon

6

Qinefer

7

Lone Wolf

8

Banedon

9

Qinefer / Lone Wolf

10

Banedon / Lone Wolf / Qinefer Appendix

The Birthplace // 4

Once I, Chuang-tzu, dreamt that I was a butterfly and that I was happy as a butterfly. I knew that I was quite pleased with myself, but I was not aware that I was Chuang-tzu. Sudenly I awoke, and there I was, quite obviously Chaung-tzu. I do not know whether I was a man dreaming I was a butterfly or a butterfly dreaming that I was a man. Between Chuang-tzu and the butterfly there must be some distinction. Chuang-tzu, fl. 300BC

The Birthplace // 5

In Earlier Days . . . Long, long before time itself began there were only the Gods and the void. Throughout a timeless eternity there was war among the Gods, as Good and Evil sought to destroy each other. Neither could ever hope to succeed, and yet the struggle raged on . . . The Goddess Ishir, High Priestess of the Moon, saw the futility of the conflict, and she made a truce with Naar, the King of the Darkness. To symbolize it she shaped from the truth of her pledge a great vessel, into which Naar infused the essence of his terrible power. This creation became Aon, the "Great Balance", a universe in which Good and Evil compensated for each other. The Gods were jealous of the worlds of Aon, and the Peace of Ishir, as the truce was called, was soon sundered. Here a world would be conquered by Evil, there another captured by Good. At last only one, Magnamund, remained unclaimed, and here Good and Evil met for a final confrontation. First to enter Magnamund were the forces of Ishir's ally, Kai, Lord of the Sun. He sent beings that took the form of giant sea dragons. Naar, too, sent dragon-shaped creatures to the world, and for centuries there was war – a war won by the forces of Evil. All seemed to be lost when Naar's minion Agarash the Damned pursued the last of the goodly dragons, Nyxator, to his hiding-place at Magnamund's core and slew him there. Naar would have been triumphant had not Ishir and Kai introduced magic to the world in the form of a race called the Elder Magi. They recaptured the sacred Lorestones that Nyxator had created many years ago, crushed Agarash and his empire, and witnessed the dawning of a millennia-long era of peace. Many civilizations rose and fell. Among the races that came into being were the Drakkarim, who took humanoid form yet were not of human stock. They terrorized the land, slaughtering all who would stand in their way. Yet they were not sufficiently powerful to conquer the world in the name of Evil, and so Naar created twenty

The Birthplace // 6 new champions, the Darklords, and sent them into Magnamund. Assisted by the Drakkarim, the Darklords swiftly subjugated vast tracts of Northern Magnamund. In desperation Ishir and Kai sent forth a race of humans called the Sommlending, who had had their origins in uncharted islands far to the north of mainland Magnamund. The Sommlending drove back the mightiest of the Darklords, Vashna, and colonized a small country which they christened Sommerlund. Their sole weapons were their wisdom and their courage, as well as one given to them by the Gods of Good: the Sommerswerd, or "Sword of the Sun". Only a range of mountains, the Durncrags, separated Sommerlund from the great waste of the Darklands, where the Darklords bided their time, plotting to overthrow the Sommlending and claim all of Magnamund for their master. The greatest of them, Vashna, aided by the Drakkarim, by lesser Darklords called Xaghash, and by evil wizards known as the Nadziranim, constructed in the Darklands eight vast fortress-cities, the greatest of which was Helgedad. In Helgedad's dungeons he spawned vile creatures – Vordaks, Doomwolves, Kraan, Zlanbeast and Giaks. Most loathsome of all were the Helghast, who could adopt human guise and mix among the Sommlending. The forces of Darkness, with the Helghast in the van, assailed Sommerlund in a terrible war, but were driven back by King Ulnar I, who slew Vashna with the Sommerswerd at the Battle of Maakengorge. The Baron of Toran distinguished himself in this battle, and was the last to see Ulnar I alive. Later he successfully sought the long-lost Lorestones and thereby found how to unlock the wisdom and strength that had been lying dormant within him. He became the first Kai Lord, taking the name of Sun Eagle, and founded a monastery where promising children could be reared so that their latent Kai powers could be developed fully. He recorded his experiences and the wisdom he discovered in a work called The Book of the Magnakai. The Darklords struggled among themselves until one of them, Zagarna, attained supremacy. Several times he launched onslaughts against Sommerlund; each time he was repulsed through the courage and fortitude of the Kai and the other Sommlending. But in the year 5050 an ambitious magician called Vonotar defected from Sommerlund's Brotherhood of the Crystal Star and allied himself with Zagarna. On the Feast of Fehmarn, when the Kai had congregated at their monastery to welcome the

The Birthplace // 7 first day of Spring, a vast Darklands army attacked, completely exterminating the Order. Not quite completely. A young initiate called Silent Wolf was inadvertently absent from the celebrations, returning only after the massacre was done. His life, too, would have been forfeit had not an enigmatic elemental called Alyss engaged Vonotar in a spiritual battle for long enough that Silent Wolf was able to escape the vicinity of the carnage. During his flight he encountered a young magician, Banedon; as they exchanged names Silent Wolf realized that he was truly alone in the world, and so took to himself a new name: Lone Wolf. Zagarna's war of conquest continued, and the reigning Sommlending king, Ulnar IV, determined to send for the Sommerswerd, which was held in trust by neighbouring Durenor. A young woman called Qinefer had already distinguished herself in the struggle against the aggressor and seemed to Ulnar's eye to possess many of the attributes of a Kai warrior. He was on the brink of sending her to Durenor – for only a Kai may successfully wield the Sommerswerd – when Lone Wolf arrived in the capital, Holmgard. Ulnar commanded him to go in Qinefer's stead. Lone Wolf reached Hammerdal, the capital of Durenor, after many attempts on his life – all of which, he later discovered, had been orchestrated by Vonotar. Among the many friends who assisted the young Kai was Viveka, a roaming assassin. Lone Wolf was able to retrieve the Sommerswerd, and with it he destroyed Zagarna. Qinefer led the Sommlending forces that routed the remains of the Darklands army. Vonotar fled to the rigid polar realms of Kalte, where he usurped the throne and worked to create a race of master-warriors who would enslave Sommerlund. Lone Wolf pursued him there and, with the aid of an elderly magician called Loi-Kymar and a renegade Giak called Carag, brought the wizard to justice. Vonotar was thrust into the Dazhiarn, a plane of existence from which, it was believed, there could be no return. Lone Wolf and Qinefer determined to continue the task of rebuilding the Kai Monastery so that the Order of the Kai might be reborn. Alyss decided that it was safe for her to leave Magnamund for a while in order to discover the truth of her own origin at the dawn of time. Banedon returned to the home of his Brotherhood in Toran, intending thereafter to lead the life of a recluse.

The Birthplace // 8 Of course, it didn't quite work out like that. It became evident that the Darklords had created a portal in the kingdom of Vassagonia through which they were infiltrating large numbers of their Drakkarim and Helghast with the aim of conquering the Lastlands from within. Banedon was sent to Vassagonia's capital, Barrakeesh, to help another magician, Jenara, take charge of the situation. Unknown to them, Lone Wolf was captured and taken to Helgedad as a pawn in the struggle among the Darklords to determine who should be their Archlord in place of Zagarna. Qinefer, assuming that Lone Wolf was dead, shouldered the burden of carrying on his work; she was assisted by Cloud Maker, a reprobate who had once studied at the Monastery but who had deserted in order to pursue a lustier existence elsewhere. Sadly, he did not live long after his return, being slain by a flock of marauding Kraan. Qinefer went to Barrakeesh, where she was welcomed by Banedon and Jenara. She discovered the source of the spawn, the Birthplace, deep in the heart of the palace of Vassagonia's ruler, the Zakhan Moudalla. She entered the Birthplace, an area of space constructed by the Nadziranim to be only partly within this universe; the experience was so abasing that she left Barrakeesh, refusing to explain herself to Banedon or Jenara, and returned to the Monastery. Some while later, to her astonishment, Lone Wolf was returned to Sommerlund thanks to the machinations of Slûtar, a main contender for the Archlordship of the Darklands. However, Slûtar was soon thereafter defeated by the Darklord Haakon, who took the throne. A Vassagonian noble, Barraka, was enslaved by the spirit of the Darklord Vashna, and was drawn to the place of Vashna's death, the Maakengorge, which lay in a southern province of Sommerlund called Ruanon. His army of bandits laid waste the province. Lone Wolf, alongside a company led by Captain Remir D'Val and Lieutenant Petra of the King's Guards, strove to oust Barraka, but with little success; worse, the Vassagonian was planning to use a ritual involving human sacrifice to raise Vashna and his hosts from the dead. This plan Lone Wolf succeeded in thwarting, thanks in part to the intervention of Qinefer and Viveka, who had been brought to the Maakengorge through the influence of the Guildmaster of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star. At last Ulnar himself led an army into Ruanon, and he and D'Val drove the intruders from Sommerlund's borders.

The Birthplace // 9 The immediate problem was solved. Qinefer's reticence on the subject of the Birthplace lulled Lone Wolf and Ulnar into thinking that the matter was of little importance. The Guildmaster knew otherwise, of course – and Banedon and Jenara, still isolated in Barrakeesh, most certainly did – but no action was taken for almost a year, by which time it might have been too late . . .

The Birthplace // 10

Chapter One QINEFER

The nightmare again. She turned over in her sleep, feeling the hardness of the wooden mattress that even the flesh on her hips and the bundles of rugs and furs beneath her couldn't soften. Once upon a time she'd hardly ever dreamed, and nightmares had been totally unknown to her. She had imprecise composite memories of mornings when she'd woken up in the attic bedroom of her parents' farm to see the early sunlight trickling shyly through the holes in the curtains that her mother never found time to patch, of leaning back into the still sweat-warm heaps of her sheets and blankets, and of feeling the fingers of her mind flex as they tried to catch the last, drifting, wispy elusive traces of the experiences that she had both had and not had during the night. Perhaps the image of a field shaded into tranquility by the coming of evening would remain vividly pictured in her mind until her mother called that it was time for breakfast and she had to grope around with her feet, her eyes still closed as if somehow that would allow her to delude herself that she was still lying in the warmth, finding her coarse woven slippers at last and tumbling dishevelledly down the noisy wooden stairs to find hot brose on the table and her younger brother talking too loudly. "I had a dream last night," she'd say, and the others would look at her expectantly for a few moments until she raised her spoon to her lips and muttered something about not being able to remember anything about it. Then, later in the day, when she was weeding the crops or persuading the animals to come to her, she'd suddenly catch another glimpse of the field in the grey light and she'd remember that, for a reason which she couldn't any longer imagine, the field had been very important to her. There was nobody near enough for her to tell about it, but perhaps her life had depended on the field being there, or perhaps it hadn't really been a field at all but something quite different – a person, even – and all that was happening was that she was remembering it as a field. Or a cat. Or a house. Or whatever it was that her other self – the person who occupied her body while she was asleep – had

The Birthplace // 11 projected onto the screen of her half-awake eyes, as if that other person were trying to get a message through to her. Once, sitting by a stream in the middle of summer, with the heat stinging her exposed shoulders and the fresh smell of the prancing waters filling her nostrils as she picked the petals from a dandelion and laid them out one by one on the grazed grass beside her, like an array of little golden swords, she'd thought as hard as she could in the direction of that other person: I'm here! I'm listening out for you! If you've got anything to say, say it to me now! She'd spent much of the afternoon sitting there, listening for a faint, alien voice in her mind, but she'd heard nothing except the gossip of the stream and the humming of insects, and that evening her father had shouted at her because she hadn't finished her work. She'd been only a child then, of course. As she'd grown older she'd learnt not to speak about the fact that sometimes she had dreams. Her father, who had come to Sommerlund from Cloeasia, where so many things were different that she never heard about all of them, believed that dreams were visitors from a separate land, Everness, that was always there but could never be seen. His people spoke of plains of light and life and plains of darkness and death, and of the creatures that roamed across them, occasionally pausing to peep through the intangible barrier that lay between Everness and the human world in order to interfere with people's lives or just, out of curiosity, to watch what was going on for a while before retreating back to their strangeness. The intrusion of one of these visitors was, to him, an occasion to be marked by long hours of dreary talk and countertalk, of concentration on the ethereal, until at last he'd convinced himself that he'd teased and tormented some sort of meaning out of the second-hand shards that the dreamer had reluctantly relayed to him. Qinefer and her brother, eager to avoid these tedious exercises in what they regarded as mystic claptrap, had soon learned to keep quiet about their dreams. Their mother, a staunch peasant believer in the certainty that nothing really existed unless you could hit it with a hammer, had watched all this with a mixture of amusement and something that was more profound than irritation. Dreams were childish things, to be put away from oneself at the end of childhood, and she had little patience with people who talked about irrelevant chimaeras when they should have been out doing something to keep the granary full or the larder well stocked. So Qinefer and her brother hadn't mentioned

The Birthplace // 12 their dreams to their mother either – in fact, they'd felt rather guilty in her presence whenever they'd had a dream the night before. Small but important deceptions. The type that can bind a family together forever or destroy it from within. But the end of Qinefer's childhood hadn't brought an end to her dreams. True, they'd still been very rare occurrences, but she hadn't been able to persuade herself that they didn't exist – nor, equally, had they ever seemed terribly significant to her. They'd been like paintings that had profoundly affected her sentiments while she'd been looking at them, but in memory were nothing more than two-dimensional daubs, pretty coloured decorations, ephemeral playthings. Then her childhood had really come to its end. She rarely allowed her thoughts to venture into the crazily jumbled, chaotically vivid tangle that was the part of her mind where the memories of her loss of childhood were stored. No one in Sommerlund was ever unaware of the menace that lay beyond the dour peaks of the Durncrag mountains, ever-waiting, like a wounded predator angrily biding its time until it could exact its cruel revenge on some lesser beast. Yet, like almost all of the Sommlending, she had, through long familiarity with the threat, come to assume that it was one that would never be realized: the Darklords had receded in her consciousness until the fact of their existence was as unreal as that of the bogeymen her mother described as a last resort when trying to still her younger brother at night. Except that one day the bogeymen had come to their farm. Later, a long time later, it seemed, she began to relive the experience over and over again in her nightmares – dark dreams that wouldn't just casually and unostentatiously ease themselves out of her memory when she awoke. The first time it had happened had been the worst: she'd screamed into the uncomforting darkness for endless minutes, incapable of comprehending the cruelty that nature had chosen to inflict upon her, doubly terrified by her bafflement and confusion. Which was the reality – the carnage that had been filling her mind or the clamminess of the wet bedclothes that she clutched to her streaming body in the ice of the night? There was no one else in all of the universe aside from herself and the jerkily moving too-colourful creatures that infested her inner vision. They were still there in the infinite blankness surrounding her, their invisible eyes slowly and deliberately nictating as they

The Birthplace // 13 watched her in her isolation and waited for her to close her eyes so that they could pounce with their inhumanly sharp weapons and ... That first time the nightmare chose to visit her had been worse, even, than the reality that had given it birth. Then, as it recurred again and again, she had come to accept it: each time she would burst out of it screaming into the harshly cold air of her own world but then, almost immediately, she would realize that her torments were already ebbing. That didn't stop the throbbing of the raw wounds in her mind, of course – the feeling that in some psychic way her spirit had been raped – but it did help her control the pain until it vanished beneath the threshold of her awareness. It had been just another reappearance of the same old nightmare to which, over time, she'd become accustomed. Then things had changed. The nightmare had grown. New memories had tacked themselves on to it, so that it became broader and longer and more detailed. But the memories were becoming part of the whole canvas in all the wrong places, as if she'd been writing a story of some of the things that had happened during her life, accidentally spilled all the sheets of paper onto the floor, and then inadvertently jumbled them as she was picking them up. The story was still there, of course, but now that everything was in a different order there seemed to be new lines of cause and effect that were quite unlike those she had perceived before. And, each time the nightmare came to her now, it was yet more convoluted and detailed than before. It gained new meanings, meanings which she didn't much like but found herself forced to accept. That other person she had imagined as a child was trying to tell her what she, Qinefer, was really like, and was using the medium of the nightmare to do so for want of any other way. The Qinefer portrayed by the jumbled pages of her life-story was not the Qinefer that she herself perceived in her waking hours – and most certainly not anything like the Qinefer whom her friends like Lone Wolf and Viveka and Petra believed that they knew so well. Perhaps only the Guildmaster of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star, among mortals, had caught a glimpse of the Qinefer whom the nightmare depicted; if so, in his wisdom he had kept his silence. Three people living in her body: herself, the other person, and the Qinefer that the other person saw.

The Birthplace // 14 Was the other person right? At times like this, lying in the silence with only the sullen whiteness of moonlight filtered through a clouded sky to keep her company, Qinefer was at least part-way convinced that indeed the other person's perception was the true one. She shivered, driving out the pictures that were still too bright for her mind's eye, and reached automatically for Lone Wolf's warmth to reassure herself, through the touch of his night-tangled hair on her fingertips, that she was really the person whom she thought she was. He wasn't there, of course. As soon as her hands found the empty pillow she remembered that he was on his way to Holmgard, summoned there by a messenger from Ulnar some days ago. It seemed to have been such a little while – although she knew that in reality it had been almost a year – since they'd returned from Holmgard to their clearing in the forest where the skeleton of the rebuilt Kai Monastery was slowly taking form. At Holmgard itself they'd spent only a couple of short nights, licking their wounds after that horrific final confrontation, in the underground temple by the Maakengorge, with Barraka and the bileful revenant of the Darklord Vashna himself. Now, so soon, King Ulnar had for some reason decided to call for Lone Wolf yet again – the messenger had been unable to give her any clue as to the monarch's purpose, and Lone Wolf had done nothing but compress his lips vexedly when she'd asked him about the contents of the lavishly sealed scroll the man had brought. The whims of kings were not to be analysed or justified: they were to be accepted and obeyed. So here I am in the darkness, alone, because he's been taken away from me at the very time that I need him the most. At once she chided herself for the selfishness of her thought: as she lay here self-pityingly whingeing about phantasms that could be dissipated with a wave of her hand, for all she knew he might be fighting for his life against some creature that was all the more terrifying for being unknown. Yet she permitted herself the indulgence of leasing a shaft of pure hatred in the direction of Ulnar, whose caprices – as they seemed to her at the moment – quite literally dictated the lives and deaths of his subjects, most immediately her own and Lone Wolf's. And she was honest enough to recognize and accept that part of the reason for the momentary bitterness she felt towards the king was not to do with such great matters as life and death but was instead engendered by the fact that she was here alone and lonely, and scared by her aloneness and loneliness.

The Birthplace // 15 She wished she had a pet – a cat or a dog or any living creature that she could stroke, pretending to herself in the way that people do that the instinctive behaviours of an animal whose prime concerns were comfort and food were really the symptoms of some deep if not fully comprehensible cross-species love. For a few moments she considered clambering out of her uncomfortably large bed and padding along to the half-finished room where Viveka might or might not be sleeping. The one-time mercenary had known night fears herself, when a spirit had spoken through her as she'd slept, and Qinefer had been there to comfort her by her mere presence. Viveka – Viveka who called her "little sister" – would calm her terrors, drawing her in beside her like a mother sleepily consoling a child, cradling her until the dully heard pulse of her heart and the long slow rasp of her breathing created four safe velvety walls that would surround them both, keeping them safe from the invisibly prowling monsters until the blessed morning dissolved them away in its swiftly cleansing light. But Qinefer stayed in her bed. She told herself that the reason for remaining where she was was that Viveka might be anywhere – the warchild often roamed through the forest during the nights, pursuing some secret purpose which she might or might not explain later – and so a cold tramp down the corridor might well be a wasted venture. She grinned wryly to herself as she heard her own mind putting forward this oh-so-sensible rationale for her continued immobility. She was both deceiving herself and permitting herself to be deceived, in full knowledge of the truth of the matter. Which was that she was too damned scared to risk getting out of bed. She pulled the tangled, damp bedding over her head so that she was completely enclosed. Lone Wolf had once told her that sometimes, when he was confronted by an agarashi, he would give himself new courage from reservoirs he hadn't known he had by pretending to be once again a cowering child in bed, using the blankets as a shield against the unnameable creatures that prowled the bleak void outside. An imaginary protection against a real monster. She was doing almost exactly the converse: putting a physical barrier between her mind and the imaginary monsters that threatened to invade it. The beat of her heart was slowing at last, and her breathing was becoming less ragged. The bedding still felt moist, but now it was warming to her body its dampness seemed almost welcoming.

The Birthplace // 16 She wasn't sure what time of night it was, but the fact that the Moon was still up suggested that there were as yet a few hours left until dawn. She halfway chuckled as she remembered a somewhat off-colour remark that Petra – prim Petra, of all people – had made while they'd been amusedly watching a couple of the more senior acolytes engaged in the rather clumsy dance of adolescent courtship. Women are always trying to get back into their mother's womb. Men are always trying to get into someone else's. Lone Wolf and Viveka had laughed out loud, while Qinefer had tried to look somewhere else – as if by looking somewhere else she could be somewhere else. And now here she was, safely curled up in her mother's womb, if that was the way Petra wanted to describe it, letting herself drift back into sleep . . . She was caught unawares as the monsters threw aside her protective shroud of rugs and blankets and came pouring back into her mind. The nightmare again. She was too far into sleep to be able to escape from its clutches; instead she was forced to watch as she was drawn ever deeper into it, compelled to relive, for the second time this night, the version of her life that the other person had woven from the threads of reality. Compelled to relive the wrong truth. # Tick, tick, tick, tick . . . . . . says a voice that seems to come from some innermost part of her that Qinefer has never known before was there . . . . . . tick, tick, tick, tick . . . you're touched by the colours and the colours stick . . . And the colours in front of her are gleaming brighter than they're supposed to – brighter than any natural colours could be, as if they'd been freshly dipped in water and were still gleaming through its wetness. The Birthplace. The place in Barrakeesh, Vassagonia's sprawlingly violent capital, where the spawn of the Darklords are being reborn so that they can walk among human beings, perverting their dealings among each other, corrupting the institutions that people have created, for good or ill, so that their societies may be governed, controlled, maintained in however precarious a state of stability.

The Birthplace // 17 Here it is, deep in the heart of the impotent Zakhan's garishly tawdry palace, that unknown magics are reassembling the stripped atoms of creatures spawned hundreds of miles away in the vile dungeons of Helgedad, far beyond the wall of the Durncrags. Qinefer can only vaguely recall how she came to be here. In the miasma of her mind there are only disjointed partial flickerings of memory: a journey to Barrakeesh in the company of nomads whom she couldn't fully trust; meeting with Banedon and the other magician, Jenara, the tall woman whose face Qinefer cannot any longer picture; coming here to the palace and terrorizing the sentries so that they tremblingly granted her admittance to the presence of the Zakhan himself; the subterranean journey to this foul-smelling cavern; the Helghast that had attacked her . . . . . . tick, tick, tick, tick . . . A moment ago there was a black void that stretched for an infinity in all directions, so that she was more alone than she'd ever felt before – alone, feeling like a baby abandoned in the night, or a child in a grown-up body who's quivering beneath the blankets because she's made her choice between the void all around her bed and the void inside her head, and it's too late to change her decision now. Now that the shell that separated one reality from the other has dissolved away, she yearns for the terrifying solitude she knew before, when there was only one of her, when she did not have the unwanted companionship of herself. The colours fill everywhere, as if someone has taken a paintbrush and daubed all of Aon in a frenzied fit of polychromatic insanity. Whichever direction she turns herself – backwards, forwards, up, down – she finds herself looking into the vent of a neverending corridor whose iridescent pulsing walls are a kaleidoscope of overlapping, interweaving, constantly shifting planes of colour. The colours are outside her and yet she is creating them within herself, as if by coming to the Birthplace she has journeyed only to her own core. . . . tick, tick, tick, tick . . . . . . you're touched by the colours and the colours stick . . . And her eyes are surely playing tricks on her now, because it seems to her for a moment as if the colours are coalescing with oleaginous lethargy to form greasily shining pictures that seem to be inclined at an impossible angle to her. She feels that she'd be able to see the pictures quite clearly if she weren't looking directly at them, if somehow she were able to skew her perception around into a forbidden direction.

The Birthplace // 18 She shuts her eyes firmly but that doesn't blot out the drifting gauzy matrices of colour. Hand on the pommel of her sword, feeling the coldness of the metal, she takes an instinctive pace forwards, automatically preparing to attack a threatening foe – as if the abstracted colours could somehow knit themselves into solidity and become her foe. As if the colours would care or even notice if she tried to attack them. There's nothing beneath her feet, she realizes, but an eternal tunnel of colours. Nothing holding her up here where she stands, infinitely far above an indeterminate ground. . . . tick, tick, tick, tick . . . . . . you're touched by the colours and the colours stick . . . The Birthplace. The place where the spawn are entering Vassagonia. The Helghast that turned on her so suddenly a short while ago must have known in the most fundamental of ways that this was where the Birthplace was. He must have been born here – maybe years ago, or maybe just a few hours ago. She shakes her head angrily, trying to clear it. This is a mistake, because the colours respond to her movement as if it were a semaphored command, blending together in innumerable different configurations more swiftly than her eyes can follow until they have created coherent pictures – clear pictures that she can see in all their minutely delineated details when she turns her gaze directly towards them. Qinefer doesn't want to see what she's seeing, so she swivels her head away. Dizzyingly, the tableau swings around with her. Again she shuts her eyes tightly, and again this makes no difference to the clarity with which the chillingly too-vivid pictures assault her retinas. Blind to the chamber which is/was/will be everywhere around her, feeling as if she is staggering to one side yet having no sensation of her feet touching the ground, she is forced to watch the rainbow hues of a scream erupting from the wan greyness of her lips and painting themselves like a domed ceiling over her head. The ceiling explodes into a myriad of cartwheeling fireflies that dash in crazed disarray to weave a tapestry that sags downwards towards her under its own ponderous weight, forcing her to watch as a girl called Qinefer was running, her long, crinkly brown hair whipping behind her. That was why Cloud Maker had died, his breast impaled by the long curving sharpness of a Kraan's beak as he struggled to protect the Kai acolytes from the attack: he had given up his life so that in a far-future yesterday Qinefer's hair could become the playmate of the breeze. She

The Birthplace // 19 had seen her parents and her younger brother ripped to pieces by Kraan, but that was in a different time, a time when she had been sleeping in a pool of sunlight near the farmhouse, to be woken by screams of agony and triumph. Without thinking she had rolled herself into concealment under the raised wooden floor of the house. There she'd cowered, trembling uncontrollably, gagging herself with the coarse hem of her skirt, weeping with tears that were too old for her as she saw what was happening – what was being done – and knowing all the time that she would have been able to do something about it if only she had had the courage to stop being a child and start being an adult. No, that wasn't right. She'd been unable to do anything to stop the carnage because she'd still been only a helpless child. Incapable of moving any other part of her body than her shoulders, which seemed to be jerking out of her control as she gave vent to painful, deep, soundless sobs, she'd watched as her father, his body covered in blood and the green-grey ichor of the flying spawn, had managed to spit a Giak with the old rusty pitchfork that normally stood propped up in the barn, but then he'd been seized from above by a shrilly cackling Kraan and chopped to pieces by its savage beak as it had thrown him from side to side, his red blood seeping into the parched brown of the yard. A Giak, its mouth a broad slash of sadistic glee, had brought her brother out to see what was happening to her father; the child had danced and skipped in the creature's powerful grip, his feet kicking futilely several inches above the ground, until the spawn had suddenly pitched him face-forward into the shambles and decapitated him messily with its black serrated sword so that the head had rolled and spun until it came to rest seeming to transfix Qinefer, in her hiding-place, with an accusatory stare. Because she could have saved her brother's life had she chosen to, but instead she'd decided to preserve her own, and it was for that reason that Cloud Maker had died. All she would ever know of her mother's death would be the echoes of her screams. What she had seen of it would remain locked away forever inside her. After the spawn had completed their filthy business, leaving behind them only the suffocating stench of death and a litter of flesh that she no longer recognized as having once be longed to human beings, Qinefer had crept out from hiding and recovered the jagged sword of one of the dead Giaks, wiping its blade absently on her skirt. There were no longer any tears left inside her because she was too callous to care about the fate of her family, the people whom she'd pretended to love: she'd saved her own skin, and having accomplished that successfully she'd looked around the farm and realized that there was nothing left for her there now. But again that wasn't right, couldn't be right. She had very few memories of her emotions during those first few moments after she'd discovered that the marauding spawn had departed, unaware that they'd left a survivor of

The Birthplace // 20 the massacre behind them, but she knew that they'd included shame, terror, revulsion . . . Her lips moving as if they'd lost the power to form words, she'd deliberately ignored the dark, fetid stains on her skirt and legs and the mangled flesh scattered around her as she put the sword in her belt. The features of her face ceased all their movement, frozen into an expression of chill determination that had stayed with her as she'd vaulted the ramshackle fence at the end of the farmyard and found herself in the smallest of their fields, where even the goats had been gutted by the spawn. Some of her hair had been pasted to her forehead by the seeping sweat of her recent terror. As she ran, her brown eyes were wide above her broad, dark face, her lips pulled back from her white teeth. Now there was only a single intent left in her mind: the slaying of as many as possible of the spawn so that none of them would survive to tell the world the tale of how she had watched her family die when she could have raised just the little finger of her left hand in order to save them. No. Vengeance had driven her to assuage the illogical guilt that washed through – was still washing through her – would continue to wash through her until the day she went to her grave. She hadn't succumbed to cowardice; she hadn't willingly traded the lives of the people she'd always known for her own; she hadn't . . . But in a way maybe she had done all of these things. That was years ago. She was barely more than a girl then. She's a woman now. But she's not just seeing the scenes all over again: she's living them. The screams of her mother as . . . as . . . as she runs across the yard, trying vainly to battle the loudly beating clawed wings of the great Kraan as they pluck the heart from the truncated chest of little Shimar – those aren't sounds that she hears, they're sounds from inside her. (The sight of her mother's death would remain locked away inside her forever, but now is the end of forever, and she sees it and feels it once more.) Qinefer's a little girl again, shrinking back into the protective shade under the house, knowing that she should be trying to aid her mother and her father and her brother, knowing that it would be senseless to try because all it would mean would be an extra life lost, wasted, knowing that however much she tried to rationalize it all she was hiding here for the pure and simple, unalloyed reason that she was terrified. . . . tick, tick, tick, tick . . . . . . you're touched by the colours and the colours stick . . . She's ashamed. Ashamed because of the memory. It was fear that drove her into concealment – raw fear – not any higher sense.

The Birthplace // 21 She's never wakingly admitted this to herself before, but the colours are making her confess the truth, bring it into the open so that she can look at it. So that she can recognize herself as the person she really is. Ah, the colours. Brighter than the colours of any nightmare. Brighter and more perceptive. Yes, but let's be just towards her. In all fairness she was only a... . . . you're touched by the colours and the colours stick . . . Right now, as she relives the horror, she still is a girl, no matter what the lines of her womanhood might be telling her. Yes, she's led troops into battle and she's slaughtered Giaks and Helghast and Drakkarim and Gourgaz . . . but for all that she's a frightened little girl cringing under a rotting wooden farmhouse that's five miles away from nowhere, watching her family being brutally slain, wetting herself like she hasn't done since that time when she was three as the terror forces her into a state of soundless immobility and the two of them watched in silence as the last arc of the Sun disappeared behind the hills. "One thing, m'lady." "Yes?" "Just . . ." He shifted embarrassedly in his saddle. "Well, good luck." "Good luck to you, too, Klen. We'll have some tales to tel tonight." A picture came into her head of a crackling fire and generous measures of warm, strong mead. "Ishir wiling," he said quietly. "Ishir willing," Qinefer agreed. Again they spent a few moments in silence. Then: "Klen, sound the advance." The lieutenant put his bugle to his lips and sounded a single high note. Qinefer touched her hand to Janos's neck and obediently the great white stallion burst into movement. Feeling her body become almost one with Janos's, Qinefer sped across the field, leaving her lieutenant far behind her, as if he existed only in a different world . . . Much later she was back inside Holmgard's stockade walls, with eager hands pulling her down from Janos's back, soft words huffing and tutting over the tiny wounds she'd sustained. She was barely aware of the fact that the rest of her soldiers were likewise being given a hero's welcome. Once she was sure that Janos was being properly treated she pushed her way through the crowds, cursing bitterly at anyone who got in her way, heading for the military quarters

The Birthplace // 22 and the genuineness of the welcome that she knew would be waiting for her there, her head already swimming with the adulation she would receive. She determined to accept the praises modestly, her head to one side in a self-effacing pose as if to suggest that every other soldier there had performed deeds of valour equal to her own that day. It was untrue, of course, and they all knew that, but the depth of her apparent humility would serve far more effectively than could any overt braggartishness as a pointed reminder to them all that it was through her bravery that they had carried the day. It was, indeed, a fine welcome. Her fellow-soldiers helped her out of her chainmail, and a couple of them urged her into a hot, steaming bath and soothed the aches from her limbs. Once her muscles had fully relaxed, they helped her out of the water and dried her off briskly, then folded her into a towelling gown and led her to where an open fire was crackling and leaping with warmth, just the way she had seen it before the battle. A jug of mead was pushed into her hands as she gloated over the way in which she would tell Klen the tale of how she had killed not just a single Gourgaz, like Lone Wolf, but two of them in a single day. And then she would pretend polite attention as she listened glazedly to his tedious recounting of his own minor feats before returning to the much more relevant topic of herself. She took a long, satisfying gulp of the mead, and felt its warmth working down her throat and into her stomach. She pushed her feet forwards to enjoy the heat from the blazing logs. The air was full of words of praise for her courage and her weaponry, and she revelled in them . . . although, of course, she feigned embarrassment that her soldiers should ascribe such greatnesses to her. Some people were sleeping where they were, and most had gone off to bed, when she realized that Klen hadn't joined her. She had drunk enough mead that her brain was functioning only slowly, but it gradually became obvious to her that Klen would not be celebrating their victory with her tonight: the little shit was probably away somewhere wenching, cheating her of her audience. She'd have him publicly flogged for his insubordination and unforgivable selfishness. Unless, that was, he was somewhere where he would never again be able to hear her crow over her most recent victory. It was the only explanation of his continued absence that brought her any pleasure. Somewhere out in the encampments of the Darklords' spawn an arrow had struck home, or the point of a sword had found its mark. She looked balefully at the fire. Earlier she had smiled approvingly at its warm flames, but now she saw in them the blaze in which she hoped that Klen had been incinerated. She grinned, her ill-temper disappearing for a moment as she had a vision of his competent smile now contorted into a final rictus of pain: she hoped that his death had not been a swift one.

The Birthplace // 23 No one saw her as she picked herself up out of her chair and, buoyed by the thought of Klen's sufferings yet still thwarted by his absence, she wandered off miserably in search of her bunk, where she forced Lone Wolf to make love to her for the first time (only that had been somewhere else, surely?) and she exulted in the power of her sexuality to subjugate his will to her own. (Only hadn't it been rather different from that? Where did the memories of a time, a long while later, of gentle exploration of each other come from? She had been a little frightened at first, and so had he, and the whole thing had degenerated into a tender shambles but that didn't matter. Had all these things happened to someone else?) The colours are not just outside her; they're permeating throughout her, softly shifting their focus as time passes leadenly and unwillingly from one moment to the next, touching her soul ... and the colours stick . . . . . . until she wants her soul to be dragged out of her like a damaged tooth from its socket, to accept the short pain in order to be relieved from the ache that never stops. Flailing her arms wildly, hoping somehow to be able to drive the colours away, she takes a few tentative steps forwards, furious to find as if for the first time that the veils of now incandescent colours are insubstantial so that her hands pass right through them, affecting them not at all. This is a timeless place. . . . tick, tick, tick, tick . . . . . . you're touched by the colours and the colours stick . . . This is a timeless place but it's forcing her back through time, drawing on her deepest memories to transport her to the places where she first confronted shame. Her body holds the same powerlessness that it had when she was hiding under the floor of the farmhouse, shrinking away from the sights and the sounds and the blood . . . She screams again, and once more the hues of her terror create a rounded ceiling above her – but then, charmed away by an invisible hand, all the colours in which she has been bathing are banished. Utter blackness. She feels as if she's sitting, curled up tightly, in the corner of a small cell, but there's no sensation of a floor pushing up beneath her or of walls pressing against her shoulders. She's in a half-slump, her eyes covered by her hand –trying to block away the outside as much as to stop anyone seeing the tears that are flowing down her cheeks.

The Birthplace // 24 The silence is so profound that it seems to be filling her with its noise. Forever passes. The only real sounds that she can hear: her heartbeat, her breathing, her weeping. She's wet herself, just as she did when she witnessed the murder of her mother and her father and her brother. But it seems less shameful, in a way, now that she's an adult: she's learned what fear can make people do, and has come to accept it. . . . tick, tick, tick, tick . . . There's no such thing as "forever". Well, in a way you could say that there is. Aon was born from Ishir's crucible "forever" ago, because before the birth of Aon there was no such thing as time. But that's a "forever" that you could count in years, if only you had the chance and the longevity to do the counting. And some day Aon will die, its death marking the end of this particular "forever". But that's different. Qinefer knows that the time she's undergoing now is the real forever – the one that stretches from the infinite past into the infinite future. Which gives her a doubly infinite amount of time to think, to remember. She doesn't want a doubly infinite amount of time to think, to remember. What she wants is to get away from here, out of this cell (and she's more than ever convinced that it's a cell, even though she hasn't dared to look and can't feel either its walls or its floor) and above all the most important things that she wants is to forget. In an infinitude of time there is no distinguishing difference between one moment and the next. She could move, but why move herself in this moment rather than in any other? If she's moved in an earlier moment or will move in a later one, then perhaps she might feel the impulse to stir herself during this one, because of course if all the moments are indistinguishable then you can't tag any particular one as having come before or going to come after this one, which means that they're all intimately interrelated. And that was why she killed Cloud Maker when she let all of the other people die . . . or killed them herself, in which case she must face the court of her own conscience as the accused murderess of Cloud Maker. Untidy ends of the judge's black crinkled hair are showing around the edges of her wig, which was smeared with grey Giak

The Birthplace // 25 ichor and her own sweat. She had covered many miles since leaving her home to exact her own personal punishment on the hosts of the Darklord, the spawn that had witnessed her failure. Her clothing was in tatters, although she had received no flesh wounds; the smell of her body clogged her nostrils. She scrambled over a drystone dyke and found herself in a lush, triangular field. A small herd of cattle was grazing in one corner. A few of the animals looked up to examine her warily, but most went on placidly cropping at the grass, their tails lazily looping from side to side. A couple of small brown birds were unconcernedly perched on one cow's back, pecking at fleas and other parasites. It was hard to believe, looking at this scene, that the land all around was being ravaged by war. The field was crossed by a stream. Its sluggish waters didn't look too inviting, but Qinefer didn't care. After making a final check that there were no enemies in sight, she stripped off her homespun grey and brown clothing, rinsed it in the water, and then splashed in herself. The chill thrilled her body, covering her instantly with goose-pimples. She splashed the water over her belly, breasts and shoulders, then sank down and worked away industriously at her armpits and face. As she did so, some of the madness began to melt away from her eyes, and she found herself almost smiling. (It was a feral grin of triumph: she had committed her crime and now had succeeded in making a clean getaway.) She rolled over into a sitting position and allowed her lower legs to float up to the surface, her toes forming a neat brown row just above the waterline. She arched her back so that her hair trailed in the water; supporting herself with one hand, she ran her fingers through it, teasing out the knots. As she whipped her head back out from the water, sending a glittering display of droplets in a high arc ahead of her, she let out a whoop. While washing her body she seemed also to be cleansing her soul. Pushing her hair away from her face she found that she was looking at a small boy perched on the rim of the stream, his bare feet dangling in the water. He had a pink caricature of a face, smudged with mud, and a nose that was almost as snub as her own. He winked. "Who're you?" he said. "My name's Qinefer. I live – lived – a few miles over in that direction." She gestured vaguely, fixing the smile to her face. "What's yours?" "Worm," he said. "At least, that's what everyone calls me. My full name's Wormwald, but only my grandmother uses it." "Hello, Worm." "Hello, Qinefer." She went on washing herself. "I live near here," he said. "My mother and father own this field, and the cows – did you see the cows?"

The Birthplace // 26 "Yes. They looked excellent cows to me." "They are. My father says they're the finest milkers in the land. I don't think my mother agrees with him. She says they're a scrawny bunch of scragbags that are milking us, rather than us milking them." His hands and face moved animatedly as he talked; in an incongruous contrast, his voice was very level and expressionless. Perhaps it was the local accent. "What do you think?" she said. "I agree with my dad. I like cows. They don't try to bite you, like the dogs do when they're in a bad mood, or scratch you, like the cat almost always does when I pull her tail." "That's a good reason for liking cows," Qinefer agreed. There was a short silence. Qinefer stood up and began to scrub at her legs. "You don't mind me watching you?" said Worm nervously. "I can turn my head away, if you'd prefer." "No. Why should I mind?" "Well," his voice losing most of its confidence, "you're a lady and I'm . . . um . . . a man." Qinefer made an effort not to giggle. The boy couldn't be more than about eight. Even if he'd been eighteen or eighty she wouldn't have been too concerned: the nudity taboo had never much worried her. (Besides, she had a beautiful body and was justifiably proud of it. The sight of her splendour would remain with him for the rest of his life. She hoped that he fully realized the magnitude of the privilege that she was granting him.) "That's all right," she said. "You're very pretty." "Why, thank you, sir. That's very gentlemanly and chivalrous of you to say so." She smiled resentfully at him through a fringe of water-studded hair: how dare he fall back on the inadequacy of the word "pretty" to describe her? "You don't look too bad yourself," she lied, feeling the stirring of the bloodlust inside her. "In a few years' time I guess you'll be a very handsome young man." And that was another lie, as she was beginning to know. "Can I bring my friend to watch, too?" Qinefer was startled, and frowned a little. She didn't object to the presence of this little boy but she'd no wish to become the centre of attraction for a host of other snot-nosed kids – and, perhaps, their elders, who might be less easy for her to deal with. "How old is he?" she said at last. "Same age as me." "Oh, well . . . OK, I suppose. But just the one." "Right."

The Birthplace // 27 He grinned at her, and then turned to call over his shoulder: "Gog! Gog, come on over here!" Qinefer had more or less finished washing. "You wouldn't happen to have something I could use as a towel?" she said, realizing as she spoke that it was a ludicrously optimistic request. "I'm afraid not," said Worm. Irrational fury swept her. How dare this snivelling little brat refuse her request, which was suddenly no longer ludicrously optimistic but perfectly reasonable. The sound of his voice was becoming distorted by the storm that was raging in her ears, so that it sounded coarser and more guttural. She looked at him through a red cloud of anger and saw that his face, too, seemed changed. Before, it had looked as if it had been thrown together carelessly by a hasty artist; now it was like a young child's early drawing of its mother. "Here's Gog now," said Worm, oblivious to her wrath. Another figure appeared on the bank beside him. The boy was stubby, and shorter of stature than Worm. His face was extremely ugly, so that she was reminded of the faces of the Giaks she had seen massacring her family in the farmyard. A Giak. This new boy – Gog – was a Giak. Worm had been lying to her all along. As she looked at Worm once again, the bloodlust now irresistibly strong within her veins, she saw the shape of the boy beginning to shimmer and flow. His body seemed to grow to twice the size it had been before, and his face became a haunting parody of a human face. His clothes transmuted into a shroud-like cloak. "You see," said the alien mask, apparently with hoarse difficulty, as if the words were spiky mollusc-shells sticking to the sides of its throat, "I told you Gog was only little." "You've been lying to me," said Qinefer. "Lying? No. Why should I?" "You don't really live near here at all – your home's on the other side of the Durncrag Mountains. Kaag, it's called. A nice place if you happen to live there . . ." "What're you talking about, miss?" said Gog in a squeaking, inhuman voice. It was the first time the Giak had dared to open its mouth to her. She spared him hardly a glance, continuing to stare through the blurry redness at the thing that called itself "Worm". "You're a Helghast," she hissed. "I should have seen it before. It's perfectly obvious to me now. Little boys don't normally change their shape like this – didn't you know?"

The Birthplace // 28 "Worm" was looking down at itself, arms spread wide, still stupidly pretending that nothing had changed. "What do you mean?" it said. The unsubtle mimicking of perplexity in its creaking tones brought a chill to Qinefer's body that was quite unlike the coldness of the water; it fought with the fire of her hunger for vengeance. She continued to look at the two of them there on the bank. The Helghast, "Worm", was still seated, which meant that even despite its considerable martial abilities it was the more immediately vulnerable of the two. The smaller of the spawn, the Giak, was standing – and, moreover, standing directly between her and where she had dropped her stash of purloined weapons. There was no way that she could bypass the little monster, especially since her early movements would be hampered by the fact that she was standing in water. "I suppose you mean to kill me," she said, stalling for time. "You and Gog are looking forward to the experience. You and your friend probably need no other reason for murder than the fact that you enjoy killing human beings – especially when they screech and scream a lot. Besides, the more humans you kill the better pleased will be your master, Zagarna. The Archlord has doubtless given you and your repulsive cronies instructions to exterminate the entire Sommlending species." Qinefer's arms were shaking, but not from the cold. Her voice was sour, the sibilants accented. She squatted down in the water again, supporting herself on her hands. She hoped she looked as relaxed as she didn't feel "I don't plan to leave this stream quite yet," she said with affected laziness. "So if you want to kill me you'd better come and get me." As she'd hoped, the Helghast (for surely it could be nothing other than a Helghast) gestured the Giak (and she knew for a fact that it was a Giak) forward towards her. As the smaller beast advanced shamblingly into the water Qinefer got slowly to her feet. In her right hand there was a sharp stone she'd selected from the bed of the sluggish stream. She took one pace forward, forcing her foot through the water, and struck upwards, catching the Giak directly under its smooth but knobbly chin. The pointed stone went deep into the Giak's mouth cavity, nailing its tongue to the roof of its palate. It wailed with a hoarse shrillness, and bright red ichor flooded from between its lips. The Giak tumbled to its knees, its eyes bulging in assumed astonishment and outrage for a second before it fell face-first forwards into the water. It was still twitching as Qinefer removed its sword from its hand and flung the wooden weapon with perfect precision to strike the Helghast directly in the centre of its forehead. The Helghast twisted its features into a sketchy parody of horror and bewilderment, and then leapt to its feet and ran. It left nothing behind it but a

The Birthplace // 29 shriek of childlike terror (no, no: of maddened frustration), which the breeze swiftly snatched and dispersed over the surrounding fields, and the Giak's sword, which flopped to the ground. She was trembling all over, from reaction to her exertions as much as from the release of her bloodlust. Rapidly she washed her thighs, which had been splattered with red ichor (red? red and not grey?) as the Giak died, and then she pulled herself out of the stream. Later, dressed once more, she looked at the selection of weapons she had accumulated and decided to take with her only two Giak swords; the one that she had taken from "Gog" seemed strangely useless when she experimented with it, and so she threw it into the stream, watching it for a moment as it floated away from her. She was saddened to leave the two-handed axe behind, but it slowed her down and speed of movement was going to be important if she were to put as much distance as possible between herself and this new scene of her valour. These two foul creatures would not have been travelling all on their own: somewhere nearby there must be others of their kind. A satisfied grin came to her face. It could not have been further distanced from the smiles which she had smiled while playing in the water. Even the bravest of warriors would have quailed before it. Once again she was back on the killing trail. She loped easily towards the far side of the field and other things are happening here in the Birthplace. The judge has removed her stained wig so that her crinkled hair stands out all around her head like an electrified black cap. She looks sternly at Qinefer, but says nothing – she has no need to say anything, for the defendant already knows the verdict and the sentence. Her soul is guilty of the murder of a child, despite her pathetic defence that she though the lad was a marauding Giak, and is condemned to death. But it's not true! I'm innocent – I know I'm innocent, as Ishir Herself will bear witness! Even though I was but a callow girl I killed a Giak, even though I had no weapons, and I drove away a Helghast using only a child's wooden toy – no, no, that's wrong, it was a sword that I'd taken from the small hand of the dead Giak . . . The judge nods gravely and disappears. The time for appeal is over: there is nothing more that Qinefer can say that can make the slightest difference to the verdict of the court. And already sentence is being carried out. Sobbing in the dock, the prisoner can feel her personality beginning to lose its definition, crumbling away at the edges like the reality she has always taken for granted. She can see, in her mind's eye, the fragments of herself tumbling away into the darkness. They look rather like fireflies on a summer's night, brightly coloured and

The Birthplace // 30 darting hither and thither with no apparent purpose. She watches them with detached interest, trying to play a gambling game with herself, betting silly sums of money on the direction one of them will choose arbitrarily to take next. And that's odd, because as soon as she starts to do this they begin to approach her again, clustering around her like a swarm of bees. And, like bees, they have stings. She feels stabs of pain, all over herself, as they rejoin her. . . . tick, tick, tick, tick . . . . . . you're touched by the colours and the colours stick. . . Since she betrayed her family – in the way that she now totally accepts that she did – she seems to have done nothing but kill. Yes, yes, the things that she killed were evil, themselves intent on killing – or, at least, that was what she'd believed in all good faith at the time – but there must be more to her existence than mere killing. Except that she's come here for the express purpose of killing yet again. Come here . . . "Here." It's a long time since the concept of "here" has entered her mind. That's it! She's here, somewhere under the palace of the Zakhan Moudalla in the city of Barrakeesh, which is the capital city of the nation of Vassagonia. Hold on to that idea! Remember your name. Your name is Qinefer. Her lips mouth the name silently: "Qinefer." Then she shouts the name as loudly as her lungs will let her. "QINEFER!" And there's a floor beneath her once more, and walls against which she suddenly discovers she's been leaning. She stands up and looks into the abyss of complete darkness. She draws her sword, feeling the half-forgotten tears of lonely misery drying on her cheeks. No, the darkness isn't quite complete. Far away, there's a mote of blue light. Qinefer smiles. Her sword feels good in her hand – its weight is reassuring her. She tries it out on the blackly empty air in front of her. This

The Birthplace // 31 place smells rank, as if it had served for a thousand years as a dungeon into which prisoners were thrown and then forgotten about, left to die starving and consumed by harsh thirst, left to rot in their own excrement. . . . tick, tick, tick, tick . . . . . . you're touched by the colours and the colours stick . . . She walks towards the light, her confidence growing with every stride, a smile of anticipation beginning to twitch the corners of her lips. Hey, battle-girl, she thinks, you're going to destroy the Darklords now . . . Killing. She's going to kill again, and keep on going until there's nothing left in her world to kill, good or evil, because she's no longer able to tell the difference – and never has been able to tell the difference. She pauses before stepping further into the Birthplace. # She woke in a flurry of unnerved confusion, choking on her fear. After a few seconds her instincts began to tell her that it was past dawn, but at first this served only to increase her sense of disorientation, for she could see around her nothing except pitch blackness – almost as if she were still in the inner sanctum of the Birthplace. Then the clinging, slimy grasp on her skin of the sodden bedding told her where she was. She threw back the rugs and, ignoring the wintry cold in the unglazed room, rejoiced in the sight of the pallid sunlight lapping over her shining brown torso. That was the worst yet, she thought to herself, brushing her forehead with the back of her wrist. Cold sweat was threatening to run down into her eyes. Never before had the dream visited her twice in the same night, and never before had its ruthless will driven her so far into the reordered pattern of memories that comprised the other person's version of her life. Although now she could think in a rational fashion, could see her solid, reassuring mundane surroundings – the pale wrinkles at the backs of her knuckles, the knitted mat thrown askew on the unfinished stone floor – and use them as construction pegs to help her reconstitute the matrix of her personality, she was still left with semiconscious leftovers from the nightmare – mainly in the form of heavy and

The Birthplace // 32 unquantifiable emotional burdens that seemed to press down on her with such inexorable weight that she felt as if she were being throttled. This was the first time that the other person had used the ever-expanding dream to insinuate into her thoughts the sinister notion that, all that time ago on the bank of some forgotten stream, she had murdered a child, deluded by her arrogant vanity into the belief that she was merely ridding the world of a Giak. This was the scenario with which she had been brutally confronted when she had been at the Birthplace in real life, and she had been so horrified that she had fled precipitately from Barrakeesh and edited the entire experience from her mind. The creature she had killed by the stream had been a Giak, and its companion a Helghast: she knew that this was the truth, just as she knew how much she had mourned the loss of Klen and of Cloud Maker, both of whom she had regarded as dear friends. The child who had hidden, trembling from the sadistic wrath of the spawn attacking the remote farmhouse, had been too petrified with fear to have been able to calculate that by deserting her family she guaranteed her own survival – too terrified, indeed, to do anything other than somehow to carry on breathing. And yet the version of it all presented to her was like a malicious rumour: there may be no truth whatsoever in it but, after a time, even the people who know perfectly well that this is so begin to recognize some spurious aspect of pseudo-truth in it. Qinefer knew that she was not a vain or arrogant person, that she revelled in her achievements with the same guilelessness as a child would – "Say! Look what I've been able to do!" – and yet in many ways that wasn't too dissimilar from the way that a truly arrogant person might behave. Indeed, if it is valid to categorize things in terms of their outward manifestations, using these as a key to their less superficial natures, then, yes, there was little to distinguish her actions from arrogance. Yet she could still feel the pain she had felt that ghastly night when realization had only slowly dawned on her that Klen was dead. It had been as if someone had cleanly extracted several of her most vital organs, leaving her a hollow person who was still capable of performing the basic functions of life yet from whom all the strength had been tapped. But the pain alone was not an unambiguous indicator of its own causes. Who had she been grieving for? Klen? Or, quite possibly, not for Klen at all but for herself? Or had she, rather, felt the same bitter sense of injustice – of unfairly thwarted expectations – that a spoilt child feels when an anticipated treat fails to materialize? She had planned a long

The Birthplace // 33 evening of mutual congratulation with her lieutenant: was she, in truth, resentful towards the Universe for having had the audacity to overrule what she had decreed? If that were so, then the other self was right: what she had accepted as her normal, healthy emotional responses were indeed rooted in her own deep selfishness, her inflated estimation of . . . Abruptly she shook her head, like a dog trying to rid itself of unwanted water. There were tears in her eyes. She was doing it again, letting herself be drawn into the trap of trying to analyse her reactions in the way that the other person wanted her to. Introspection can be useful, but it can also be powerfully destructive, persuading one to dissolve away simple truths in order to reveal enticingly complicated falsehoods. If she kept her thoughts disciplined, she knew, and accepted the simple face of reality, then she could evade the seductive lures planted in her mind by the other person. But the difficulty was the same as trying not to think of something. (When she and Lone Wolf were apart she tried to ease the pain of their separation by thinking of other things, yet that only made her think about him all the more.) It was all too easy for her to impute the basest of motives to everything that she had ever done – indeed, it was almost fun, like an intellectual puzzle – and the more she told herself not to the more likely she was to find herself doing so. She swore, not loudly but with intense force. The nightmares thrust upon her by the other person had planted seeds throughout her consciousness, and those seeds were already growing into thorny weeds. Her attempts to cut back the plants would only encourage them to grow all the more vigorously: she had to trace them back all the way to their roots, and pluck them out in their entirety so that they could never regenerate themselves again. The question was: how? She looked around her in the cold early light at the crudely hewn blocks of stone that made up the walls of her room, but this wasn't the cell she was thinking of. She realized with soul-sapping certainty what she would have to do if she were ever to exterminate these noxious weeds. There was only one place where she could see the naked roots and pluck them out – and perhaps even gain a confrontation with their sower, the other person. The prospect filled her with dread.

The Birthplace // 34 She must force herself to return to Barrakeesh, to the unhallowed core of the palace of the Zakhan Moudalla. She must return to the Birthplace. # . . . tick tick . . . . . . tick tick . . . . . . you're touched by the colours and the colours stick . . .

The Birthplace // 35

Chapter Two LONE WOLF

The shrieking of the gulls woke him, and for a few moments he couldn't remember where he was. Out of reflex, his hand sought the pommel of the Sommerswerd; once he could feel its reassuring firmness he relaxed and looked around him at the battered, slack-jointed walls of his cabin. The creaking of the ill fitting planks and the lilt of his hammock told him that the Divine Dawn was still at sea. There was bright sunlight pouring in through a grimy porthole, and he wondered how long he'd been asleep: the captain served a good lunch to his honoured passengers – too good – and this wasn't the first afternoon since their departure from Holmgard that Lone Wolf had lost to the after-effects of rich food and aromatic, mysterious-seeming liquors. He tipped himself out of the hammock and his feet hit the floor with a thunk which made his head ache, stabbingly, just above the temples. He screwed his eyes up as he looked resentfully at the brightness of the porthole; as he watched, a gull sped past the opening, letting out a raucous screech of fury, and Lone Wolf shuddered as the agony lanced through him. The worst part of an afternoon hangover aboard the Divine Dawn, he had discovered, was encountering the boisterously cheerful countenances of the captain and the ambassador, both of whom were able to drink twice as much as he could and yet remain alert and overflowingly full of joie de vivre – which, of course, they were only too eager to share. Laugh and Magnamund laughs with you, thought Lone Wolf morosely. Feel like death and in danger of throwing up and you feel like death and in danger of throwing up alone. He sighed. The epigram had sounded so much pithier and to the point when the captain had shouted it laughingly over the lunch table – either because Vassagonian was in general a much curter language than Sommlending or because, by that time, Lone Wolf was finding everything scintillatingly piquant. He suspected the latter to be the case. He dipped his hands into the metal urn that stood on the stout wooden night-table in the corner of his cabin and splashed

The Birthplace // 36 some of its cold, brackish water on his face. It didn't make him feel much better, but it did make him feel as if he ought to, which was the next best thing. He looked around for his comb but couldn't see it, so he compromised by pushing his spread fingers back through his long yellow hair, clearing it from his forehead. One lock proved to be uncooperative, jumping back to swing just in front of his nose each time he thought he'd got it under control; in the end he gave up and let it stay where it so obviously wanted to be. As he came out onto the deck he was hit by a cold rush of cuttingly fresh air, and for a moment he winced away from it. Then, as it bored further into his throat, he found that he was already feeling a little more human. The gulls were swooping and screaming all over the sky, and he looked towards the prow of the ship, which seemed to be the focus of their irritable attention. Most of the dozen or so crew-members of the Divine Dawn were clustered there, and Lone Wolf could make out the iridescent turquoise silk of the robe that Ambassador Allani had been wearing earlier in the day. The tall man was holding a long wooden telescope to his eye, sometimes lowering it to push aside one of the gaggle of sailors who clearly wished to share the instrument with him. Some had given up trying, and were throwing compacted balls of stale bread to the birds, watching their graceful dives as they plucked the food out of the air. "Good afternoon, my honoured friend," said Allani courteously as Lone Wolf approached him. The clamouring sailors quietened out of respect for their Sommlending passenger. The diplomat turned, the telescope at his side, and smiled at Lone Wolf. "I was just about to send one of these men to your cabin to ask you if you would care to join me." Lone Wolf grinned back. During their three-and-a-half week voyage he and Allani had become firm friends, despite the fact that they came from such different backgrounds and had initially greeted each other with ill disguised suspicion; despite, too, the revulsion Lone Wolf felt for Allani's casual acceptance that the galley on which they were travelling was rowed by slaves. Each evening they had sat out on deck and talked as they watched the brilliant stars piercing the boundless black dome of night around them. At Lone Wolf's insistence, much of their conversation had been in Vassagonian, for he was eager to learn the tongue of the country towards which they were voyaging. Although his accent was still appalling – Allani had found it difficult to adhere to the Vassagonian social discipline

The Birthplace // 37 of not laughing at the misfortunes of friends – he had become reasonably fluent in the everyday use of the language. So long as he didn't have to do much more than buy goods in a shop, ask street directions, pray (for Allani was a deeply religious man), swear or haggle over the price of a woman's favours, Lone Wolf would be able to find his way around Barrakeesh without too much difficulty. Not that he should have to, of course. His stay in Barrakeesh was scheduled to last for only a couple of days, and during that time he would be escorted everywhere with all the pomp warranted to an emissary from a foreign state. It wasn't a role that he was much looking forward to playing. He was a warrior, after all, not a smooth-tongued diplomat. His only previous dealings with Vassagonians had been at the end of the Sommerswerd or any other suitably lethal implement that had happened to come to hand during his campaign against the incursion of the vicious Barraka and his murderous henchmen. He had said as much, although rather more bluntly, to Ulnar when the king had explained to him why he was being sent to Vassagonia . . . # Lone Wolf angry with an anger he can't name. "But I'm not a diplomat! I'm a soldier – a warrior! Sending me to Vassagonia to sweet-talk a crowd of dried-out . . . desiccated . . . noteworthy nobodies is a ridiculous notion! If you'll forgive my frankness, my Lord." Ulnar, seated casually on his throne, looking through his mild eyes at Lone Wolf. The young Kai was standing by one of the windows, and the light was playing with his travel-tousled hair. As he turned sharply to look back at Ulnar, the king could see that the young man was genuinely upset. His face was showing a mixture of insult and bewilderment, and Ulnar was perfectly aware of the reasons why; his own young-old face was sympathetic. He sighed patiently. "Lone Wolf," he said, "I can understand why you must find my request so bizarre, but I assure you that if I had thought my purposes could be served by one of my less martial nobles I would not have troubled you. The work you're doing with Qinefer and

The Birthplace // 38 the others is important, I realize, and I've interrupted it only because I can see no other option open to me." Lone Wolf looked unbelieving, the arch of his eyebrow coming dangerously close to an expression of contempt. Again Ulnar sighed. I must beware of letting Lone Wolf become too free with his opinions, he thought wearily. Just because he's been so successful in thwarting the incursions of our foes, and just because he has become so dear to me since the death of my son Pelathar, doesn't mean that he should be permitted to toy with open disrespect. Later . . . later I must quietly show him why I require his deference. "This is no ordinary matter," the king said out loud. "On the face of it, the approach of the Vassagonians seems to be straightforward enough, but they're a slippery people, and their dealings are often more convoluted than might meet the eye. I think that on this occasion they are treating with us fairly, but that is no more than my opinion – if you were to ask me why I hold that view I'd have to confess that it was nothing more than an uninformed guess." "I accept that," said Lone Wolf, moving away from the window and coming to sit in one of the opulent wooden armchairs gathered around the throne. "But surely one of your skilled diplomats would be better able to see through any Vassagonian wiles than I could. My business is with swords, not honeyed, duplicitous words; I'm not built for the kind of subtlety you require from whoever you send as your envoy." Ulnar smiled at him fondly. "You do your abilities a disservice by saying that, Lone Wolf," he said softly. "Either that or you're deliberately lying to me. You forget that I've been watching you over the years, and have seen how your nature has developed. When you first came to this palace – then yes, you'd have been right in what you've just said: your solution to every problem had a sharpened edge. But you've changed, you know, since then. I'm well aware that it's become dangerous for anyone to underestimate your astuteness. That's why you're so dangerous to our enemies. A born berserker can kill many people before he's put down like the mad dog he is, but a person who combines courage and ruthlessness with intellect and quick-wittedness can change the fate of a kingdom. You've learnt a lot these past few years, not just from your discovery of the Kai abilities dwelling within you but also from some of the people you've gathered around you. Besides, was it not you who defeated the renegade Vassagonian Barraka?"

The Birthplace // 39 "I bow to your wisdom, sire," said Lone Wolf gravely, accepting the words as the king had intended: not as flattery but as a statement of fact. "Then respect also the wisdom of my request," said Ulnar, letting a trace of acid come into his voice. Lone Wolf looked up at him quickly, mildly surprised. The king tells me that others underestimate me, he thought; I mustn't make the mistake of underestimating the king. "I would never doubt your wisdom," he said. "This whole affair could be an elaborately baited trap of some kind," said Ulnar as if the brief exchange hadn't taken place, "although, as I've indicated, I don't think that it is. Certainly my impression is that the ambassador that the Zakhan has sent to us is perfectly honest and genuine, and that he is convinced that the Zakhan's motives are honourable – out of necessity, if for no other reason. But Moudalla is old, you know – far older than in some ways he has any right to be – and rulers in the twilight of their lives can become unpredictable. It was easier to know what he was planning twenty years ago when he was as treacherous as a startled viper: then you knew that the final aim of any of his so-simple-seeming proposals was to plant a dagger in your guts – and preferably, for aesthetic reasons, from behind. Nowadays . . . nowadays it's harder to tell." Ulnar propped his chin in his hand, looking not at Lone Wolf but at the light of the window. The long hairs of his straggly grey beard were rough against his palm and he wondered if he, too, was becoming unpredictable and untrustworthy in his old age. If that were the case, he would be the last person to realize it – unless someone like Lone Wolf or that impertinent sprite who sometimes accompanied him, Alyss, came out with the blunt truth. The king smiled to himself slightly, and he felt the hairs of his beard move against the skin of his hand. From his youth he'd been taught always to make his plans on several different levels at once, so that apparent failures might in fact token successes in some different and apparently quite unrelated sphere: to think in mazes was part of the training of anyone who might one day succeed to a throne, and it was easy to see how in encroaching senility this mental skill might be perverted to become waywardness, a sort of love of subterfuge and complexity for their own sakes, rather than for any realistic purpose that they might serve. He aroused himself from his revery.

The Birthplace // 40 "You see," he said, "the person I require is someone of sufficiently high rank that the Vassagonians can have no excuse for accusing the Sommlending of having insulted them by sending a mere minion. At the same time that person must be someone who's become accustomed to the workings of the corridors of power – as you have, whether you like it or not. Also, I must have enough trust in that person for me to be content for them to make decisions on my behalf as if they were my own. And finally this paragon must command the respect of the Vassagonians as a warrior – more than that, must in fact be a warrior of sufficient prowess to survive any underhand attempts at assassination, incarceration or worse." Lone Wolf met the king's eyes and then lowered his gaze humbly. "That's why," the king carried on, ignoring him, "the first person I thought of was Qinefer." Lone Wolf started. "She has held baronial rank, after all," said Ulnar obliviously, "and is braver and more skilled in soldiery than most of my senior officers put together. My plan was to send her with Viveka as an ostensible lady-in-waiting or maidservant, so that the clash of swords might be reinforced by the silence of the garrotte, if need be. That would have been my ideal combination – but for one thing." "Which is?" said Lone Wolf dully. "The matter of the Zakhan's poodle," explained Ulnar. "The Zakhan's poodle?" "The Zakhan's poodle." Ulnar smiled broadly. "I see that Viveka has decided not to tell you about one of her . . . less successful exploits." "She hasn't. Yet." "I'm sure she will if you ask her, one day. Without going into any detail, the Zakhan once had a ceremonial emerald which he often wore at his throat. It was merely a gaudy if extremely valuable bauble, but it had been passed down through several generations of his family, and so he treasured it. Naturally, it was much coveted by the minor nobles of several nations, and various attempts were made to purloin it – none of which came to anything, for the security around the royal jewels of Vassagonia is unbelievably strict and that around this gem was even stricter. When the most recent recruit to the Zakhan's harem – a Durenese courtesan with a scar on one cheek, as it happens – decided that

The Birthplace // 41 she wished to retire to the country for a few weeks Moudalla thought nothing of it: he had plenty of other wives with whom to while away the time, and this one had not especially pleased him by her lack of appropriate enthusiasm. He was flattered when she begged him to be allowed to take with her one of his favourite dogs, a small white poodle with a vile temper; the beast, she cajoled him, would serve to remind her of him during her absence. Two days later it was discovered that the emerald had somehow gone missing, and in due course suspicion centred on the absent concubine. But that could not be, could it? She'd been searched thoroughly from head to toe before her departure and . . ." "It was inside the poodle," said Lone Wolf heavily. "How long did it take them to realize it?" "About half a second," said Ulnar. "It was obvious – but only with hindsight. They found the dog living with an elderly farmer and his wife a few miles out of Barrakeesh; a pretty lady with a scar had stayed with them overnight and left them her dog as a token of her esteem. The Sharnazim – the Zakhan's elite, nasty swine in black uniform, avoid 'em if you can – who'd interrogated the pair took them back to the city for further questioning, which as you might guess wasn't particularly gentle." All trace of humour vanished from Ulnar's face. "Moudalla ordered that the old couple be flayed alive as punishment for their part in the affair. It was a brutal and pettily spiteful form of revenge on people whom he must have known to be innocent of any crime. I have never been able to find it in my heart to forgive him for having passed that sentence." Lone Wolf was aghast. "But surely Viveka must have known the risk that she was putting those people in? She's as much to blame as the Zakhan if she left them to . . ." "I don't think Viveka thought about it," said Ulnar. "Not at first. But the farmer and his good lady never suffered their intended fate, I'm glad to say. By morning they had vanished completely, and all that their guards could say – when they awoke – was that a young woman with a scarred face had visited the gaol, treated them in a fashion in which she had steadfastly declined ever to treat the Zakhan himself, and . . . well, that was all they could remember, but their heads hurt." "Ah." "Precisely. When you were at the court in Hammerdal you may very well have eaten a meal prepared by the farmer's wife.

The Birthplace // 42 She's an extremely fine cook, I hear, and highly valued by my old friend Alin." Lone Wolf grinned. "So you see why I couldn't send Viveka to accompany Qinefer?" said Ulnar. "The loss of the emerald, the thwarting of the executioners and most especially the favours bestowed gratuitously on the prison guards – all seven of them – well, it's hardly surprising that Moudalla would recognize Viveka's face, even after all these years, and even if she were disguised as a three-legged donkey, let alone merely as a lady-in-waiting." "Why not simply send Qinefer on her own?" asked Lone Wolf after a while. "She's not as . . . sneaky as Viveka, but she's a fighter, and she's far more adroit than I am about persuading people to do what she wishes them to." Ulnar looked concerned, as if Lone Wolf had reminded him of something he would rather not have had brought to his attention. "Qinefer is . . . troubled," he said at length. "You must have noticed it yourself. Each time Captain D'Val has returned from visiting your Monastery to see Petra he's remarked on the fact. There's some burden weighing heavily on Qinefer's soul, like a dark and shameful secret that she doesn't dare to confess to anyone else. D'Val tells me that Petra has tried to weasel the truth of it out of her, but without success. Have you?" "I . . ." He tried to find the right words. "Qinefer is a very private person," he said inadequately. "I recognize those shaded parts of her life where she doesn't wish me to intrude, and I keep clear of them." "You're making a mistake," said Ulnar firmly, "but when I was your age I didn't pay any attention to the advice of my elders in these matters and I don't expect you to be any different." Lone Wolf flushed. For a few moments there was a silence between them that was too deep for either of their likings. "Leave that alone for the while," said Ulnar at last, obviously trying to lighten the atmosphere through briskness. "Whatever lies behind it all, at the moment I've got little choice but to regard Qinefer as potentially unreliable. Were Viveka to be with her, there would be no doubts in my mind, but Qinefer on her own? No. It's a risk I can't take. And so, you see, I had to fall back on you." "Second best," said Lone Wolf glumly.

The Birthplace // 43 "In a way, yes," the king conceded, "but, in another way, quite the opposite. The biggest disadvantage of sending you is that Sommerlund can less afford to lose you than it can Qinefer or Viveka, or even both of them. Whatever their other virtues – and I'm sure you'll agree they have many – they don't, and cannot, serve as a figurehead for our country in the way that you have come to. Besides, you are still the last of the Kai: however much the people around you may be advancing towards Kai knowledge, you are as yet the only living person to have attained even the humblest degree of it. If you should die . . ." The king let the sentence peter out, spreading his hands expressively. "Another reason for commanding someone else to go in my stead," said Lone Wolf forcefully. "Although surely merely scrawling a mark on a piece of paper isn't going to be a particularly hazardous venture?" He got to his feet, and restlessly paced over once again to the window. Outside, in the courtyard, some servants were haggling with a tradesman over the contents of his wagon. As far as Lone Wolf could see, the only one among them with any sense was the trader's horse, which was steadfastly staying well out of the argument and chomping the contents of its nosebag. "I've been honest with you," said Ulnar's voice behind him, "but I haven't yet told you everything." "You've told me very little," said Lone Wolf to the glass in front of his lips, knowing that his words would carry easily to the king's ears. "I've said that I believe the Zakhan's envoy, Allani, to be a man of integrity," said the king firmly, despite Lone Wolf's snort of scepticism. "I believe, too, that the Zakhan himself is in this instance not planning to betray us. He's terrified, you see." "Old men are often terrified," said Lone Wolf dismissively. "Their own shadows grow horns and teeth and claws, and creep after them." "Moudalla has, perhaps, good reason to be terrified." Lone Wolf waited for Ulnar to continue, but the king said nothing. Outside, the quarrel was on the point of developing into fisticuffs; his money was on the trader, despite the odds. "Tell me more," he said impatiently, slapping the Sommerswerd's scabbard sharply and turning reluctantly away from the window. "What is this hidden dread that has the old man quaking in his jewelled boots?"

The Birthplace // 44 "He believed that he could trade with the Darklords." "What?" Lone Wolf could hardly believe his ears. Surely everyone knew that the Darklords' only loyalty was to Naar, and to the Evil that the God espoused. They would give their word as easily as a fish could swim – and break it just as easily. If Moudalla had put any reliance on an agreement made with the Darklords, he was a bigger fool than Lone Wolf could rightly credit. " The Zakhan," said Ulnar softly, "has lived his life far from the Darklands. He had heard of the Darklords' evil, but believed most of the stories he was told to be exaggerations, travellers' tales coloured highly the greater to entertain him. Besides, his death cannot be many years hence: should the Darklords betray the trust he had so foolishly placed in him, he reasoned, he would be dead and gone long before their wrath was visited upon his nation." Lone Wolf was about to speak but then stopped himself, his mouth half-open. Qinefer had told him that she had met the Zakhan in Barrakeesh, and that she'd found him to be the most egocentric person she'd ever met. Her description of him matched exactly with what Ulnar was saying: it would be perfectly in character for the Zakhan to risk the doom of his entire country for the sake of temporal pleasures – just so long, that is, as he could be certain that he would himself be spared when the price of his pleasures had to be paid. Ulnar had been able to read the thoughts crossing the young man's face. "But the Darklords have moved more swiftly than Moudalla anticipated," he confirmed. "For nearly two years now he has . . . turned a blind eye, shall we say . . . as they have infiltrated their creatures into the high and low life of Vassagonia. In return for his complaisance he has received promises of . . . trinkets. And now he finds that he is vulnerable – personally vulnerable. The Darklords have taken from him exactly what they wanted, and all he has to show for it is the empty air of their unfulfilled promises. Now he is surfeit to their requirements – he's dispensable. No wonder that he wants, rather urgently, to sign a peace treaty with Sommerlund! He's desperate, now that it's almost too late, to ally Vassagonia with us because he believes that it is only by creating such a powerful bloc that he can persuade the Darklords to stay their hand until after he has gone." "That I can understand," said Lone Wolf, his hand still on his scabbard. "But why should we wish to sign this scrap of paper of

The Birthplace // 45 his? Surely we'd be better off leaving him to encounter his fate and then staying on the sidelines as the Zakhan's heir does the dirty work of expelling the Darklords?" Now it was Ulnar's turn to get to his feet and begin pacing around the throneroom. "The Zakhan doesn't have an heir," he said. "That is a problem," said Lone Wolf slowly. Changes of ruler in Vassagonia were normally a messy and not infrequently a bloody business at the best of times. But if Moudalla had no legitimate heir . . . the prospect of a full-scale civil war was more than likely, with squabbling nobles leading their armies against each other while the Darklords took advantage of the tumult to cement their dominance over Vassagonia. And next they would be turning their evil attentions towards Sommerlund . . . "How are the spawn getting into Vassagonia?" he asked abruptly. "We're uncertain," said the king, his hands clasped behind him, at the small of his back. He was looking at the floor as if somehow it would give him the answer to Lone Wolf's question. "We've sent spies into Vassagonia, of course, but pitifully few of them have returned, and none of those survivors has discovered anything worth telling. The Guildmaster of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star has, we know, sent at least one of his magicians to Barrakeesh, but if he's learnt anything from them he's keeping it to himself. And . . ." "And Qinefer's been there, too," said Lone Wolf, filling the silence that the king's words had left. "But she said that she had nothing to tell us," remarked the king casually – too casually. "You said that you regarded her as unreliable," said Lone Wolf, his temper beginning to rise. Although he knew that it was the vilest of crimes to threaten the person of the king, the animal inside him was drawing his hand towards the hilt of his sword. "Surely you cannot be calling her a traitor!" "No!" snapped Ulnar, jerking his head to look at Lone Wolf. The usually placid-seeming eyes were as sharp and as cold as ice now. "Take those words back at once!" "Forgive me, sire," said Lone Wolf, enunciating the words with difficulty. Ulnar broke the spell by laughing softly. "I admire your loyalty to her, my friend," he said. "If you weren't more loyal to her than to me, then I'd think your loyalty to

The Birthplace // 46 me to be a pretty worthless thing. No, no, I wasn't saying that she would betray our country – far from it. But something happened to her while she was there, something that she won't – or can't – talk about. Maybe magic was used to seal her lips – I don't know, and it's useless to speculate. Whatever happened, though, I'd wager you that it's that that's been weighing so heavily on her mind." "You're giving me too many reasons for going to Vassagonia," said Lone Wolf sceptically. "I have to sign a treaty in the hope of keeping the Zakhan Moudalla in power for long enough to build up our influence in his country, and thereby strengthen our defences against the Darklords. I have to find out how the Darklands spawn are able to gain entrance to Vassagonia – and either stop them doing so or at least survive for long enough to come home and tell you what I've found out. And now you add the task of trying to discover what happened to Qinefer so that, if I'm lucky, I can do something to cure whatever it is that's afflicting her. A tall order for two or three days!" "All I want you to do is to sign the treaty," said Ulnar firmly. "Let's be quite clear about that. I mean it. The other things I mentioned not as duties I wished you to perform but merely as information that you ought to bear in mind. I'll be happiest, though, if you spend two or three days being bored to distraction in Barrakeesh and come back to me with nothing more than a bad case of treaty-signer's cramp." "Hmmm," said Lone Wolf, looking at Ulnar. He didn't know whether to resent his king's transparency or laugh at it, and in the end did neither. "You wish me above all to survive," he said carefully. "Quite so," agreed Ulnar. "It's something that you're exceptionally good at. This evening you will dine with me, as shall the Vassagonian, Allani. I'm certain that you and he will get on well together." Lone Wolf took the hint: he was being dismissed from the royal presence. He bowed deeply, and after a few mumbled formalities turned to leave. "One moment, Lone Wolf," said Ulnar. Lone Wolf paused in the open doorway. "I forgot to tell you one final reason why you should go on my behalf to Vassagonia," said the king, once more seated on the raised throne. "Sire?" "They asked for you to be sent. By name. Specifically."

The Birthplace // 47

# "Would you like to see for yourself?" said Allani, proffering the telescope. "It's a sight that always brings a song to my heart –which is a very foolish place for songs to be." The Vassagonian's good humour was infectious, and Lone Wolf found himself grinning. He took the telescope and, supporting himself with his elbows against the rail, pointed the instrument in the direction Allani had indicated. At first he could see nothing but a haze. He fiddled with the focus, screwing the two tubes against each other, and suddenly he was looking at a pinpoint-clear image of a shoreline. Holding the telescope as motionless as he was able to, compensating as best he could for the rocking of the galley, Lone Wolf could see some fishermen landing their nets on a grey sandy beach that was overhung by a low limestone cliff, at the top of which sparse clumps of tough-looking grass stood out like shocks of starched hair. At Allani's quiet suggestion he moved the instrument a little towards the right. The view was breathtaking. Barrakeesh was not a large city – it was perhaps no more than about a mile across – but it was certainly a beautiful one, and seemed even more so by comparison with the bleakness of its surroundings: expanses of orange-yellow sand criss-crossed by a few unmetalled roads and punctuated by occasional hardy-looking succulents and palm trees. As Lone Wolf concentrated his gaze on the city alone he saw the small docks area in the foreground of his field of view with, behind it, the grim red walls of warehouses, chandleries and taverns. But these held his attention for barely a moment: behind them he could see the roofs of the city. Richly gleaming golden and silver-green domes of all sizes lay scattered in front of him, as if they were tinsel decorations so close to him that he could have reached out and picked up a handful of them. He saw, too, several tall, elegant, almost impossibly slender minarets rising above the domes; flags fluttered from their flamboyantly decorated balconies. The scene was like one out of a fairy tale. One of the domes was substantially larger and more ponderous-seeming than the rest, and Lone Wolf guessed that it must be that of the Zakhan's imperial palace. He studied it for several moments before realizing what it was that had immediately struck him as wrong about its appearance. By contrast with the

The Birthplace // 48 brightly coloured pennants he could see everywhere else, the flag fixed to the mast above the swell of the great dome was a long, dark morose strip of cloth that seemed to hang motionlessly, defying the pull of the brisk wind. Slowly he lowered the telescope; Allani's smile faded as he saw the grimness of Lone Wolf's face. "What is it, my friend?" the Vassagonian hissed, keeping his voice low so as not to concern the crewmen, who were still chattering like children at the sight of home. Lone Wolf knew the answer to his own question before he asked it. "There's a black flag over the great dome in the centre of the city," he said. "What does it signify?" "Black . . ." Allani began, and then an expression of horrified incredulity crossed his face. He snatched the telescope from Lone Wolf's hand and, muttering silently to himself through lips that had suddenly gone white, raised it to his eye. He fidgeted with the focusing for a moment and then froze briefly, before his jaw slowly fell. "Black," he said out of the corner of his mouth, still staring into the telescope's mahogany eyepiece, "has the same meaning in our culture as it has in yours." His voice became deceptively conversational, and Lone Wolf knew that his friend was trying to disguise the depth of the shock he had just had. "I know that it is different elsewhere: in the countries far to the east, for example, they deck themselves in white to mourn their dead. But for us, as for you, death's colour is black." "Moudalla is dead," said Lone Wolf leadenly. "It would seem so," said Allani, holding the telescope against the rail and looking round at Lone Wolf. "They would fly the dark flag to mourn one of his sons, but . . ." ". . . But he has no sons." "But he has no sons," Allani affirmed unnecessarily. Once more he stared at the distant domes of Barrakeesh, his face screwed up with concentration as he chewed his lower lip. Lone Wolf said nothing. The Vassagonian seemed to have been stricken by grief, and yet Lone Wolf sensed that it was not grief for the dead ruler but for someone or something else. His suspicions were confirmed when Allani suddenly stiffened and spoke to him almost brusquely. "Moudalla was neither the wisest nor the most benevolent of men," the tall envoy said, "but the news of his passing makes my

The Birthplace // 49 heart heavy. These will be troubled times for my countrymen. Much innocent blood will flow before the succession to our throne is settled." "Will there be war?" said Lone Wolf quietly. "Yes. Heads will already have rolled, families been murdered." Allani sighed, refusing to let his eyes meet Lone Wolf's. "`Families'," said Lone Wolf reflectively. "Do you have a family . . . there?" He nodded in the direction of distant Barrakeesh. "Yes," Allani said. "I had." Again Lone Wolf could find nothing to stay. Hands clasping and unclasping uselessly by his sides, he just stared at the dark wooden face of his friend. "They'll be in the arms of the Majhan by now," Allani murmured eventually, speaking so softly that Lone Wolf had to lean towards him to pick up the words against the clamour of the gulls. "All of the nobles knew of my fidelity towards the rule of Moudalla, and the trust that he placed in me. A few more months and he might have named me his heir, and if he'd lived a few more months beyond that, so that I had time to consolidate my position . . . The game of `what if?' is too easy a one to learn, my friend, for it brings only bitterness to all who play it." He patted Lone Wolf on the shoulder, as if to give himself strength through the physical contact. "Yes, the nobles will have sent their men immediately to my homes to destroy my wives and children," he continued, his facial muscles under strict control. "I can only pray to the soul of the Majhan that their deaths were quick and merciful, and that they weren't dragged out into the streets to make an entertainment for the gawping masses. I would that I had died by their sides." Lone Wolf reached forward with both hands and grasped Allani by the upper arms, drawing the man towards him in an embrace. The crewmen had long since stilled, and most of them had slipped quietly away to leave Allani with his grief, or perhaps to contemplate their own fears – for many of them, too, must have had families ashore whose lives would be at the mercy of a callous, capricious fate. "I do not need your comfort," hissed Allani in Lone Wolf's ear, and the young man stepped back abruptly, astonished by the forcefulness with which the Vassagonian had spoken.

The Birthplace // 50 "I have no wish to intrude," he said. "My apologies, my friend." Allani dismissed the words with a wave of his hand. "You have caused me no offence," he said. "In a few moments I shall . . . retire to my cabin for a while. Before then, however, I must have further words with you." Lone Wolf waited. "When, at the Zakhan Moudalla's behest, I requested that you – particularly you, Lone Wolf – accompany me to my country, it was in the firm belief that the bond forged by the treaty signed by both yourself and Moudalla would herald an era of peace between our nations. As the person who brought about Barraka's downfall, you symbolize the Sommerlund with which myself and other Vassagonians of like mind would wish to ally ourselves and our nation. In Barraka you saw the worst of my country, and your defeat of his vile ambitions was greeted by us as a triumph. We knew a joy in your success that was curiously patriotic, even though you are a Sommlending and Barraka was a Vassagonian. For he symbolized my country's old, evil ways; the ethical code which you represent is one which many of us aspire to, and which we regard as the future of our people. We foresaw the dawn of a bright new era for Vassagonia – and for its ally, Sommerlund. We believed that Moudalla was not long for this world – although we hadn't anticipated quite how imminent his demise was – and we saw the bond between Sommerlund and Vassagonia being reinforced under the rule of the old Zakhan's successor. Whom we expected would be my humble self." But how can you reconcile these fine aspirations with the slaves that labour below us, my friend? thought Lone Wolf. Would they have been freed to share in the plenty you had hoped to bring to your countrymen? "But time has moved too swiftly for us," Allani was saying. "Already three rabid dogs of men will be fighting over the kingdom; there would have been a fourth, but Barraka's ambition was too overweening and his patience too short, so that the Zakhan had little choice but to banish him. Yet even the three are dangerous enough in their ruthlessness to raze our country to the last grain of sand to further their aspirations." "Who are these men?" said Lone Wolf. "There is no need for you to know. If you have any wisdom in your cells, my friend, you will turn back now and leave my country to destroy itself."

The Birthplace // 51 "I need to know. I must take word of all this back to my king." As he spoke, Lone Wolf was considering what Allani had just said. The prospect of turning the Divine Dawn around and returning to Sommerlund was an appealing one, and his own good sense was crying out to him that that was the wisest course of action. Yet he had the feeling that somehow he would fail in Allani's eyes if he took that choice; he was surprised to discover just how much he had already come to value the tall man's friendship and respect. If Allani were representative of a groundswell of Vassagonians who wished to bid farewell to the old, bloodthirsty treacherous ways, then indeed there was the promise of a new dawn for the country. "Ulnar will require me to tell him all the intelligence I can glean from you about the contenders for the Zakhanship," he urged. "I can tell you all you need to know on our voyage back," said Allani impatiently. "I can even report directly to Ulnar myself, if it comes to that." Lone Wolf cocked his head to one side and looked at Allani quizzically. He worded his insult carefully. "Is it that you yourself wish to turn back for Sommerlund," he asked, "deserting your countrymen at a time when they most need you in order to save your own hide?" Allani spat, and his hand streaked for the hilt of the sabre at his saffron-yellow belt. "Dare you call me coward?" "Dare you call me coward?" Lone Wolf retorted sharply. For a moment they were at an impasse, motionlessly staring at each other, their bodies as taut as that of a serpent about to make a strike. Then Lone Wolf laughed aloud and slapped Allani on the shoulder; the Vassagonian made no smile in return, but the tension visibly eased out of his limbs. "It was a poor jest, and an ill timed one," he said reproachfully. "It was no jest, my friend," said Lone Wolf soberly. "I know you would sooner sacrifice your life than your honour, and that your honour is telling you that your countrymen need you. Were we to turn this ship around you would soon grow to hate me for forcing you into performing what you would come to regard as an act of treachery towards your friends and allies. Yet, right now, your instinct is telling you that your duty is to escort me to safety as rapidly as you can. You're in a dilemma, are you not? But your

The Birthplace // 52 dilemma is based on a misconception: I haven't the slightest desire to avoid whatever awaits us in Barrakeesh." "It may be death," said Allani. "There will be that risk, yes," agreed Lone Wolf. He remembered the words that he had exchanged with Ulnar. "You wish me above all to survive." "Quite so. It's something that you're exceptionally good at." Surely Allani understand about the menace threatening all of them – Sommlending and Vassagonians alike. The Darklords cared nothing for the nationalities or allegiances of those they slaughtered. As long as their gateway into Vassagonia remained open, their Evil was a threat to all the lands of Magnamund that yet remained outside their thrall. Were Lone Wolf to scurry back to Holmgard without at least exploring the possibility that the menace might be countered, he would be woefully abandoning his duty – deserting not just his king and country but also all of those he held most dear. Ulnar would make no outward show, but even as he listened to Lone Wolf's report of the changing balance of power in Vassagonia he would know what the Kai had done, and Lone Wolf couldn't face his king's silent condemnation. Still less would he be able to face his own. He explained something of this to Allani. "I wish you good fortune," said the Vassagonian mildly, half-bowing. "It is something that we shall both need." "I thank you, my friend." Lone Wolf, nodding in acknowledgement, felt comfortable pronouncing the formal words. "And now," he added a long moment later, "perhaps you could tell me a little about these three squabbling aristocrats . . ." # Every city has its own distinctive smell as you approach it by sea for the first time. Underlying it, of course, there is the inevitable, unescapable odour of brine and decaying marine vegetation, but there are countless other subtler – and often not so subtle – aromas that blend together in different proportions to give a coastal city its own characteristic smell. Trading ports may be redolent of spices or oils, or the stench of burning fuels, or the oddly angry tang that sun-heated metal gives off. In other harbours, of course, the dominant smell is of fish – and whether it is of cleanly fresh fish or rotting carcases tells the visitor much about the slovenliness or otherwise of not just the harbourmen but the city as a whole. It is as if each city has its own sweat.

The Birthplace // 53 The port of Barrakeesh did not smell good to Lone Wolf, although out of the corner of his eye he could see Allani's nostrils flaring appreciatively. The man was as tense as a harp-string, and was desperately trying not to let that show. Lone Wolf could tell that Allani was commanding his mind to expect the worst, and yet that some rebellious voice within him was optimistically preaching that things might not be that bad after all, that perhaps by some miracle the transfer of power had occurred peaceably and that his family might be awaiting him undisturbed by the changes that had taken place. Lone Wolf smiled grimly to himself. The same voice – or, at least, a very similar one – often spoke inside him, too, and yet he knew it for the persuasive liar it was. Around them as they leant against the rail were those of the sailors who were not engaged in manning the bewildering profusion of ropes required to furl the galley's sails and control her course. The men were sullen and quiet. It was clear that none of them had any liking for what they might find awaiting them when they docked. As the Divine Dawn slipped past the slimy, green-gray stone of the harbour walls he slipped a few inches of the Sommerswerd's blade out of its scabbard, and touched his fingertips to the slightly warm metal. He felt the glow of its soul-stuff coming into his body and fusing with his own; his senses seemed to become magnified, as if all the colours were brighter and clearer, and as if there were more of them than the human eye could normally detect. There is death here, said the tired voice that he had come to recognize belonging to the gestalt that his soul-stuff formed with the Sommerswerd's. There is murder in the air that you breathe, and death is looking out at you from the high grey windows of this city's houses. And, with his intensified senses, Lone Wolf could now make out what it was that had made the smell of Barrakeesh seem so immediately foul to him. Mixed in with all the other odours of the docks there was an infinitely subtle, vilely sweet reek of spilled blood. He glanced swiftly at Allani to see if the Vassagonian had detected it but, if he had, there was no indication of it. His friend was scanning the dock with keen eyes, alert for any clue as to the sort of reception they might expect. In the distance a bell began to toll. And that's another symbol that our cultures share, thought Lone Wolf. We use black as the colour to emblematize our grief, and the slow clanging of a bell to tell the world of our mourning. The scene within the harbour was calm – far too calm for

The Birthplace // 54 his preference. What was missing was the constructive seething of a busy port: instead, the longshoremen appeared to have deserted their posts leaving behind them only a few clusters of gloomily passive men dressed in matt black costumes. They seemed to be talking lethargically among each other, but other than that and the occasional movement of a garment as the breeze caught it they could have been cutouts pasted onto the scene. Lone Wolf's breath hissed in through his tightly drawn lips. He had long ago learned to distrust silent, passive welcoming parties. Their stillness all too often concealed malice. "I don't much like this," he said quietly to Allani. "And neither I," said the Vassagonian. "This seems to me to be sham mourning. From the moment we dock we must beware of every shadow." He turned to address the crew, his voice just loud enough for them to hear him. "We must stick together," he said. "That's our only protection." He fell silent, and once again the only sounds were the plashing of the water beneath them, the restless heaving of the ship's boards – although even that seemed unnaturally hushed – and the ceaseless, grim, ominous tolling of the bell. Two of the men on the shore broke away from the group with which they had been standing and came towards the edge of the dock. There was no movement of communication between them, and yet they moved precisely, as if obeying to the letter orders they had been given earlier. They stood about twenty yards apart and stooped to pick up the ends of coiled hawsers. Aboard the Divine Dawn two crewmen prepared themselves to accept the ropes. There should be shouting from ship to shore and from shore to ship, said the voice inside Lone Wolf. Even if these people are not our friends, should they not be calling to us? He shuddered. The illusion came to him that these men were no longer living, that they were the spectres of the dead. Years ago he had battled with the undead of the sea, raised from the depths by the evil magic of Vonotar, and he felt now the same sense of chilly unreality as he had then. But these people seemed real enough. It's as if their souls had been sucked out of them, he thought, so that they're still alive and yet . . . not alive. Again he felt a touch of ice at the base of his spine. He'd been a fool, part of him was saying, not to accept Allani's offer to escort him back to the relative safety of Holmgard.

The Birthplace // 55 The ropes curled in rapidly unfolding arcs from the shore, and the two crewmen caught them expertly and, in the same movement, wrapped them securely around bollards on the deck. Within moments the Divine Dawn was resting firmly against the side of the dock. A sailor threw down the wooden landing ramp. Its clatter against the stone of the dock echoed around the expressionless visages of the weatherbeaten buildings. Some of the watchers started nervously, and Lone Wolf silently thanked them for it: it was the first sign they had given of normal human reactions. But then they were still again. The two men who had cast the ropes aboard walked mechanically back to take up the positions they had occupied earlier. Otherwise nobody moved. "We can't wait here forever," said Allani after a while. The captain, his duties at the wheel over, came to join them. His customary exuberance had evaporated, and his irregular, laboured breathing seemed to be inordinately loud. "I agree," said Lone Wolf. "Sooner or later we'll have to disembark, so it might as well be sooner. Are your men armed?" he added to the captain. The man snorted at the foolishness of the question. Vassagonians were always armed. "Then let us make a start of it," said Lone Wolf, beginning to move towards the gangplank. "No!" said the captain unexpectedly. "No," he repeated more quietly. "I'm the skipper of this vessel, and it's my duty to lead us from her." He drew his scimitar, and Lone Wolf could see that he was in no mood to argue. "Lead on, skipper," he said, gesturing politely with a flick of his hand. The captain leading, they moved slowly and cautiously down the ramp, spreading out a little as they came onto the well trodden flagstones of the dock but nevertheless staying as close to each other as they could. All had their weapons drawn, the golden radiance of the Sommerswerd contrasting bizarrely with the cold steely gleams of the Vassagonians' wickedly curving sabres. Most ferocious-looking of all of them was the one they called "The Stink", although he smelled substantially better than most of his fellows through spending a substantial portion of his wages on pomanders and fragrant herbal waters; he'd got his nickname from the fact that he'd once been condemned to spend a year incarcerated in the Baga-darooz, the main sewerage system

The Birthplace // 56 running under the capital. Now, as if determined to lose forever his demeaning soubriquet, his wiry form bristled with hostility. Still none of the watchers moved. Still the bell tolled, its steady rhythm unchanging. Still the forbidding high walls of the wharf buildings looked down on them. And then there was a new sound. Almost inaudibly distant at first, it grew slowly louder until Lone Wolf could recognize it as the clip-clopping of well disciplined horses' hooves and the trundling on cobblestones of wooden wheels. "Our reception party is coming to welcome us with all the pomp and ceremony my status demands," he whispered to Allani. The tall Vassagonian smiled weakly. The minutes dragged reluctantly past, one after the other, as the sound of the horses and carriage approached. At last a grandiosely decorated vehicle came into view, emerging from a sidestreet and circling around the groups of black-clad watchers before coming to a halt some thirty yards in front of Lone Wolf and Allani. About a dozen cavalrymen in garishly embroidered uniforms took up their positions around it. The coachman turned to look at them, and his face was the same blank mask as those of the watchers. Again there was utter stillness for a few moments, and then one of the elaborately gilded doors slowly opened. A man stepped out, placing his colourfully shod feet fastidiously on the ground. He was dressed in a robe of the same turquoise as Allani's, and the broad swash of his belt was likewise saffron-yellow. As he straightened up Lone Wolf could see that he was tall, almost as tall as his friend, and that the features of his face had the same sharply chiselled appearance. The two men might have been, if not brothers, then at least first cousins. Lone Wolf turned to look at Allani and saw that the man was smiling doubtfully. "Maouk!" he called across the gap between them, and there was cautious warmth in his voice as he said the name. "Maouk, by all that's dear to the Majhan!" "Allani," responded the man in a flat tone. "I had thought to meet hostile faces, but instead I find you," continued the envoy. "Then all must be well in Barrakeesh, despite the fact that our Zakhan is dead. I bring you the Sommlending,

The Birthplace // 57 Lone Wolf, as Moudalla commanded me to. Tell me, who has become Zakhan in Moudalla's stead?" The words were friendly enough, and yet Lone Wolf noticed that, although Allani had lowered his sabre, he had omitted to return it to his belt. The sailors around him were less wary, taking Allani's apparent relief as an indication that they could put away their weapons. Lone Wolf copied his friend, touching the point of the Sommerswerd to the ground yet holding his body in readiness to move into action the instant there was any slightest sign of danger. "Let us escort our distinguished visitor to the palace," said Maouk, his voice still noncommittal. "Our Zakhan will be pleased to greet him." Moving tentatively Allani and Lone Wolf stepped forward. One of the cavalrymen broke rank and signalled to the sailors that they should return to their ship. Lone Wolf looked behind him and saw that the captain was staring at him as if for guidance. Lone Wolf shrugged and the captain uncertainly instructed his men to obey the horseman's command. He himself was the last onto the gangplank, casting back agitated glances over his shoulder as he went. A minute later the crocodile of crewmen had disappeared aboard the Divine Dawn. Standing beside Maouk, Lone Wolf and Allani watched the men go. Both of them suddenly felt a very powerful sense of alienation from the tableau around them, as if they were isolated from it by an invisible curtain. Quite deliberately Lone Wolf allowed the back of his knuckles to graze against Allani's, as if to reassure them both that they were still alive and present in a real world. "So you are Lone Wolf," said Maouk in his coldly dead voice, and Lone Wolf turned to face him. "May I welcome you to our glorious city of Barrakeesh on behalf of my master, his most sublime magnificence, the Zakhan." "I am at your service," said Lone Wolf formally, and then added: "But in our country it is customary for lieges to name their masters in full." Maouk's eyes flittered uneasily towards Allani before he replied. "My master's name is Kimah," he said tersely. Immediately Allani spun away from them, his scimitar coming up into readiness. "Flee, Lone Wolf! Flee!" he yelled.

The Birthplace // 58 Lone Wolf took a pace backwards and raised the Sommerswerd to defend his friend. But too late, too late. Maouk's hand had darted from beneath his turquoise cloak and plunged a bright little dagger deep into Allani's belly. The envoy doubled up, his sabre crashing to the ground as his fists clenched around Maouk's wrist. "Run! For the sake of the Majhan save yourself, my friend," he bawled, his voice rising to a scream. "Leave me! I'm dead already! For the love of me, flee!" Lone Wolf hesitated, but only for the smallest fraction of a second. While the Divine Dawn had been approaching the port Allani had told him that, of the three powerful Vassagonian nobles he feared might accede, Kimah, the head of the sinister Sharnazim, was the one he dreaded the most. The hesitation was almost Lone Wolf's downfall. Maouk wrenched the dagger free of Allani's dying grasp and turned towards him, his mouth drawn into a malicious sneer. This close to him the Sommerswerd was useless, and Lone Wolf sidestepped the dagger's thrust and broke away, heading towards the seeming safety of the galley. Thirty yards seemed thirty miles. He daren't pause to see if Maouk was following him. Encumbered by his drawn sword he forced his feet to move as fast across the flagstones as they could. In the periphery of his vision he could see black-clad men spilling out of suddenly forbidding doorways and the blind openings of dim alleys. The watchers, too, were now in motion, each of them holding a dagger in front of him and converging on Lone Wolf. A snort at his shoulder and a shadow passing over him. He looked up and saw one of the cavalrymen towering above him, his head a dark cipher against the pale blue sky. "Take him!" shouted Maouk behind him. "But take him alive!" Lone Wolf broke his stride. The horseman hauled brutally on the reins, and his terrified mount reared up on its hind legs, its eyes rolling in anguish and its strong body twisting as it tried to retain its balance. Lone Wolf tried to leap to the side. His foot caught in a cavity between two of the flagstones. He fell awkwardly, the jar of his landing jolting the hilt of the Sommerswerd out of his clasp.

The Birthplace // 59 The weapon skittered away across the ground. He threw one arm towards it but his fingers fell inches short. The shadow of the horse covered his sprawling body. There was an explosion of many-coloured light in the sky.

The Birthplace // 60

Chapter Three BANEDON

Jenara had known from long ago a family of rich emigrés from Cloeasia who these days owned a villa about ten miles out of Barrakeesh. The cool, airy, flat-roofed building was one of a group of four, all built of the same orange-red local sandstone and clustered around a small oasis. The other three villas were empty at this time of year, as would have been Jenara's friends' had she not persuaded them to allow Banedon and herself to live there in their absence. Their only companions were a pair of ancient servants, who served meals and tidied rooms in an endless routine, and who ignored entirely any instructions that Jenara or Banedon might attempt to give them. The couple dwelt somewhere in a part of the villa that the two magicians had never discovered, despite a few covert and guilty attempts to scry out its location. To all intents and purposes, Jenara and Banedon were alone. And bored. For several months now they seemed to have had little to do except exchange greetings with the drivers of passing merchant caravans on their way from Barrakeesh to the torrid wastes further south, chatting in the sunlight with the travel-grimy camel-drivers as their noisy malodorous beasts, tails flicking, bent gracelessly to slurp up water in preparation for their long, slow, bakingly hot weeks-long trek across the sands to Chahdan or Bir Rabalou or even the peninsular city of Bisutan. Some of the older men told tales of having travelled even further, of crossing the river Khorda to the harsh mountains of Dessi, where the survivors of the plague that had long ago well nigh destroyed the Elder Magi lived in almost eremitic isolation, cutting themselves off from the doings of the rest of the world. Banedon and Jenara would listen courteously to the travellers' wild accounts of magic running riot among Dessi's steep and forbidding peaks, and later amuse each other by trying to concoct their own even more improbable stories, to be told with all due solemnity during the long hours of the early night. But the

The Birthplace // 61 caravans did not come their way frequently, most preferring to take one of the longer but easier routes, via Chula to the east or Chiras to the west, rather than enduring the vicissitudes of the pass that led through the hostile Dahir Mountains where, it was rumoured, wild men dwelt, preying on the flesh of hapless travellers. Banedon had never fully understood the meaning of the word "loneliness" before. He had always equated it with total isolation from one's fellow human beings, yet over the past months he had discovered that it was possible for him to feel a crushingly miserable sense of utter solitude even though he had the constant presence of Jenara, of whom he had grown very fond, and whose quietly friendly companionship he found reassuring and often enough exhilarating. Yet the fact of the matter was inescapable: he was lonely out here in the desert with her. When he had first realized this he'd put it down to the fact that he'd spent almost all of his earlier life surrounded by throngs of people – among the countless numbers of his fellow-students in the halls of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star or, more recently, mixing with the noisy crowds on the thrumming streets of Barrakeesh. But, as time had passed and he'd become accustomed to lying sleepless late into the startlingly cold nights, listening to the shufflings and squeals of the small nocturnal desert animals, he'd slowly realized that his profound sense of loneliness had a quite different origin. Jenara herself – or, at least, the confused composite that her personality had created in his mind. At first Banedon had been embarrassed when she had insisted to passers-by that the two of them were mother and son – her reason being that any enemies in Barrakeesh they might have would be listening for mention of two magicians, rather than of a mother and her youthful child. She had laughed at his red cheeks, and pointed out to him forcefully that she was indeed about the age his mother might be, assuming that she still lived. Banedon had accepted this obvious truth in a numerical way, but had been unable completely to do so at an emotional level. The amorphous, non-verbal tangle of his id rejected both the concept of Jenara as a maternal figure and his affectionate mental image of her as a companion of his own age to whom he wished to become sentimentally closer. The instructions which his subconscious was relaying to him, which were confused at the best of times, had become both stridently imperative and mutually conflicting. On the one hand Jenara was his mother, his false memories telling him

The Birthplace // 62 that she had seen him grow through childhood and all the agonies of his coming of age; on the other she was a woman to whom he felt drawn both physically and mentally, and whom his instincts were telling him to woo. In the noisy turmoil of Barrakeesh and their cramped room in the city's North Star Tavern he'd been able to cope with the conundrum by the simple expedient of never having the time to be aware of it; out here in the desert, though, where the vast expanses of the rippling sands were a constant underscoring of their shared isolation from other human beings, it had become impossible for him to ignore the disparities between the various commands from his instinctual self. In order to maintains its semblance of rationality, his conscious had chosen to distance itself from her, to view her with a sort of dispassionate, disinterested aestheticism that barred all of his emotions from reaching out towards her – his quasi-filial affection as much as his masculine romanticism. He was lonely because his mind was enforcing his solitude, in the interests of its own preservation. His mind, furthermore, was refusing to allow him to see that Jenara fully understood his confusion. Sometimes, when the devil was in her, she would deliberately act in subliminal ways to exacerbate his dilemma, alternately smirking at him coquettishly and seeming to comfort him in his throes of youth; but most often she worried for him, and wished that she could think of some way of helping him. She had toyed with the idea of seducing him, on the basis that the physical act might force his subconscious to settle definitively for one of the contradictory roles in which she appeared to it, but she had soon dismissed the notion for fear that she might simply increase the level of the tension inside him; besides, she felt in some inchoate way that there would have been an incestuous tang to such a relationship. The guise of motherhood fitted her only too well: the fact that he was an adult male came a poor second, in her mind, to her regard for him as a much younger relation with whom she had come to enjoy a close and loving friendship. So, each of them lonely among the artificialities of their friendship, closer than cousins yet more distant than casual acquaintances, they endured their quiet life in the rather soulless villa by the oasis, filling their evenings with sedentary pastimes – she painting watercolours that she recognized as decorative but ultimately empty and facile, he rather painfully teaching himself to play one of the stringed instruments that they had found in the house. Sometimes they talked, but both of them were cautious in

The Birthplace // 63 their speech, veering away consciously whenever they found themselves on the verge of saying any of the things that they really wanted to say. Every few days one or other of them would spend some time focusing their mind on the surface of a bowl of water, scrying through its placid reflections to discover the wishes of the Guildmaster – whose instruction was always the same: Wait. Wait just a little longer. You are serving my purposes by your patience. And once every ten days or a fortnight one of them (usually Banedon, itching for something positive to do; Jenara was generally glad to let him go so that she could find some companionship in her own presence) would venture on the back of their scraggly mule into Barrakeesh, to pick up essential supplies and to find out what if any changes might have taken place in the situation there. They knew that the spawn were still coming into the capital through the gateway that Qinefer had referred to as the Birthplace, but the two magicians seemed impotent to stem the flow: all they could do was observe, and report immediately to the Guildmaster should there be the remotest indication of any increase in the rate of the creatures' influx. Almost invariably the cargo that Banedon brought home with his mule was composed entirely of foodstuffs and other necessities of life: the most vital necessity of all for their lives, change, was something that he couldn't purchase in the marketplace. Until now. Yesterday a caravan had arrived from Barrakeesh, and for once the drivers had been gloomy, their normal exuberance restrained. Several of them had been wearing black armbands and one, perhaps more devout than the others, was dressed from head to foot in a black robe that hid even his face. Jenara and Banedon had seen at once that something was wrong; they felt self-conscious about the ostentation of their clothing as they walked from the house to the depressed-looking party of men by the water's edge among the palms. The men's story was soon told. Ten days ago the Zakhan Moudalla had died in his richly ornate bed in the palace – poisoned, some said, by the accumulated bitterness of his own old age, although others were readier to hint by glances and casual remarks that perhaps a more mundane venom had been used. The citizens of Barrakeesh had steeled themselves for the immediate outbreak of civil war in the city's streets, but the conflict had been over before it had even started. Within hours the heads of the princelings Relgan and Menaroh, and of their concubines and

The Birthplace // 64 children, had been impaled above the city's gates as a gruesome tribute to the fact that Vassagonia had a new Zakhan: Kimah. At mention of the name, the camel-drivers had become even deeper than before. Relgan and Menaroh had been brutal, barbaric lords, but their cruelties had been blunt and unsubtle. Kimah, on the other hand, coupled an absolute ruthlessness with an extraordinary duplicity – and, with his dreaded Sharnazim seemingly present invisibly in every corner, the future seemed to promise the common people of Vassagonia nothing but a long nightmare of repression. Of course, none of the travellers had dared to say this out aloud – who could tell whether or not there was even a Sharnaz here among them? – but it was easy enough for the two magicians to infer the misery, apprehension and sense of futility that pervaded the men's minds. Their despondency was quite understandable, and with hindsight it was obvious that neither of the other two nobles had stood a chance against the wiles of Kimah and his dreaded army of informers and assassins. He must have prepared his network of suppression long ago, ready to go into action as soon as Moudalla should die; it seemed likely that the drivers' unstated suspicions as to the manner of the old Zakhan's death were well founded. There was another reason why the Vassagonians should fear for the future. For some years now there had seemed to be a frail hope that Moudalla would name another man as his rightful heir. This was Allani, of whom Banedon and Jenara had heard little more than rumour. Allani, so they had gathered, was comparatively youthful and had come to hold his present rank not through his ferocity with arms but through his acute perspicacity, his ability to influence and manipulate people, and a wisdom that seemed incongruous in one who was still in the early years of his middle age. But Allani was out of the country, sent abroad on some diplomatic errand of Moudalla's, and no one knew when he might return; besides, it was already too late, for Kimah had established his new regime with immediate finality. The heads of Allani's kin were now, like those of Relgan and Menaroh, providing sustenance for the crows. Late in the day, their hearts heavy, the two magicians had bidden an ominously quiet farewell to the travellers, watching the long, reluctant line of slow-moving camels recede until it was lost in the distance. The swollen orb of the Sun had been sinking behind the far peaks of the Dahir Mountains, its light tinting the sands

The Birthplace // 65 with the colours of blood. Neither Banedon nor Jenara had mentioned their emotions on seeing this, but both had known exactly what the other was thinking. And now, clad as a poor peasant, Banedon was making his way through the hot day to Barrakeesh, sometimes riding astride his stubborn mule but more frequently leading it or walking alongside it, muttering ill tempered, fretful promises of succulent grasses and copious supplies of water awaiting them in the city. The mule gave no sign of understanding a word of what Banedon was saying, and its mind was too primitive and rigidly set for him to probe, but it plodded on philosophically and so he chose to assume that it had some rudimentary comprehension of the meaning of his words of encouragement. Even so, from time to time it halted without warning for unfathomable reasons of its own, paying no attention to his blandishments. Then, just as unexpectedly, it would start moving again. Banedon ignored the drone of his own voice and listened instead to his thoughts. His body felt all keyed up by the prospect of what he might discover at Barrakeesh. On the one hand the fact that he would certainly have something of note to tell Jenara on his return was exciting; however, nagging little voices inside him were asking him if he were really so sure that he'd be able to return that night – or, for that matter, ever. He'd felt vulnerable enough trudging through Barrakeesh on other occasions – for the citizens didn't generally take kindly to foreigners and he was aware that his disguise as a native Vassagonian was barely more convincing than his accent. How much worse would it be now – now that the Sharnazim could be expected to be lurking in every shadow, their eyes peeled for the slightest sign of anything out of the ordinary that might represent a possible threat to the newly imposed regime? He was terrified of the murderous secret police – as was everyone – but more than that he was terrified, too, by the anticipation of his own terror. There were few travellers on the road. Once a pair of roughnecks looked at him with predatory eyes, but he merely flexed the fingers of his left hand in a complicated little pattern and muttered a few words of second-level magic; for days afterwards the thugs would argue between themselves why it was that the diminutive man with the mule had suddenly seemed to be so unworthy of their attention. On another occasion Banedon met a string of five or six camels and he paused for a few moments to chat with their drivers, who recognized him from past visits to the

The Birthplace // 66 oasis; but the men were glum and in no mood for conversation, and very soon they left him. Otherwise Banedon saw little of his surroundings as he trudged on steadily, his eyes fixed on the trampled sand in front of his feet, ignoring the streams of sweat that ran down his torso. About a mile from Barrakeesh's time-softened outer walls he was joined by a fellow-traveller, who came up on horseback behind him. The rider slid to the ground and extended one gauntleted hand over the necks of the two animals, which were investigating each other's lips suspiciously. "Banedon," the magician replied in response to the man's first question. "Yourself?" "Thog. Thog by name and Thog by nature. You have perhaps heard of my reputation?" "I'm sorry. I live with my . . . my mother far from other people. We hear little by way of news where we are." Banedon squinted against the light as he took a more careful look at the stranger. He was unimpressed by what he saw, although there was something vaguely familiar about him. The man was huge – a full two heads taller than Banedon himself – and his shoulders were strong and muscular. He was dressed in a tattered and profusely studded costume of imperfectly cured animal skins, and on his bare upper arms there were faded red tattoos depicting miscellaneous gore. His grease-spattered leggings were sewn from coarse cotton and had once been blue. Around his dirt-encrusted face and beard swarmed a cloud of busy flies; for headgear he wore a metal helmet from which sprang two curved tusks, one broken. His cheeks and forehead bore the scars of old battles. At his belt hung a mismatched pair of axes, a morningstar, a length of heavy chain, several daggers and a battered-looking two-handed sword. He looked miserable as Banedon's words sank in. "Ah, the passage of time," he said sorrowfully. "Once upon a day you'd have quaked for miles around at the very mention of the name of the Thog the Mighty and the pack of wildcats that he led." He clanked as they began to walk together towards the city, their animals having decided to maintain a polite but mutually disdainful pact. "Wildcats?" said Banedon confusedly. So far as he knew the creatures didn't exist this far south.

The Birthplace // 67 "In a manner of speaking," Thog said hastily. "They were men, of course, but fighters all – and every last one of 'em loyal to me. Not to mention their doxies! They'd have given their lives for me, they would. Ah, yes, those were the days, those were, and good days they were, too, roaming the highways of this country and that, our horses revved up to full gallop as we terrified the slowcoaches we passed. Only the Knights of Knaar, in Durenor, ever rivalled us, and even they dared not poke their noses into any territory that we'd claimed as our own." "What happened?" asked Banedon, not really interested but feeling that the question was expected of him. "Babies." For a few bitterly reflective moments Thog said nothing more, and then he added, half to himself: "Last I saw of Neq the Plank, the loyalest and most vicious of all my lieutenants, he'd become a cobbler. As for Tarlcabot the Lash, it makes a man's heart gout blood – and steaming intestinal fluids – like a river in spate to see the way he allows himself to be henpecked these days – and by her of all folk! The one they used to call the village donkey! Yes, these are sad, sad times we're living through; the golden days of the glorious past are dead and gone, and we'll never see their like again." For a while neither of them said anything, then Banedon, sensing that the man was an outlander, an immigré like himself, asked if he had any news of the death of the old Zakhan and the situation under the rule of his successor. What might have passed for a thought momentarily clouded Thog's muddy face. "I know little of the ways of politics," he said at length. "Give me a stallion to burn up the road and a doxy to earn my keep and cook my high tea and that's all I ask. But I've heard tell that no man's life is safe in Barrakeesh these days – that the Sharnazim would as soon carry you off for torture as look at you, and even sooner kill you where you stood. It's a frightened city, so I'm told, with people settling their old feuds by denouncing each other as traitors to the reign of the new Zakhan. Ach!" – he spat suddenly at the sand – "I despise these sneaky, underhand ways as the craven deceptions of gutless women, women dressed in men's bodies. Give me the old times when at least you were hacked to death fair and square, so that you knew where you were. Nowadays it's a matter of a silent dagger between your ribs, and a faceless assassin slipping off into the night with as little sound as he came."

The Birthplace // 68 Banedon nodded. He sensed that there were few things about which he and the big man might agree, but in this instance he had some sympathy for Thog's viewpoint. Armed combat, to Banedon, could never be anything other than debased and sickening – an act of such degradation that it was unjust to describe it as bestial – yet at least there was a certain honesty about it. The use of hushed subterfuge and slyness to kill one's foes seemed somehow even worse. "I feared for my life already, before you said that," he muttered, just loudly enough for Thog to hear him. "Now . . ." But he couldn't turn back. If his cowardice drove him away from the city before he even reached it he'd be squandering the vast investment of time and patience that he and Jenara had made since their arrival, long ago, in Vassagonia. He had to venture into the city, no matter what the dangers: otherwise the months of waiting would have been pointless. His whole purpose in coming to this Ishir-forsaken country in the first place had been to discover what was happening so that the Guildmaster and the other enchanters of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star could be kept aware of what was going on. Surely, of anything that had taken place since his arrival, the change of Zakhanship was the event most likely to have an effect – for better or worse – on the influx of the Darklords' spawn through the Birthplace! To turn back now would be to abnegate all the responsibility that had been placed on him. "Would you like it if we stayed together, guarding each other's backs?" said Thog, his voice for once less than a half-shout. "I don't know why, but I sense that I can trust you, pathetic little figure of stunted masculinity though you are." Banedon knew very well why Thog trusted him: even before the big man had jumped down from his horse Banedon had murmured a few precautionary words. He wondered briefly if he should accept Thog's offer of companionship – although no longer a youth, the man was clearly still a warrior to contend with – but almost at once he decided against. Already he was concerned that he might be too noticeable, even on his own; Thog's obtrusive presence at his side would make it virtually impossible for him to remain just another anonymous member of the herd. "I thank you for your kindness," he said formally, giving the man a smile, "but I fear that my doings in Barrakeesh must remain known to me alone."

The Birthplace // 69 For a second Thog's arm muscles tightened, as if he were readying himself to grab for one of his weapons; but Banedon briefly touched his thumb to his ring finger and a wash of peace flowed through Thog's mind, so that he no longer had anything but the dullest of shadow-memories that once upon a time someone might have insulted him. "I respect your wish for privacy," he said with equal formality, wondering where the words had come from. But you can stay with me until we're through those gates, my friend, thought Banedon as they came ever closer to the city's looming red wall. If things go very badly indeed for us from the start, I may have cause to thank your sword-arm. The severed heads of the murdered nobles and their families could be seen only as black marks, far above them, against the brilliance of the midday sky. Banedon glanced upwards only once, then decided that what little he'd seen of the aristocrats' fate was enough for his stomach, but Thog became filled with animated interest, shading his eyes with his hand and peering at the distant top of the wall as if, by concentration alone, he could somehow magnify the image. His staccato comments and his "ahs" nauseated Banedon; had they been elsewhere the magician could have expended a little magical effort to silence the warrior, but he wanted to take no chances of drawing unwanted attention to himself, and so he just had to suffer in silence. Four sullen sentries, their hands to their scimitars, watched them keenly as they entered the city, but made no move to halt them. Once they were inside Banedon paused, enjoying the lumpy pressure of the cobblestones through the thin soles of his sandals. Thog carried on for a pace or two before realizing that Banedon had stopped. The big man turned and looked at his slight companion. "You have your own business to attend to now," he said with resignation. "Here I will say farewell to you, little friend. But if you find that danger threatens you, you have only to shout the name of Thog the Mighty. If I'm within hearing of you I shall be beside you with the speed of a . . . of a . . ." The big man clanked off up the street muttering to himself and frequently shaking or nodding his head as he tried to puzzle out what it might be that he'd move with the speed of. Of a gazelle? No – gazelles were for cissies. Of a cheetah? Hmmm, sounded a bit underhand to him. Of an arrow? – that was more to the point but still didn't seem quite right.

The Birthplace // 70 Ah! At last he had the answer. He turned and shouted back the way he had come: "Of a storgh with a burning torch stuck up its . . ." But his voice tailed away as he discovered that Banedon was long gone. # To anyone watching it would have seemed as if Banedon were merely picking his way among the market stalls as he did every week or two, just another young lad come in from one of the outlying settlements to pick up some provender and try not to be bamboozled by the hawkers. Smacking his mule firmly across the muzzle every time it took too great an interest in the wares on offer, he filled the beast's panniers with salt meat and fish, dried vegetables, packets of flavourings, glazed fruits, hard cheeses and many other staples. No wine or mead, of course – such beverages were unknown in Vassagonia, where even the country's weak indigenous ale was frowned upon by many of the more righteous. As he moved from stall to stall he smiled and nodded at the vendors, trying to engage in the usual apparently aimless badinage he shared with them. However, today their responses were muted, and few of them did more than say hello and goodbye to him, or tell him the take-it-or-leave-it price of the goods he'd selected. This last procedure was in itself quite out of the ordinary, and Banedon found himself missing the good-natured execrations of the customary bartering sessions. As always his stock of gold crowns diminished with dismaying swiftness and his once-full pouch was soon depleted to a bag of flaccid leather through which he could feel the hard shapes of his three or four remaining coins. But news was infernally hard to come by, and he was beginning to despair of discovering anything from the hard-eyed, tight-lipped stallholders when a heavy hand suddenly clamped down on his shoulder from behind. The Sharnazim! he thought, his mind careering ahead of him in a wild panic. I'm dead! – or I'll soon wish that I were . . . He turned to find himself looking at a small man – no taller than himself – dressed in a pale crimson jellabah whose hood was trimmed with polished reptilian hide. The green eyes staring at him over the firm angular nose showed no emotion, neither friendliness nor hostility. "Come with me," said the stranger firmly.

The Birthplace // 71 Banedon looked around him. No one in the market was paying any attention; the citizens were intent – too intent – on the selections of produce they were making, and the vendors totally engrossed in catering to their customers' needs. "Who are you?" hissed Banedon. "I'll tell you shortly. But come with me now – quickly." Banedon sent out a questing probe towards the other's mind but it was deflected easily, as if the man were waving away a moth. He tried to move his fingers in one of the more potent second-level intricacies that Loi-Kymar had taught him, but found that his knuckles had been paralysed, so that his digits were locked in place like claws. He shrugged helplessly, his eyes indicating the mule. "Bring the beast with you. We're just good friends – remember? – who've met in the marketplace and who've decided to go and share a glass of chocolate. Walk with me casually, as if you know me well. Talk about the weather, or about Jenara – how is she?" "You know Jenara?" said Banedon as coolly as he could, smiling to the trader from whom he had just been buying sweetmeats. The man uneasily pretended that he hadn't noticed the greeting, and didn't smile back. "But of course you do – otherwise you'd hardly have mentioned her name, would you?" Banedon was astonished at how easy he was finding it, despite his terror, to prattle on about inconsequentialities, just as if the man who had accosted him were indeed an old acquaintance. For his part, the stranger beamed at him charmingly as they worked their way through the throng. It was fortunate that there were fewer people in the market today than on a normal day, so that the two men and the mule created no untoward disturbance as they crossed the square in the direction of one of its more shaded corners; many of the Barrakeeshians must either have believed in the prudence of displaying their grief for the death of their ruler or, more simply, have been too terrified of the workings of the Sharnazim to show their faces in the streets. The stranger, with a proud air of affable courtesy, tied the halter of Banedon's mule to a metal upright in front of a small cafe and then seated them both at one of several circular parasolled tables erected on the cobblestones. Banedon refused the offer of a glass of thick, sweet cloying Vassagonian chocolate – although it was cooler here in the shade, the day was still uncomfortably hot for him – and accepted instead a glass of iced water. After the

The Birthplace // 72 aproned waiter had delivered to the drinks to their table and accepted a coin from the man in the crimson robe, Banedon found that his fingers were once more free to move. He held his hands thankfully around the slickly cold glass and looked again at the man who'd brought him here. "Wouldn't we be safer if we went inside?" "No – no, my friend, no," said the man, spreading his arms wide as if he'd just been told a most excellent item of gossip. "What fool would wish to huddle indoors on a glorious day like this?" This fool, for one, thought Banedon waspishly, and then saw from the expression that flitted across his companion's face that the man had heard his thought. We can speak like this? said Banedon, making a concentrated effort to look to any passer-by as if he were simply relaxing tiredly back in his winged chair. The mule looked at him boredly, and then turned away to gaze with equal boredom at the colourful stalls and the crowds on the far side of the square. Yes, came the other magician's thought, but we must be cautious. Kimah's spies are everywhere, and some of them have mastered the rudiments of our shared art. "Do you often get the chance to come into Barrakeesh these days?" he said jovially, wiping away a creamy moustache of chocolate from his mouth. "Not as often as I'd like," said Banedon with a grin, tapping the tip of his fingernail on the frosted rim of his glass. Who are you? You give me no evidence that you are friend or foe. For all I know you are one of the Sharnazim, sent to prowl around the marketplace in search of foreigners with . . . ability, like myself. "I was saying to Melisa only the other day that it had ben far too long since we'd seen you, Banedon, and we were wondering what you might have got up to. She said, `Akra, he's probably made his way in the world, unlike you, you worthless good-for-nothing, and has now become too grand to trouble with the likes of us.'" Kimah is not the only one to have spies in the city, said the man's urgent thought, and there was just the slightest tremor in his hand as he raised his glass to his lips again. Menaroh and Relgan may be dead, but it does not do to forget that there still lives a further pretender to the throne. He has been in a far country these past weeks, but that does not mean that his supporters have lost their love for him. One, I suspect, holds him in greater affection than any. I had expected to find her in the marketplace herself some time during these past few days, but I see that for reasons of her own she's elected to send you in her stead. Jenara? thought Banedon, and this time he was unable to disguise the look of consternation on his face. Akra leaned forward

The Birthplace // 73 immediately and clapped him between the shoulderblades, as if he'd suddenly choked on his drink. She told me nothing of this! he thought, once he'd stopped spluttering. Did you not detect it when you were mind-speaking with her? Akra's eyebrow was raised as he looked into Banedon's face. "There, old friend, are you better now? It's always foolish to guzzle your drinks after you've been for hours in the desert." She and I have never spoken through each other's thoughts, the way I'm doing with you at the moment. I didn't think she was capable of it – I thought that mind-speaking was only possible for adepts of second-level magic! Banedon had given up all pretence of conducting a trivial conversation, and he saw Akra's eyes signalling to him to beware of relaxing his guard. There are too many things she hasn't told me, Banedon continued regardless, yet she is supposed to be my ally – my friend. Is she a traitor to Sommerlund? Even to the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star, to whom she has sworn eternal allegiance? Has she been deceiving me all this time? Is she really a tool of our enemies? But if that's the case, then who can you be, my self-professed friend, who claims to know her? Akra put up a hand to stop the flow of words. His eyes darted around the square nervously – Guiltily? thought Banedon –and then he beckoned to the waiter, who had been hovering just inside the cafe's door. "My friend and I would like a little more to drink," he said jovially. "The same again, Banedon?" "Yes. I thank you." By the time the drinks had been replaced and a few further spoken pleasantries exchanged, the two of them had calmed down a little. Akra refused Banedon's offer to pay, and gave the waiter some more money from the pouch that hung from his own belt. "We Barrakeeshians cannot let it be said that we fail to be generous to our guests," he said loudly, a broad smile on his face. Listen, you little twerp, he was thinking angrily, if you can't disguise your feelings better than that I will tell you nothing – nothing, d'you hear? We can't risk you and your immaturity betraying us to Kimah's spies. So control yourself, or I'll suddenly remember that I've an appointment to keep elsewhere, and bid you a regretful farewell like the good friend I am! My apologies, said Banedon, trying to conceal the insincerity in his thought. But how am I, in turn, to know that I can trust you? Your thoughts are riddles – you seem to delight in tantalizing me with incomplete pieces of information, in mocking me with my own ignorance. Remember that, for all your airs of superior knowledge, you are in my hands as much as I'm in yours. All I would have to do would be to leap to my feet and shout for all to hear that I have discovered a traitor in our midst. The Sharnazim would take

The Birthplace // 74 you first and ask questions afterwards . . . if there were an afterwards. "How is Melisa, by the way? She sounds as if she's still got the same sharp tongue she had when she was a slip of a girl, and we were all in love with her." He smiled beatifically. You fool! came Akra's urgent thought. She's my mother! The Majhan will it that none of Kimah's snakes who know that have heard you! "She has been loved her all her life," he replied ambiguously, "and is so none the less now that she is advanced in years." And do not try to threaten me, you little fool. You hardly leave me any choice, though Banedon with a shrug and a wry expression. Let us end this charade. Why don't you simply invite me back to your home for a meal? It would be perfectly in-keeping for an old friend to do that, and it's about the right time of day. Surely in your home there must be a room where we can have privacy to talk openly? No! All walls have ears in Barrakeesh these days – how can I be sure that one of my servants isn't in the keep of the Sharnazim? Besides, taking you to my home would be to issue your death warrant, for Kimah's men would surely seize you as soon as you departed. Even my sitting and speaking with you here is putting your life at risk. "Thanks," said Banedon in a soft voice. "It might have been courteous of you to have told me that before." He watched the play of sunlight on the meniscus of his chilled water. The pieces of ice in it had long since melted. Ignoring Akra's implorings that he should return to communicating by thought rather than speech, Banedon carried on, although he kept his voice low and his eyes glinted as he looked warily around for anyone who might show signs of straying too close to the table. "You've endangered my life without asking my permission, and therefore I've no compunction about increasing the risk for yours. I will talk as I wish, and you will answer my questions. Understood?" Banedon was amazed by how steely his will had become. Normally in times of danger his nerve became soft and timid, but today he had no need to pretend to Akra that he was perfectly prepared to carry out his threat. "Understood," said the Vassagonian reluctantly, his voice little more than a whisper although his face was showing a smile of synthetic bonhomie. "Jenara and Allani are well known to each other – this I accept as truth, although it seems strange to me that she has never thought to mention the fact. It is likewise odd that she's never revealed to me that she is capable of `mind-speaking', as you call it – indeed, that her magical ability is significantly more advanced

The Birthplace // 75 than she has led me to believe. These two items of information alone would puzzle me considerably, but their bizarreness is compounded by the fact that you, too, are capable of magic at the second level – although you're not as powerful as you think you are, and certainly not as powerful as I am." "Prove it." Akra's face was contemptuous. Banedon put both his hands flat on the table, his palms feeling the smooth wood surface, his fingers splayed out, the half-empty glass of water between the balls of his thumbs. "You were able to freeze my knuckle-joints before," he said easily, "and I was unwilling to shatter your spell because the side-effects of my doing so would have sent a shock through your system – the attention of our friends the Sharnazim might have been drawn to the sight of a man inexplicably doubling up in agony, I think." "A pretty boast," said Akra. "Immobilize them again," said Banedon, as if the other hadn't spoken. Go on. Don't be frightened." Akra almost sneered at the patronizing tone the younger man had adopted, but then the fingers of his own right hand twitched convulsively, and Banedon could feel that his fingers had become as if they were solid pieces of wood, frozen in place against the table; moreover, Akra had sadistically instilled a sharp spike of pain into his flesh – as if to teach Banedon a lesson in humility that he wouldn't soon forget. Banedon's eyebrows quirked. Two can play at that childish game, he reflected whimsically, and his mind conjured up a foliated pattern of such fine complexity that Akra, despite following his thoughts as closely as he could, could make nothing of it. Banedon stared at the backs of his hands and began to concentrate his gaze, imagining that two bars of bright blue metal joined the pupils of his eyes to the base of the knuckles on each hand. Through the bars he passed a current of energy that he had mutated into a repeating configuration; the several components of the pattern that he was now imposing on the energy flow were each in themselves simple, but there were countless permutations in which they could be arranged and rearranged, so that it was impossible for anyone other than an advanced second-order adept to deduce it from first principles. Banedon could sense that Akra was desperately trying to work it out using an iterative process, and some small and distant part of him began to laugh derisively: even the most sophisticated of algorithmic analyses of the pattern would take a single unaided mind a thousand years to execute. To taunt

The Birthplace // 76 Akra, he sent a single additional ripple, purely for decorative purposes, along the invisible bars of blue. The whole table and everything on it – including Banedon's hands and Akra's elbows – began to flow at random, as if composed of some crystal-clear viscous liquid. Akra felt as if he had somehow been plunged into the middle of a nightmare where nothing is any longer as it seems, and things can change without warning and for no apparent reason. He had lost all sensation in his arms; as if to compensate, his mind began to itch . . . He closed his eyes, as if somehow the oblivion of darkness would make the terrible, incessant prickling of his consciousness disappear along with the bright sunlight . . . There was a starburst of pain so acute that it seemed to him like an explosion of fire in his mind, and he found that once again he had full control over his arms. He opened his eyes and saw that Banedon was relaxed in his chair, sipping his water, and looking at him over the brim of the glass with a light of amusement in his eyes. "A child's trick," said the younger man conversationally once he saw that Akra had succeeded in controlling his emotions. "I took the precaution of creating an ancillary energy configuration to ensure that none of your countrymen around us would notice anything amiss." Akra drummed the table lightly with his fingertips. It was still hard to believe that his senses were telling him the truth, that everything which had moments before seemed fluid was now solid and substantial. Moreover, the Sommlending youth showed no signs of the pain which the performance of magic of this intensity should have caused him. Now it was his turn to be suspicious of Jenara: clearly, although she had hidden much about herself from Banedon, she had done likewise to her friends among the Vassagonians. "Why she has concealed her abilities from you is something I cannot explain," he said dispiritedly. "She must have reasons of her own – certainly she hasn't explained them to me. Similarly, I don't understand why she hasn't told you about her relationship with Allani: there is nothing in it which could have caused either of them shame – at least in the eyes of myself and my countrymen: perhaps the mores in Sommerlund are different." In a flash Banedon knew why Jenara had been so secretive, and his affection for her grew. She was trying to protect me! he thought,

The Birthplace // 77 putting a shield around his mind so that Akra would be unable to intrude into it. He smiled fondly. To her I must seem a contradiction in terms: a magician who has gained great power from the tutelage of Loi-Kymar, yet locked up in a cage whose bars are the emotions of a person half her age. She's forced me to build up my own self-esteem, my own self-reliance, by concealing from me the fact that, should I fail in any venture of importance, she would be able to bring her own considerable powers to bear in order to save me. And she has coped with the . . . other follies of my youth by hiding the true nature of her womanhood from me. A year ago I would have been shocked to discover that she had permitted herself a liaison, but that was when I saw her as some kind of demigoddess, not as a real human being. I would have thought her sullied by her humanity. He let out a sharp bark of self-deprecatory laughter. And she was right, too. I'd have seen the virgin queen of my fantasy, my quasi-deific mother, as a sluttish betrayer of the unworthy ideal which my immature mind had created for her. He laughed again, and Akra stared at him, knowing that thoughts were racing through the other's mind but unable to detect any trace of their meaning. I love you, Jenara, Banedon thought along a channel which he knew would reach only her; and he was relieved to feel in response a pulse of warm, affectionate amusement that matched his own. "How many magicians are there among you, Akra?" he said unexpectedly. Humbly, elaborating his account only when Banedon prompted him to do so, the Vassagonian talked in a low, rapid tone for some minutes. When the Guildmaster had first sent Jenara to this country she had not been alone; as she had told Banedon not long after they had met, she had been accompanied by her husband, but he had come to a horrible end at the mercies of the Darklords' spawn. Quite clinically, she had cauterized her emotional wounds using her own magical abilities as well as drawing on those of the Guildmaster, who knew and approved of what she planned next to do. Her husband's task – and this was the first of the things that she'd declined to tell Banedon – had been to move among the people of the Zakhan's court, searching out not only those whose emptiness of soul betrayed them as envoys of Darkness but also any among the Vassagonian aristocrats and their adherents whose loyalty might be to a higher power than the Zakhan – to the true spirit of the Majhan, rather than to the perversion of it that successive zakhans had imposed upon a terrorized, downtrodden people. Among these Jenara's husband had discovered Allani, and had instantly recognized that here was a wise, benevolent man destined for leadership; it would clearly be

The Birthplace // 78 in the interests not only of Sommerlund but of all who wished to withstand the forces of Evil if Allani's path were eased towards the Zakhanship. But someone among Allani's entourage must have found the lure of gold more attractive than honour – or perhaps it was that the spawn had become alerted to the Sommlending's schemes by chance. Whatever the case, one night he had left a rendezvous with his protege to return home to Jenara and had never reached her. She, having with the Guildmaster's assistance banished the memories of her husband's shattered corpse from her mind, determined to continue in his stead, knowing that she would be able to use the advantage of her physical beauty to draw to her those Vassagonians who would place their loyalties with the future of Allani. What she hadn't reckoned with was Allani himself – or, rather, her own reactions on encountering him. Although she had sworn to the memory of her husband that she would never again take a lover, she had failed to take account of the fact that she might fall in genuine rather than merely physical love. And, to her initial alarm, Allani had reacted to her in exactly the same way. She had become an adulteress, according to Sommlending customs, and yet she had felt no sense of sin – he, of course, had been mildly bemused as to why she thought she ought to, because according to Vassagonian custom they were quite orthodoxly wedded, and with the full approval of his other wife. At last she had come to accept this, yet still she insisted on keeping the matter a secret from any Sommlending who might happen to pass through Barrakeesh; of course, there could be no secrets from the Guildmaster, but Banedon could imagine his wise old eyes smiling his blessing. Soon Jenara had discovered something rather more significant to report to the Guildmaster. Among the Vassagonians there were some who, quite unknown to themselves, possessed an unexpectedly high level of latent magical ability; had they been Sommlending they would have been inducted into the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star during childhood, and would by now have been among its most able magicians. As it was, they had merely learned to back their hunches, to pay attention to their inexplicable presentiments, to accept the successes that came their way rather more frequently than they might have expected them to; in short, these people were "lucky".

The Birthplace // 79 The Guildmaster had been delighted. Here was an unexpected bonus. Sending Sommlending spies into Vassagonia was an inefficient way of gathering information and establishing influence – there was an obvious limitation of numbers, and those whose activities became too obtrusive were likely to meet a dreadful fate, as was only too evident. If, instead, native inhabitants could be recruited into magical ways, the whole course of Vassagonian history could be altered without the average citizen of the country having any conception that there had been any intrusion at all. Jenara was instructed to plant the seeds of left-handed magic among the more promising natives, to guide and educate those who proved most naturally adept to a level where they could begin to teach their fellows. A clandestine college of magicians had grown up among those Vassagonians who supported the ideals that Allani represented; it was a network that in its efficacy almost rivalled that of the Sharnazim, despite the fact that it was numerically much smaller. Even so, Akra explained, this network was far from invulnerable, despite its growing access to magical assistance. The Sharnazim had early on become dimly aware of its existence and, although their clumsy attempts to infiltrate it had been unsuccessful, they had kept a nervous eye on anyone whom they suspected might be a part of it. Some individuals they had eliminated brutally, when the opportunity presented itself, but most often they were forced to be content with their observing role, for the magicians had developed defences of their own which, although they had to be used covertly for fear of bring the entire operation into the light, could nevertheless be used with devastating retaliatory effect. This was why Akra was prepared to run the risk of talking with Banedon, because the Sharnazim would have no real reason to suspect that Banedon was anything other than the outlander he appeared to be; but the contact would have to remain only a casual one, because otherwise the assassins would probably move in and kill Banedon on principle – just to tidy up a loose end. "I wouldn't have taken even this risk," Akra concluded, "were it not for the fact that we want you to do something very hazardous for our cause." "I've been expecting you to say something like that," said Banedon with a rueful smile. Akra rubbed his forearms together, looking harried. "It'd all have been so much simpler had Jenara chosen to come to

The Birthplace // 80 Barrakeesh herself today, because then I could have spoken with her without coming close to her. We tried to mind-speak with her to tell her this, but the distance was too great for us. And you – we had no way of knowing how you might react when my thoughts first intruded into your mind. Much better to go through with this . . . this pantomime. Besides, you may need to be able to recognize my face in future." "What is it you want me to do?" said Banedon, an edge of impatience beginning to appear in his voice. "We've discovered that Allani is due to return to these shores within the next day or two. Almost certainly he knows nothing of the events that have taken place in his absence, and so he's likely to step innocently into the jaws of death. The Sharnazim will have a reception party waiting for him, we're sure of that, and it's rare for them to fail in their aim when they've marked a man for death." Banedon mulled this over for a while. Were he himself to be Zakhan in Kimah's place he would use every endeavour to make sure that Allani would stay alive, at least for a time – a hunting accident, or some such, could always be arranged for later. A living Allani would be seen by the populace to have acquiesced in Kimah's assumption of the throne, and would thereby grant the regime some degree of respectability; a dead Allani would soon become revered as a martyr, and thus serve as a focus for revolt. He explained as much to Akra. Neither of them quite had the nerve to say it, but each realized that the other was thinking that, in the longer term, the most effective strategy for their cause might be simply to stand back and let the Sharnazim slay the returning leader. Such ruthlessness was alien to Banedon's soul, but he was learning it; Akra, by contrast, had learned to reject it. "Won't Allani have an escort of armed men with him?" said Banedon after a while. "We think not. He deliberately went to Sommerlund with only a few personal retainers, to show your people that he was suing for a genuine peace, not trying to impress them by a show of force. It's possible that this warrior of Ulnar's he's bringing back with him may have insisted on coming accompanied by a troop of guards, of course, but our spies in Port Bax, where the vessel touched on its way here, reported no signs of them." Banedon's ears pricked up. A warrior travelling on his own? It sounded familiar. "Do you know what this Sommlending is called?"

The Birthplace // 81 "Assuming that Ulnar agreed to Moudalla's specific request, it's a man called Lone Wolf. We heard that he played a part in repelling a nobleman of ours, Barraka, from your province of Ruanon. Otherwise we know little of him." Banedon smiled broadly. Seeing that Akra was looking perplexed, he explained: "Oh, I know Lone Wolf of old. It sounds just like him. He prefers to work on his own – unless there was a dark woman with him?" Akra shrugged expressively. "We don't know. Again, our people in Durenor made no mention of one, if there was one." Banedon nodded. Of course. To a Vassagonian the presence of a woman would hardly have had any significance. He smiled quickly inside himself as he had a sudden image of Akra's face were he to be confronted by Qinefer or Viveka in the full flood of battle. "So what is it that you want me to do?" he repeated. # Nobody paid much notice to the wharfside drunk. Leading his dilapidated mule, he staggered to the centre of the dock and looked around him, the fidgeting of his hands making it clear that he had come here in fuddled quest of a urinal – which was hardly surprising, Barrakeeshian ale being notoriously weak. It was only as he looked around him, cursing fate for having removed the public latrine which he was absolutely certain, no question of it, he remembered as having been here the last time he'd visited, that he noticed the groups of stern, hushed men garbed in long black jellabahs. To judge by the expressions that lurched slowly across his face, he was beginning to realize that there was something subtly wrong here, that perhaps he would be better to find somewhere else to be. The pressure of his bladder forgotten, he turned to stagger off, but instead tripped and fell flat on his face on the flagstones. His mules regarded him solemnly for a moment, and then gazed around at the watchers, obviously asking for their sympathy for its plight in being stuck with a drunken buffoon for its master. They stared back impassively at the beast and the motionless form beside it. A second drunk fell rather than walked into view. This was a huge man with a horned helmet, a beard that seemed last to have been washed in a cesspit, and a bewildering array of bulky

The Birthplace // 82 weaponry clattering around his knees. He crawled to the mule, looked up into its face, and asked it loudly and at length if it wanted a fight. The mule seemed to be trying to pretend it had never met this individual before. "Clear off, you two," snapped one of the watchers. "Get out of here if you value your lives." The man on the ground gave no reaction, but the one on his knees looked around owlishly, clearly becoming lumpenly alarmed by the situation. This would have been a facial performance of astonishing histrionic ability were it not for the fact that Thog wasn't acting. Other people might decry the potency of Vassagonian liquor but he, Thog, had always found that a tankard or two . . . "Help me up," groaned Banedon. "Come on, you barbarian oaf! I'm stone-cold sober and I hurt myself, falling over like that!" To Thog it seemed as if the mule were talking to him – he'd forgotten for the moment about the dishevelled bundle of clothes that someone had left lying untidily around. "You're already up," he explained patiently, forming each word with elaborate care. One of the watchers, who seemed by his bearing to be of more senior rank than most of the rest, looked around and then, with a little shrug of his shoulders, made a decision. "You," he said to a couple of the men near to him, "and you. Clear these two tosspots out of our way. Throw 'em in one of the warehouses, or somewhere – anywhere so long as you get 'em out from under our feet. Kill 'em if they show any signs of resistance, but for the moment just bind 'em and gag 'em and leave 'em alive; the big one looks as if he might be able to put up a bit of a fight, newted as he is, if he thought his life was being threatened. Tell 'em you're their mothers, or something, but get 'em out of here." The two watchers moved with crisp efficiency to obey the orders. To their surprise, the drunks made no protest as they were scooped up and frogmarched off to one side, where they were unceremoniously thrown through a battered wooden door to land in a tangle of seemingly unconnected limbs on a pile of hay and animal droppings. It was the work of moments to secure them in strips torn from their own clothing. The mule looked belligerent for a short while, but was eventually calmed.

The Birthplace // 83 The two Sharnazim rejoined their fellows, and an eerie silence returned to the dock. As soon as he was sure that they'd been left completely on their own, Banedon muttered a few syllables and their bindings disappeared; with a little more difficulty he conjured Thog's intoxication out of existence, leaving the big man looking baffled as, for the first time in several hours, he discovered that he could see only one of everything. Sneezing from the dust, Banedon pointed towards a dangerous-looking flight of rotted wooden stairs – barely more than a ladder – that led up to the gloom of an upper storey. Thog obeyed Banedon's finger and began to climb, testing each tread cautiously with his foot before putting his full weight on it, his weapons clattering uncomfortably loudly. Banedon followed behind him with more confidence, reassured that anything that could bear Thog's bulk would hardly be affected by his own. They found themselves in a dim, half-floored room. A little light trickled through the two grimy windows, but not much; Banedon pictured the Sun's rays taking one look at the filthiness of the glass and deciding to fall elsewhere. More light entered the place through the many small holes in the ancient roof. He and Thog had to tread warily, stepping from solid-seeming floorboard to the next, avoiding those that were peppered with woodworm holes and flakes of dry rot. Their nostrils were filled with the sickly stench of rotting hay; Banedon accidentally rubbed his hand against the side of one of the bales that had been left scattered around, seemingly years ago, and flinched at the sleek coldness of the liquefying mush against the backs of his fingers. All around there were myriad scuffling and scampering noises as small and not so small vermin ran from the unaccustomed intrusion. Without any discussion they both picked the less dirty of the two windows, and Banedon struggled with its rusted iron catch; after a couple of seconds Thog reached impatiently past him and simply wrenched the metal out of the soft clammy wood of the windowframe. Nodding to acknowledge Banedon's hiss that he should be as quiet as possible, he jerked several pieces of the outer frame away from the wall, and soon the two of them were able to slip both sections of the window out and lay them down in one of the gaps between the floorboards. The flood of sunlight made them both blink for a few seconds until their eyes had become used to it. Banedon beckoned urgently to Thog to keep back for the moment and then, very cautiously, peeked out through the hole. The scene on the dock was very much as it had been a few minutes

The Birthplace // 84 earlier, when the two of them had first stumbled into it. The gloomily clad Sharnazim still stood in their gatherings of five and six, seemingly almost frozen in place, most of them looking out to sea. Banedon followed their gaze with his own and saw, far off in the distance, a single vessel, its sails proud and a pennant dancing proudly at his masthead, sailing towards port. He guessed that this must be Allani's ship – or at least that the watching Sharnazim believed it to be so. "It looks as if we won't have very long to wait after all, my friend," he whispered to Thog. "Akra's information was pretty vague, and I wasn't looking forward much to the prospect of having to spend a couple of days cooped up in this dump." There was a sudden loud noise directly beneath them, and Thog scurried to peer down the stairwell. He moves with astonishing grace at times like this, mused Banedon. It's hard to equate him now with the lumbering giant he normally is. I may change my mind about parting company with you again so soon, my friend . . . "It was only the mule," rumbled Thog softly. "A rat was after the food in the panniers." He grinned. "Dead rat, now." He rejoined Banedon. Little had changed, except that now further detachments of Sharnazim were moving into place, hiding in twos and threes in doorways; some were forming thin black lines along the shaded walls of the alleys and narrow streets leading into the open space of the wharf. Banedon and Thog, from their vantage point, could see the glitter of sunlight and steel as the men moved with preternatural quiet into their allotted positions. Banedon instinctively stilled his breath, as if somehow it might otherwise be heard by the Sharnazim over this distance; Thog, by contrast, began to hum tunelessly, his broken teeth bared as he stared eagerly out over what he clearly assumed would soon become a battlefield. "Thog, remember that we've only got to interfere if there's no other option," Banedon reminded him quietly, shaking his arm to make sure the big man registered the words. "I'll remember," said Thog grudgingly. "But I wish I didn't have to." Time passed. Even the gulls seemed to be shunning the dock. Nothing moved except the rolling, oily surface of the water and the vessel, which came steadily closer to them. Now Banedon could make out its bank of oars on either side, and a cluster of men, most dressed in gaudily bright robes, gathered at its prow.

The Birthplace // 85 Soon he saw that two of the travellers were standing a little apart from each other – a tall man in a turquoise jellabah and, beside him, a stocky blond figure in a green cape whom Banedon was virtually certain was Lone Wolf. His belief was confirmed soon after as the vessel hove round preparatory to coming into to dock. Two of the watchers went to help the ship tie up, and the gangplank was lowered. Now Banedon was able to pick out the ship's name: Divine Dawn. Led by the tall man and Lone Wolf, a dozen or so crewmen came down onto the dock, all with their weapons drawn and ready for action; even from here it was plain that the men were terrified. The groups of watching men hardly acknowledged the arrival of the newcomer, but the hidden Sharnazim were less circumspect, their bodies becoming tense as they prepared for the attack. And then there was only a pregnant hush. Even Thog stopped his tuneless humming. Banedon was just beginning to think that the silence was going to extend in perpetuity when his ears caught the sounds of approaching hooves. In the storey beneath, the mule made little whimpering noises, as if it, too, had become aware of the approach of others that were, if not precisely of its kind, near enough. Very cautiously Banedon leaned forwards through the hole where the window had been and turned his head so that he could look in the direction from which the sharp ratatapping of the horses came. For a while he couldn't see anything, but then around a curve in the street down which he was watching their came a brace of cavalrymen with, close behind them, a splendidly decorated carriage; more cavalrymen followed it. There was a metallic slithering noise close beside him. "What the . . .?" he began, recoiling back in through the window-space. "Soon we shall be in battle," said Thog sombrely, holding up the sword he had just drawn. "Perhaps you and I shall die the deaths of heroes, my new friend, and stories of our valour even as the limbs were hacked from our bodies will be told in taverns all over Magnamund as long as the Sun has light to shine and men tongues with which to talk. We should become blood-brothers – it's expected of people in situations like this. We don't want to let those tearful bards of the future down. Here, let me nick your flesh at the wrist, the way it ought to be done. I'll try not to cut too deep, the way I did the last time I . . ."

The Birthplace // 86 "Not right now!" said Banedon vexedly. "If we're unlucky, there's going to be enough blood around here pretty soon without your adding any more to it. But let's pray it doesn't come to that. Now shut up and let me carrying on seeing whatever I can see." Thog left and clumped morosely off down the stairs to have a few solemn words with the mule, but it proved to be no more tractable than Banedon had been. After staring ruminatively at a rat for a few moments he gave up and returned to the window. The magician hissed at him: "If you make a single sound now, you clog-brain, I'll freeze you into a statue and leave you where you are for the rest of your miserable life. Friend." A little while later Thog remembered how to take a hint and, after some internal debate, took it. Words were floating up from the quay below. "Maouk! Maouk, by all that's dear to the Majhan!" "Allani," said the man who had just descended from the carriage. "I had thought to meet hostile faces, but instead I find you," Banedon heard Allani say. "Then all must be well in Barrakeesh, despite the fact that our beloved Zakhan is dead. I bring you the Sommlending, Lone Wolf, as Moudalla commanded me to. Tell me, who has become Zakhan in Moudalla's stead?" "Let us escort our distinguished visitor to the palace," said Maouk, clearly avoiding the question until some more convenient time. Thank Ishir neither Lone Wolf nor the Vassagonian noble seem to have been fooled by this fellow's crude tactics, thought Banedon. But some of the crewmen look less certain. If they could see the reception committee lying in wait for them . . . "Our Zakhan," Maouk was continuing, still addressing Allani although his gaze had shifted to Lone Wolf, "will be pleased to greet him." Banedon tried to send a mental warning to Lone Wolf, but even as he did so, eyes straining with the effort, he knew that it was hopeless. Lone Wolf was deaf to the thoughts of other mortals. He and Allani were walking forwards uncertainly towards the Vassagonian who had greeted them. A cavalryman urged his horse clear of the others and herded the sailors back towards the Divine Dawn, leaving Allani and Lone Wolf undefended except for their own swords. Banedon was for some reason cheered to notice that several of the watching Sharnazim were unable to look away from the glowing Sommerswerd in Lone Wolf's hand, as if they saw in the weapon's shine their approaching nemesis.

The Birthplace // 87 "So you are Lone Wolf. May I welcome you to our glorious city of Barrakeesh on behalf of my master, his most sublime magnificence, the Zakhan." "I am at your service. But in our country it is customary for lieges to name their masters in full." Good, thought Banedon. Lone Wolf hasn't been deceived for a moment by all this artificial pomp. He knows that this Maouk is an impostor of some kind, but he's trying to get some clue as to exactly what's going on before he makes his first move. "My master's name is Kimah," Maouk was admitting reluctantly. On hearing this Allani spun away, lifting his scimitar . . . "Flee, Lone Wolf! Flee!" Lone Wolf, caught off-guard by the suddenness of it all, was too late to move the Sommerswerd into attacking position. Banedon saw Maouk's arm jab at Allani's stomach, and then the tall man was collapsing to the flags, clutching at his belly. Blood gouted between his fingers to splash across the stone. "Run!" he shouted, his voice almost strangled by the pain of his wound. "For the sake of the Majhan save yourself, my friend!" Now he was almost screaming. "Leave me! I'm dead already! For the love of our friendship, flee!" Stooping, Maouk snatched away the dagger from Allani's hands and cut with it at Lone Wolf, who dodged clumsily and then began to bolt towards the galley, whose gangplank was just being hauled aboard. Maouk took a few paces in pursuit, but then stopped, signalling to his cavalrymen and the waiting Sharnazim to move in. "Take him! But take him alive!" The leading cavalryman had easily overtaken Lone Wolf and was dragging on the reins, hauling the horse around to confront Lone Wolf face-on. The Kai Lord threw himself sideways, but as he landed his feet crumpled away beneath him and he fell sprawling beneath the rearing animal's hooves, the Sommerswerd being shocked free of his grip and grating away across the stone in a shower of sparks, its glow rapidly fading. Banedon, despite himself, let out a small, futile scream of warning, but in the loud commotion nobody heard him except Thog, who looked at him with a forehead wrinkled in bewilderment. "Can't we attack them yet?" urged the big man incredulously. He couldn't understand why Banedon was still delaying. So many of their hopes had already been lost in this fiasco: a moment more and all would be lost.

The Birthplace // 88 "You're right!" said Banedon, almost fiercely. "But hold back your steel for a while longer, Thog." He stretched forwards so that his body seemed to extend impossibly far from the window; Thog immediately clamped his weight down over Banedon's legs. Screwing his face up into a mask of concentration, Banedon summoned into his mind a filigreed pattern of thought energy, and watched it spin until he was satisfied that its configuration was exactly as he wanted it. He ignored Thog's shouts to get a move on as he waited. A miscast spell could cause hideous damage; he'd no wish to kill Lone Wolf in his attempt to save him. There! It was ready. As Banedon screamed with the agony of the spell, a second Sun seemed to explode into existence in the sky over the dock. The Sharnazim gave out a deafening collective scream of terror and threw their arms up to protect their eyes – Banedon himself was almost blinded. The horse that had been towering over Lone Wolf shrieked and tumbled over sideways, its hindlegs fracturing as it fell. Its great form thudded to the ground inches away from where Lone Wolf lay; its rider was dashed away, his skull shattering on the stones. Some of the Sharnazim, blinded as much by their dread as by the flare of light, were confusedly beginning to attack each other; others were crawling away, blood leaking from their eyes. Only a few, Maouk included, were still in control of themselves as the magnesium-bright radiance in the sky waned. Lone Wolf was dazedly dragging himself to his knees, shaking his head groggily to clear it. He turned and looked back over his shoulder and saw that Maouk had gathered his senses and was grabbing a sabre from one of the unconscious men near to him. The sight gave Lone Wolf new energy, and somehow he got to his feet, still swaying a little from the aftereffects of the shock. As if they belonged to someone else, his feet, as he watched them, stepped gingerly over the horse's still-kicking forelegs. By the time Lone Wolf had the Sommerswerd firmly in his grasp again Maouk had halved the distance between them, and had gathered several of the less affected Sharnazim to his side. Banedon, still whimpering from remembered pain, hauled his magical energies back up from the depths of his mind in which they sought to hide themselves. Even though Maouk had shouted to his followers that they must merely capture, not slay, the Kai

The Birthplace // 89 Lord, Banedon knew only too well how easily terrified soldiers could exceed the commands of their officers. He must be prepared to intervene magically yet again should Lone Wolf require it in order to make good his escape. Perhaps something of Banedon's resuscitated energies reached Lone Wolf, for he seemed to be revitalized. Ignoring the dead horse, he sprinted the last ten yards or so to the quayside. The Divine Dawn had moved a dozen or more feet away from the dock, revealing a shinily black strip of water between its hull and the wharf. Without allowing himself time to think, Lone Wolf hurled himself out over the empty space, his cape crackling around him as he flew with the clumsiness of an injured bird to land with a crash on the platform formed by the vessel's raised oars. He hardly heard the yells of pain of the slaves within as he scrabbled on the wet surfaces of the oars, clutching at the sleek wood as best he could with his left hand and the leather soles of his boots, his right hand still gripping the Sommerswerd's hilt as if he were trying to crush it to a powder. Some of the oars collapsed beneath him, and he felt himself slithering uncontrollably towards the water. Giving vent to a yell of frustration he cut with the Sommerswerd at the slippery wood and felt its blade lodge itself firmly. For a moment he allowed himself to relax, recouping his strength. As Banedon watched, willing him to succeed, he hauled himself back across the length of one of the oars towards the ship's rail, where eager hands were stretching down towards him. Thog had disappeared. Banedon had no memory of the big man's going. He shrugged uselessly, knowing that it was his duty to stay here where he was, at the high window, ready to provide Lone Wolf with further assistance, should he need it. Besides, Thog was capable of looking after himself. And, if he wasn't, Lone Wolf's life was the more important of the two, right now. He just hoped that Thog wouldn't do something so stupid that endangered everybody's life, not just his own. All of the Sharnazim who still retained their senses were now gathered by the quayside around Maouk, who was watching as the Divine Dawn's crewmen dragged Lone Wolf up onto the deck, where he stood half-bent over, his hands on his thighs, breathing so heavily that he seemed to be trying to throw a vast weight off his shoulders.

The Birthplace // 90 "Surrender the Kai Lord to me!" Maouk was bellowing at the crewmen. "The Zakhan commands it! Your lives and the lives of all your kin will be forfeit if you disobey this order!" Naar curse the man! thought Banedon furiously. He's giving Lone Wolf no choice. Those are only humble seafarers – even if they were prepared to live the rest of their lives in exile, they can't be expected to leave their families behind to be slaughtered, just for Lone Wolf's sake. If they knew what else was at stake . . . No, not even then. Something of the same had obviously gone through Lone Wolf's head, for now he was running around the front of the Divine Dawn's prow, gesturing to the crewmen to leave him be. Banedon could just make him out as he threw himself into the water from the far side of the ship, but then he was lost to view. The mule gave a hoarse call of alarm and Banedon froze. There was somebody moving around heavily on the storey beneath him. He heard the main door creak shut. Dragging his eyes away from the scene outside he crept to the head of the stairwell and looked nervously downwards. Thog was standing there, soothing the frightened animal. There was an amorphous shape spreadeagled on the straw beyond him. Hearing the top stair creak, Thog turned and grinned up at Banedon. "You've saved the Sommlending whippet . . . at least for the moment," the big man said gruffly. "Well" – he gestured behind him – "while you've been busy, I think I've managed to save the Vassagonian, too."

The Birthplace // 91

Chapter Four LONE WOLF

He broke up through the surface of the water and took in a great hoarse breath of air. Droplets of fine spray were sucked into his nostrils, so that he sneezed convulsively a couple of times as he pedalled his feet in the water, trying to get his bearings. His lungs felt as if someone had pumped them full of molten lead. It was only now that his head and shoulders were above the waterline that he realized quite how cold his entire body had become during the minute or so he'd spent below since diving from the deck of the Divine Dawn. The sneezing and the chill were making his eyes stream, and his wet hair was trying to form an opaque matted curtain in front of his face, so it was only with some difficulty that he established where his dive had taken him. The galley was about fifty yards away, and he'd drifted off to one side so that he could see much of what was happening on the quay. The grim figure of Maouk was in such a frenzy of motion that the man looked like some complicated clockwork device, his limbs jerking this way and that as he barked instructions to those of the Sharnazim who still had sufficient grasp of their wits to comprehend him. Most of the horses were down, their legs sharply bent in all the wrong places; blood was flowing from the ears, eyes or mouths of some of them. From Lone Wolf's low vantage-point it seemed as if there were many hundreds of the sinister cloaked figures, although he knew that in reality, in the aftermath of that mysterious eruption of light, there could be no more than a couple of score. They were scattering along the dockside in both directions, taking up positions such that he would have no hope of slipping back onto dry land unobserved. He was half-turned around in the water, preparing to make for the open sea so that he could come to shore further along the coast, when he saw something that sickened him. The crew of the Divine Dawn had come ashore and surrendered themselves, but Maouk had refused to accept their surrender. Under his direct orders a band of the Sharnazim were

The Birthplace // 92 brutally cutting the men down where they stood; "The Stink" was the only one able to put up much of a show of resistance, but even he was soon hacked to the ground. Other Sharnazim were going aboard, scimitars raised, to slaughter even the hapless slaves, who had remained shackled to their oars. Nausea was replaced by fury as Lone Wolf watched the massacre. He sent a Kai message along his nervous system to calm the pain in his lungs, reared half-up in the water, and plunged below the surface yet again, this time swimming powerfully underwater towards a cluster of small boats he had spotted moored further along the dock. As his arms pulled him rapidly along he could see that, beneath the scum of garbage that coated the surface, the harbour's waters were surprisingly clear, so that he was able to pick out much of the detail of the shallow bottom. It was rather like being granted a window back into time. The uppermost layer of debris was comparatively recent: polished metal still gleamed in the sunlight that percolated down through the water, and he could see the bright colours of printed card and discarded fragments of cloth, as well as – his lips wrinkled with distaste under the water – a couple of recent corpses, one mutilated hideously and the other tethered to the sea bottom by a ball and chain around its neck. Small fishes darted hither and thither, in little clusters whose sporadic motion was so well synchronized that they seemed to be in some form of telepathic communion with each other. Through the more recent litter protruded, occasionally, larger artefacts from earlier eras – here a great oaken drum, its girdling bands split apart like skeletal talons; there a vast iron anchor, its rusted and pockmarked surface almost hidden by growths of seaweed, a small colony of green-black molluscs and even a few hardy corals. Among the molluscs on the anchor was a jelly-like blob of opalescent protoplasm; this creature, whatever it was, suddenly became aware of his presence and, in a flurry of boneless appendages, unfixed itself from its roost and jetted towards him. His arms almost broke their rhythm as he watched the creature fascinatedly. It gained its propulsion by squirting water or air – it was hard to tell which – through myriad venturi that surrounded its body: through the semi-transparent flesh Lone Wolf could see the peristaltic waves passing along these tubes. Then the creature came rushing a little too close to him and he began to regard the long, cheliform scoop that dangled beneath its rubbery body with growing distrust – the creature was clearly a predator and, even though it wasn't large

The Birthplace // 93 enough to do him serious damage if it attacked him, there was always a chance that that pincer might carry a charge of venom. He willed the creature away from him and, dubiously, it changed its direction and moved off in its odd, rapid, squirting way towards a corroded copper urn that lay askew on the seabed. Seconds later the beast had attacked a medium-sized squid that had been lurked there; as he watched the furiously silent fray Lone Wolf wondered sickly if he'd been right in thinking that the creature couldn't have done him too much harm. Putting extra effort into his shoulders, he soon left this mundane scene of marine carnage far behind him. He came up for air again in the shadow of a covered skiff. He clung against its side, hearing the wavelets plash against the gently rocking wood, listening carefully for any sound that the Sharnazim might have seen his reemergence. However, although Maouk was still shouting shrilly, there was no sudden commotion, as there almost certainly would have been had Lone Wolf been spotted. Cautiously he reached up his arm and found the lip of the little craft. He had the sudden horrible apprehension that some sharp-toothed creature inside might see his wiggling fingers over the edge and . . . Clearly the sight of the jelly-like predator making its kill had affected him more than he'd thought. Still, there was always the possibility that there might be human beings aboard the craft – whether they were foes or not would make no difference if they raised the alarm on finding someone trying clandestinely to climb aboard. Poised there motionlessly , half-way out of the water, he pressed his ear against the wood and listened for any tell-tale sounds. Reassured, he flung up his other hand and then, as smoothly and as quietly as he could, hauled himself up and over into the skiff, flopping slitherily down onto its flat bottom like a fish being landed. Despite all of his efforts, he knew that he must have made a deal of noise; he lay absolutely still for several minutes, breathing as shallowly as he could and using his Kai powers to control the shivering of his limbs. At last he mustered enough confidence to sit up, so that he was squatting on his ankles. The covering of the boat was a tent of coarsely interwoven dried reeds, and through the interstices he could make out the activity that was still continuing on the dock. He tried not to look at the heap of ripped bodies lying beside the Divine Dawn's gangplank, but his gaze kept being drawn back towards it. The emotions the sight inspired in him – a mixture of

The Birthplace // 94 revolted fascination and hot wrath – drove the last vestiges of coldness from his body, so that despite the dripping of his hair and clothes he felt as if he had been towelled dry. Some of the men had run out along the harbour walls that cradled the dock and were looking down into the water, their eyes combing the surface for any sign of him. Lone Wolf realized with a sudden prick of fear that he'd been none too soon in dragging himself aboard this boat: a minute or two more in the water, fighting his trepidations, and he must almost certainly have been sighted. For exactly the same reason, getting away from his hiding-place was going to be difficult – and it could be only a matter of time before Maouk turned his attentions to the other craft, including this one, tethered in the dock. As it was, Lone Wolf was in a trap of his own making; even if he succeeded in slipping over to one of the other boats in the cluster, that wouldn't help him much – he almost smiled as he had an image of himself playing some kind of grotesque aquatic game of hide-and-seek with the Sharnazim. He wished that whatever accident of nature it was that had caused that bizarre explosion earlier, and possibly saved his life, would produce a repeat performance. Chewing his lower lip, he began for the first time to wonder about the origin of that blast of light. Now that he reflected on it, its timing seemed somehow too glib, too pat. Of course, you could say that about the timing of anything, but still it seems strange that some freak event of nature should choose to occur at exactly the moment I'm about to be trampled to death . . . He shook his head annoyedly, then froze, as if Maouk might somehow have heard the movement. Puzzles could wait until later, once he'd found safety. There's no chance of my getting out of here the way things are at the moment, he thought firmly. I need something that'll distract the attention of those swine. The question is: what? A big question! If I hang around here indefinitely, just hoping that something'll happen, the Sharnazim are going to catch me and probably hang me around somewhere else. It's do-it-yourself time. He looked around the interior of the skiff for the first time. Shallow shelves under the boat's gunwale contained a scattering of small items – hooks, apple-cores, a half-eaten meal of mashed root vegetables in a metal dish – but nothing that looked as if it might help him, except for the food, which he ate greedily with his fingers, forcing himself to disregard the possibility that he was dining on fishbait. There were also a few small wicker creels, most of them damaged in some way or another: clearly this craft didn't belong to a prosperous fisherman but to someone who scraped a

The Birthplace // 95 meagre living from the beneficent sea, because there was a certain dilapidation about everything, repairs made on top of repairs until or even beyond the point where further repair became impossible. Out of the corner of his eye, though, he noticed an exception to this general condition. At first he wasn't certain what it was: his mind just had a vague feeling that it had spotted something incongruous among the litter. After a quick peek through the woven covering to make sure that none of the Sharnazim were as yet heading in his direction, he let his eyes roam once again around the insides of his temporary home. There was something there . . . something . . . And then he had it. Almost entirely hidden by the bases of the baskets there was a sharp corner of richly polished leather. Whatever it was, there was something among this squalor which the owner believed to be of sufficient importance that it be kept in the peak of condition. As cautiously but as swiftly as he could, he tugged aside a couple of the creels. A third one, balanced on top of the other two, toppled to the floor of the boat and rolled so that it jarred a metal spoon down from its shelf. In the confined space the clatter seemed like the thunder of a full-scale battle – surely the Sharnazim must have heard it. Lone Wolf became a statue, utterly still except for his head, which he swivelled with exaggerated slowness to one side to peer out at the harbour. One of the black-cloaked hunters looked up briefly, but then turned away again with a slight shrug, obviously dismissing any noise that he'd heard as just some sound of the sea – a small piece of floating garbage being tossed by the wavelets against the side of the dock, or something like that. Lone Wolf began to breathe again. A few moments later he was sitting with his legs out in front of him, ignoring the seeping cold of salt water as it soaked into the seat of his breeches. Across his knees he balanced a long, narrow wooden box covered in buff leather which had been polished to a soft warm sheen. Along the length of its top had been carefully hand-tooled the image of a fish with a sinuous eel coiled in a regular spiral around it from nose to tail. Lone Wolf, despite the urgent sense in his mind that he didn't have any time to waste, couldn't resist running his fingers just once along the fish's flank, feeling the ridges of the painstakingly detailed scales. Someone had expended a lot of patient love in creating this decoration; the box smelt just a little of woodsmoke, and he could imagine someone,

The Birthplace // 96 with tired eyes and calloused hands, spending the long night hours wielding needle and knife in the light of the flickering fire . . . It seemed a shame to smash the flimsy brass lock of the case, but there didn't seem to be a key and he couldn't think of anything else to do. As the metal gave in his hands he hoped that this act of vandalism would gain him something of value. Inside the box, couched in moulded purple felt, he discovered a short bow, a clump of spare strings and, although the felt had been shaped to accommodate more, only a single arrow, to whose flight was tied a length of thin plaited-leather cord. He looked at his finds in some dismay. The bow was only about two feet long, and clearly wasn't designed for warfare – he guessed that its purpose was to impale larger fish that swam too close to the surface and to the boat for their own good; the cord attached to the arrow would seem to confirm his guess that this was indeed a sort of primitive small-scale harpoon. For his purposes the equipment was useless: the bow wasn't designed for accurate long-range shooting and, even if it had been, a single lucky arrow was hardly going to defeat a detachment of alert, armed Sharnazim. Lone Wolf might derive some personal satisfaction from avenging the murder of the Divine Dawn's crew by killing Maouk with it, but in doing so he'd almost certainly be sealing his own doom. The Sharnazim might want to take him alive, as Maouk had ordered them, but Lone Wolf was certain that his capture would be only the overture to a long period of torture to extract from him all the information he might have as well as, for propagandist purposes, a false confession that he was here to subvert the weal of the Vassagonian people, or some such claptrap; once his battered body had ceased to be of any further use, his grisly end would be assured. He shuddered, not liking the direction his thoughts were taking. Come to think of it, though, were the fisherman's treasures quite as useless to him as he'd at first thought? Even if he'd found a hoard of weaponry, he couldn't have hoped to take on forty or fifty elite Sharnazim – not to mention their deranged fellows, who were doubly dangerous because of their unpredictability. (He recalled the crazies of Ruanon, and the way they had caused such devastation among the troops of the invading Vassagonian warlord, Barraka.) But it might just be that Ishir had put into his hands tools that were just precisely sufficient for his needs – to

The Birthplace // 97 create enough of a diversion to allow him to slip away undetected in search of a more secure or at least more distant hiding-place. He sucked the hairs of his upper lip absentmindedly and looked around the wharf, hoping that an idea would come to him. Killing Maouk would create a distraction for the Sharnazim, of course, and for a second time he turned the idea over in his mind hungrily before commonsense rejected it. Putting an arrow through the tall man's throat – assuming that he could use the bow with that sort of accuracy, which was doubtful – might give Lone Wolf pleasure and be widely regarded by the Vassagonian populace as a valuable service, but it would be unmistakably a deliberated act. The Sharnazim would locate his position within seconds. No, what he wanted was something like the starburst – some startling event that was utterly inexplicable – and yet again he wished that Ishir in her providence could see fit to create such a phenomenon for him. His prayer went unanswered, as he'd feared it would. Among the warehouses and featureless chandleries surrounding the dock there were a number of small shops selling more general wares – food and drink mainly. Most of the shopkeepers had shuttered their windows, presumably having equated the arrival of the Sharnazim with a likely outburst of violence that would result in shattered windows. One or two of the stores, however, were too poor and unprofitable to run to shutters, and now Lone Wolf looked speculatively from one to the next. A smile touched the corner of his mouth. He wished that his long-dead Kai tutor, Storm Hawk, were with him now, because for once he'd discovered a basic principle of warfare that he could have imparted to the older man, rather than the other way round: If in doubt, smash a window. No, that was too bald. Storm Hawk would have managed to dress it up in a parable, invoking a few pertinent analogies to the windows of men's souls, or some such. Still, it would have to suffice for the moment: later, in the event that there proved to be such a time, Lone Wolf could embellish it at his leisure and transmit it, couched in suitably florid imagery, to wherever it was that the old man's spirit might have found its rest. At last he picked on a shabby-looking apothecary shop that he could see just to one side of where Maouk's carriage had been parked; the bulk of the vehicle might, if all went well, provide him with a fraction of extra visual cover. In the shop's window there was a display of oversized glass phials and medicine bottles, which with luck would add to the general din. Apologizing mentally to the unknown apothecary for the damage he was hoping to cause,

The Birthplace // 98 Lone Wolf wedged one end of the short hunting bow against the instep of his boot and, wrist-muscles straining, bent the wood until he could slip the loop of the string over its other end. Once the string was in place, Lone Wolf thrummed it with his thumb, and listened satisfiedly to the soft, taut timbre of the note. He picked up the arrow and weighed it in his palm. Although it was, like the bow, shorter than he would have preferred, it seemed to be well balanced. Because the bolt was designed only for use at short range, its flight was rudimentary – just three small triangles of trimmed ducks'-feather – but if Ishir were smiling on him the arrow would be sufficiently airworthy for his purpose. And if Ishir's attention were elsewhere . . .? Once again he abandoned a pessimistic trail of thought. He used the hammered-metal tip of the arrow to enlarge one of the interstices in the skiff's woven covering until the hole was about three inches across; this gave him just enough unobstructed viewing space to aim. The knuckles of his left hand grazing against the coarse surface of the reeds, he slowly pulled the string back as far as it would go, kissing the rear end of the arrow with his lips as if to give it his blessing. A Sharnaz moved between him and the apothecary's window just as he was about to let fly. He relaxed his muscles a fraction and waited until the man was well clear before he tensed the string again. The arrow sung away from him into the invisibility of distance. An instant later there was a loud crash, and a gaping hole appeared in the top right-hand corner of the window. The remainder of the glass teetered in its frame for a moment and then collapsed back inwards on top of the display of bottles, throwing them off their shelves in all directions. Lone Wolf grimaced appreciatively; he felt almost embarrassed by the amount of clamour he'd created. Then he was on the move. The Sharnazim were converging like a black wave towards the apothecary shop, abandoning their positions around the harbour walls and the dock's edge. For a few seconds at least Lone Wolf could move from the skiff without too much fear of being observed. He threw aside the light covering and stood up, putting one foot on the little boat's gunwale in order to propel himself in a clumsy, flailing leap across the few feet of water that separated him from the next skiff in the cluster. He landed with a clatter, his feet

The Birthplace // 99 ripping through decaying matting and crushing some bone implements into smithereens, but in the general commotion of shouting none of the Sharnazim heard him. He struggled through the debris to the far side of the boat and once again leapt over water. Just as he did so a straying tendril of wickerwork caught him around the ankle. Even though the frail band snapped almost immediately it was enough to throw him partially off-balance so that he landed on his belly on the gunwale of the next boat with a thump! that drove all the air out of him. Eyes pouring with tears he scrabbled down into the semi-darkness of the boat's interior and found a couple of small boys staring at him in terror; he guessed that despite the imprecations of their elders they'd stayed behind by the docks to spy on the Sharnazim and watch to see if anything exciting happened. Well, it was happening all right. "If you make a sound I'll kill you!" he hissed at them and then, almost before they had completely registered his arrival, he was gone, floundering over the boat's side to heave himself on towards the next . . . At last he was facing the seaweed-streaked wall of the dock, which topped him where he stood by about four feet. In the distance he could still hear the shouts of the Sharnazim and the crashes and crumps of further destruction, as if they were on principle demolishing the apothecary shop down to its last stone. Once again Lone Wolf sent a fleeting, guilty message of apology in the direction of the shopowner. Screwed into the slimy wall in front of him were several metal rings, most of them corroded away into red flaky precariousness but some still relatively whole. To one of these the skiff he was standing on was moored, and he lugged on the hawser to bring the boat with exasperating slowness closer to the dock. He touched the sleek, gelid surface of the dock's wall and realized immediately that there was no chance of his ever being able to climb it; even the cracks between the stones were filled with the sludge of decades. He looked swiftly left and right, wondering if his best plan might be to work his way through the water in the lee of the wall, bobbing his head beneath the surface should anyone chance to look down on him; then he remembered how paradoxically clear the water had been further out in the harbour, and realized that he'd be just as exposed to view underwater as otherwise. No – he had somehow to clamber up this accursed wall and get himself onto solid, dry ground again; he preferred his chances moving swiftly on foot, even though his presence would be

The Birthplace // 100 that much more obvious, to those of creeping slowly away in the water. His only hope seemed to be the metal mooring-rings. These were placed uncomfortably far apart and the brackets and bolts holding them in place were in many cases rusted almost to the point of extinction, but he was going to have to trust to his luck. On the basis that the sheer scale of his bombardment of her might succeed in attracting Ishir's attention to his plight, he winged off another fervent prayer to the Goddess for her benign assistance, then reached out to clutch the two rings closest to him, pulling on them as hard as he could to test their strength. The one in his right hand creaked ominously but held; the one in his left seemed to have been recently replaced, because its metal was whole and its securement rock-steady. Balancing hazardously on the gunwale he put his left foot through this ring and allowed it to take his full weight. Reassured, he grabbed above him for a further ring and moved his right foot into position so that he was crimped against the wall like a somnolent insect. He held himself there for a second or two, his heart beating so hard that he was certain it'd bring the Sharnazim down on him, then pulled up his right leg until his knee was almost touching his chest, his body swinging sideways out from the wall. His foot found the stub of a metal spike that had once held a long-gone mooring ring in place; the spike protruded only an inch or two from the stone but it was the best footing he was likely to find and so he'd have to make the most of it. Now things were going to get really tricky, because he was going to have to rely on the secureness of the unseen ring in his hand above him and the short stub of metal on which his foot rested in order to launch himself upwards to grab with his hands and forearms at the rounded, slippery lip of the dock. Now his mind was in too much of a ferment for him even to be able to launch a prayer; he counted a perfunctory one, two, three and then his right leg was straightening like a piston exploding out of its cylinder and his nose was hammered painfully against the wet stone of the dock but somehow he'd managed to get his arms spread out flat in front of him and there was just enough friction between them and the flagstones to stop him from sliding back down the height of the wall to land in the water. He hung there for a moment as helpless as a dead crow on a farmer's fence, waiting for an arrow to pick him off or for some sadist of a Sharnazim pig to come along and stamp on his fingers, but nothing happened and glad realization began to dawn on him

The Birthplace // 101 that still, despite all the odds against him, he remained unobserved. Perhaps Ishir had been paying more heed to his predicament than he'd been giving her credit for. With a little difficulty he focused his vision on the greasy stone directly in front of his face and used the concentration as if it were a source of strength to enable his shoulders to haul him creakingly upwards until he could look over the edge of the dock. The men in black were still devoting all their attentions to the shops and warehouses in the vicinity of the apothecary, Maouk standing behind them and yelling exhortations at them not to be satisfied while there was still a stone left unturned. Lone Wolf's foot, skittering along the wall's vertical surface, found a mooring ring. He didn't dare look down to find out whether or not the support was secure; he would just have to hope for the best. Strainingly he pushed and pulled himself further up until the floor of the dock was level with his chest; now that his arms were bent they could take his weight – and only just in time, for he felt his foothold suddenly disintegrate beneath him and heard its soft fragments rain down into the water. He lugged himself gracelessly onto the wharf and, despite his exhaustion, immediately got to his hands and knees. Again he looked across at the gesticulating mob of Sharnazim, but astonishingly his luck was still holding. Disengaging his feet from the trailing scabbard of the Sommerswerd, he climbed fully to his feet and hastily looked around him for somewhere to hide. A capstan around which was wrapped a bulky bundle of chain seemed to be his only potential hiding place, and he raced to it, crouching down in its lee. If there were anyone sheltering in the buildings behind him, either they chanced not to be looking from the windows or, as he suspected from the reactions of the men aboard the Divine Dawn must be the case with most of the citizens of Barrakeesh, they had no love for the Sharnazim, and were happy to see a fugitive – any fugitive – escape from their vicious clutches. Lone Wolf nodded thoughtfully: he was building one speculation on top of another, but if there were Vassagonians watching but not betraying him, and if this represented a general antipathy towards the Sharnazim and even towards Kimah himself, it was possible that in future he might come across Vassagonians who were prepared to convert their dislike of the regime into something more than passive silence. He grimaced. A year ago, when he'd been fighting the loathsome savagery of Barraka's bandit hordes, the notion of taking a Vassagonian as an ally would have seemed

The Birthplace // 102 utterly unthinkable to him. Then there had come his friendship with Allani and his amicable relations with the captain and crew of the Divine Dawn, and now here he was complacently contemplating the prospect of putting his life in the hands of Vassagonians he hadn't yet even met! He reminded himself, as he had many times before, that, just because one was at odds with a nation or a government, it didn't necessarily imply that one should be at war with each of its individual members: Carag, the intelligent Giak who had countered his breeding several times in order to aid their cause, was surely the prime example. Later! he thought, irritable with himself for letting his mind wander. Later! It's all very well conjecturing whole hosts of friendly Vassagonians who'll help me, but all their good wishes won't be of much use to me if Maouk's men catch me still here on the dock. Squashed between two of the tall buildings to his left there was a dark flight of stone stairs that led up to a rectangle of bright daylight beyond. He wished he knew what was there, and for a moment he hesitated, debating within himself whether he'd be better off in the frying pan than the fire. Then there was a great shout of triumph from the Sharnazim. He glanced across in their direction and saw a dozen or so of them pouring in through the broad wooden door of a warehouse. Clearly they'd found something new to occupy their attention, leaving the coast clear for him to make his escape to the relative safety of the shadows on the stairway. It was enough to tip the balance of his decision, and with long strides he loped across open space to hurl himself into hiding, coming to rest with his knees on the third steep and his hands flat on the stone a few treads higher. Hoping for the best, he allowed himself a few delicious moments to regain his breath, and as he sucked in the blessed air he realized for the first time just quite how much his exertions of the past half hour or so had drained his resources of energy. He put one hand to the hilt of the Sommerswerd and begged its soul stuff to come into him and ease the leaden fatigue he felt in every part of his body. As he brought himself under control he turned around to sit on the steps, his shoulders still heaving, and looked out on the square from which he'd just fled. He thanked Ishir from the bottom of his heart that the Sharnazim hadn't seen him, because he doubted if even yet he'd have had the reserves of energy to continue his flight, let alone turn and give combat. His breathing

The Birthplace // 103 sounded incredibly loud as its sound echoed between the unbroken walls on either side, but he recognized that this must be an illusion. The Sharnazim were starting to emerge from the warehouse into which they'd barged in such numbers. Many of them still had their weapons raised, and Lone Wolf could make out that there were newcomers among them, dressed not in the dreary black uniform of the rest but in bright jellabahs; neither of them were hooded, but one was wearing a barbarian helmet of a style that Lone Wolf hadn't seen before. Over the shoulder of this great giant of a man was slung a motionless body dressed in turquoise, and for a moment Lone Wolf thought that Maouk had met his well justified end – but no: the leader of the Sharnazim guards was still walking among them, still gesturing wildly and snapping out commands. Lone Wolf's eyes narrowed: could it be that the still figure the barbarian was carrying was his friend Allani? But surely the envoy was dead, fatally stabbed by Maouk's treacherous thrust with his dagger? Lone Wolf left the conundrum alone: even if by some miracle Allani had survived the stab-wound, there was nothing that Lone Wolf could do to help him. He bit his lip; he felt as if he were betraying his friend's trust in him. Lone Wolf turned his attention to the barbarian's companion, a much smaller man, with thin, shoulder-length fair hair. For a moment he was reminded of Banedon, but then he thought: It can't be. Then he began to wonder – after all, Qinefer had told him that Banedon had been in Barrakeesh a couple of years ago, and it was possible that the magician might have stayed on in Vassagonia. Lone Wolf looked at the diminutive man more carefully, but from this distance it was impossible to tell whether or not his suspicions were justified. And, even if they were, as with Allani there was nothing he could do, right now, to help. Banedon would just have to take his own chance. The two men were being led towards Maouk's coach, jabbed with eager sabre-tips whenever they showed any signs of flagging. As Lone Wolf get to his feet he saw that they were being forced to climb the two wooden steps into the vehicle; they were followed by a pair of guards and finally by Maouk himself, who stopped just as he was at the door and turned to shout one last time at his men. "You have done well to root out these treasonous Sommlending spies! They would have sown death throughout Barrakeesh, and perhaps even threatened the saintly life of our exalted Zakhan himself!" he shouted, the flatness of his tone

The Birthplace // 104 betraying that he was merely reeling off the congratulation as a matter of rote, following the rule-book's prescription for keeping the men's morale high. Then his voice changed. "But the other Sommlending – that Kai foulness they call Lone Wolf – is still at large! He can't have gone far, so carry on searching for him. Should you return to barracks without him, things will go ill for you." So much for Maouk's studies of the rule-book, thought Lone Wolf glumly as he turned away and began to ascend the steps two by two. There's not one man-jack of them now who wouldn't like to see him with a dagger between his shoulderblades. They'd search for me twice as effectively if he commanded their loyalty rather than just their fear. Still, who am I to complain about his stupidity? Hmmm: all makes my prospects a bit brighter than they were a moment ago . . . If it hadn't been for the fact that the whole mission seemed to have degenerated into a complete shambles all around him, even before he'd got it properly started, he might have found the thought almost cheering. # He slowed his stride as he reached the top of the flight of stone steps and peered warily out into a little square. There was a fountain at its centre shaped like a huge upright human hand, the water jetting from each of the fingertips. The ground was covered in varicoloured cobblestones, and Lone Wolf could see by the houses directly opposite him that in Barrakeesh the residential area must butt right up against the back of the dock region. Aside from an insalubrious little tavern and what would seem from the insinuating posters in its windows to be a house of ill repute, the rest were obviously dwelling-places. Clothing hung limply on lines draped across the cramped front yards, moving only a trifle in an almost nonexistent breeze, and children's toys lay scattered in disarray. Apart from a raggedly dressed mother who was sitting prattling to her baby on a wooden bench in the furthest corner from him, the square seemed to be deserted. A shiver ran up his spine as he contemplated this hushed eeriness. The Sharnazim must have cleared out the whole harbour area in preparation for his arrival, the only human beings remaining being themselves and a few who, like the two boys in the boat and the woman on the bench, had somehow been overlooked. They were clearly taking his presence very seriously indeed: this

The Birthplace // 105 was no normal manhunt for one of your common-or-garden criminals, however heinous the crime that might have been committed, but a major operation. Someone – Kimah himself, or maybe only Maouk – wanted Lone Wolf very badly indeed. And they wanted, too, to keep it all a secret: there could be no other explanation for the seemingly pointless slaughter of the seafarers and the slaves except that they had tongues that might one day babble and therefore must needs be silenced with utter, ruthless finality. Lone Wolf prayed that the two small boys would escape undetected. As for the woman . . . She looked up in fright as he ran heavily over the cobbles towards her. Who was this wild man who'd appeared as if from nowhere and seemed about to attack her? She shrank away, turning her shoulders to shield her baby from him. "I'm a friend!" he gasped, hoping beyond hope that she'd believe him immediately: neither of them had the time to debate the subject. "Quick! You must hide yourself – for the sake of your life! Sharnazim! No! Better still – come with me!" He grabbed her arm and, after resisting him for a moment, she allowed herself to be dragged to her feet. He guessed it was his mention of the Sharnazim that had galvanized her into accepting that he meant her no harm. "Unhand me!" she snapped, clutching the baby even more tightly to her breast. He let go of her. "The Sharnazim," he said rapidly. "They're after me – I think they plan to kill me." There wasn't time to elaborate. "If they find you here they'll kill you as well. They'll comb the houses, so you can't just run inside your home. If you value your life, then for the love of Ishir or . . . or for the love of the Majhan" – he found his mouth reluctant to invoke a foreign deity – "come with me, now!" "Where?" He stopped. It was a good question. In the distance, from the bottom of the steps he'd scrambled up to reach this place, he heard the shouts of the Sharnazim. "You three!" a thickly accented voice bellowed. "Check up there to see if he's gone that way!" There was a clattering of heavy footsteps. The woman decided for him. "Follow me," she said tersely.

The Birthplace // 106 She moved with astonishing speed and an almost birdlike grace across the cobblestones, her feet a blur under her fluttering skirts. Lone Wolf scuttled after her, keeping a weather eye on the top of the stairway. The woman bolted into the shadows of an alley and he followed her as rapidly as he could. He chanced a look backwards and saw two of the black-garbed Sharnazim appear in the square, to be joined almost immediately by a third. Their scimitars in their hands ready either to attack or to defend, they were casting their eyes hither and thither, seeking out any hiding-places that Lone Wolf might have discovered. He realized that it could be only a matter of moments before they thought to check out the alley into which he and the woman had fled; the last thing he saw before he turned to pursue her echoing footsteps was the three men creeping suspiciously up towards the great stone hand. "There he is! After him!" shouted one of the Sharnazim, and Lone Wolf cursed the caprice that had made him dally a second longer than he'd needed to. The woman, too, had heard the shout. She paused and shot a terrified glance at Lone Wolf, then redoubled her speed. On either side of them other narrow footways led off, until Lone Wolf realized that they were venturing into a veritable maze of alleys, the pattern of which would have been invisible except from overhead. Despite the fact that he had a very acute instinctive sense of direction, he knew that he was already getting lost – should his guide for any reason desert him now he might roam aimlessly for days before finding his way out of this maze. Feeling rather sneaky, he increased his pace until he was only just behind the woman, near enough to grab at her clothing should she decide suddenly to dodge out of his sight. Then it was as if they crossed some political borderline, marked on maps but uninferable from the terrain, because abruptly, as they rounded a sharp corner, they were mixing among other people. Lone Wolf groaned inwardly. It was impossible, now that they had to dodge and weave around old men and children and proudly strutting matrons, for the woman and himself to move as swiftly as they had been doing, even though the route they were following had led them into slightly wider roadways than before. Moreover, although they had become in a sense less obtrusive because the Sharnazim would have all the difficulty of picking them out among a hundred other pedestrians, their passage was

The Birthplace // 107 already creating a deal of commotion, with people shouting in anger over near-collisions or simply staring at this strange running couple who had without warning appeared among them. One of the Vassagonians – a youth of no more than sixteen or seventeen summers – obviously thought that Lone Wolf was chasing the woman with felonious intent, because he stepped between the two of them and flexed his shoulders, clearly ready for a fight; Lone Wolf backhanded him across the mouth so that he went flying backwards into a shop doorway to land in a tumult of oranges. A poor reward for his gallantry, thought Lone Wolf ruefully, sucking his skinned knuckles as he sped onwards. A woman screamed as he crashed into her, the tame rat that she'd been carrying on her shoulder tumbling away down to the street where, after a short terrified nose-twitching glimpse of the huge elephantine feet thundering down close by it on every side, it disappeared down a metal grating. The Sharnazim were shouting, too; Lone Wolf paused momentarily to see them trying to fight their way through the crowd, which had grown much thicker around them. The press of responsible citizens, each jabbering about his or her willingness to assist the officers in the apprehension of the miscreants, was severely hampering their progress – a fact which Lone Wolf appreciated with a wry smile: clearly, if he couldn't by any stretch of the imagination claim to know that he'd fallen among friends here, he certainly hadn't fallen among enemies . . . despite the fact that his clothing and hair marked him out as a Sommlending. If it were the other way around – if a Vassagonian fleeing from a trio of Sommlending through the backstreets of Holmgard – would my own countrymen make a similar decision? he thought, and rather sadly concluded that they wouldn't. They shot in through the door of what seemed to be a tailor's shop and the woman signalled to the startled seamsters, without breaking her stride, that Lone Wolf was a friend and that they were to carry on their stitching as if nothing had happened. They slammed through a door at the rear of the shop and found themselves in an ill lit, claustrophically constricted corridor; bales of fibres and fabrics stacked along both walls added to the crampedness, so that they had to turn sideways, scrabbling along crabwise as best they could. At the end of the corridor a flight of stairs led up to a latched wooden door, which the woman efficiently bolted behind them. "I don't think they saw us go into the shop," she said calmly; Lone Wolf was amazed that she showed no signs of being

The Birthplace // 108 in the slightest out of breath. "Even if they did, Kerhan and his family will protest that they must have been mistaken, surely it was another shop – the usual rigmarole. Everyone around here lies to the Sharnazim if they think they can get away with it, so the swine won't know whether or not Keran's trying to throw them off the track by telling them the truth for once." "Where are we?" said Lone Wolf. Looking around him he saw a small walled courtyard that was obviously used by the tailor and his family as a dumping ground for both professional and domestic garbage. At some unnoticed time during their flight afternoon had eased into dusk; in this part of the world, he knew, twilight never lasted long – soon it would be night. A painfully thin dog looked up at him for a couple of calculating seconds and then, deciding that he presented no danger, returned its attentions to an already well gnawed bone. "We must split up now," said the woman, ignoring his question. "Lock the gate behind me after I've gone and then go through that archway" – she pointed – "and lose yourself in the marketplace. One of our people will be there somewhere and will pick you out; as soon as it's possible you'll be given some fresh clothing so that you won't stick out like a sore thumb so much." "Who are you?" he said, grabbing her by the shoulder and forcing her to look at him. For the first time he noticed that her left hand had been amputated some while ago; she saw the direction of his sudden glance and tersely nodded confirmation that she had indeed once been convicted of theft. She opened her mouth to speak. Her baby chose that moment to begin to cry and she shook herself away, undoing a few of the buttons on the front of her dress so that she could put the infant to her breast; there were a few small contented gurgling noises and then peace. "My name doesn't matter. We knew that you'd be coming to our country and expected the Sharnazim to try to capture or kill you as soon as you set foot on shore. One of us spoke with a countryman of yours, a magician who resides near Barrakeesh, and asked him to shield you using his spells and incantations, but obviously that plan failed. Many of us were in position in the streets around dockland, ready to help you should you need us. We've been observed since before you first saw me." "But . . ." "Yes, of course I pretended to be just an ignorant citizen startled by your sudden appearance. If I'd acted any other way

The Birthplace // 109 you'd have wanted an explanation of who I was, and we didn't have time for that. Come to think of it, we don't really have time now – I'll hope to see you again, if we both survive this." "That wasn't what I was going to ask you," said Lone Wolf wearily. He nodded towards the barely moving bulge under the fabric of her dress. "I was wondering what possessed you to risk the life of your baby in order to help me." She smiled at him sadly. "I'd have been risking his life if I hadn't," she said. "I'd rather he died now than spend the rest of his life being ruled by Kimah. You'll find a lot of us feel the same way about things. Now – go!" She vanished through the gate. Feeling slightly numbed by the abruptness of her departure, he obediently drew the bolt across, tested that it was secure, peed furtively in a corner of the yard (an act in which the scavenging mongrel showed a sudden but short-lived interest) and then scampered away in the direction of the arch she'd indicated. As he passed beneath it he had, once again, the sensation of making a disjointed transition from one world into a quite different one. There didn't seem to be any half-way stage between the tranquility of the courtyard he'd just left behind him and the bustle and turmoil of the marketplace in which he found himself. He'd come out behind a row of stalls heaped with a bewildering variety of wares in thousands of clashing colours that were blindingly bright, even in the fitful light from the many torches that had been lit along the length of the street. Trying to make himself seem as small and unimportant as possible, he edged along the wall to his rear until a gap between two stalls allowed him to dart forwards and become a part of the shoving throng. He took a quick look back over the geometric patterns of the stalls' canvas canopies and realized with a shock that joining the crowd had been a far more dangerous manoeuvre than he had conceived: overhanging the wall was a string of shallow balconies, on each of which were stationed three or four Sharnazim, their eyes raking the shoppers milling around in the torchlight beneath. It was through sheer good fortune that none of them had spotted him. Curse the woman! Why didn't she warn me of this. He eased himself surreptitiously closer to the nearest stall, so that its canopy obscured him from the view of the watchers overhead. Once there, he had little idea of what he should do next; he turned over some undergarments laid out in neatly tied bundles

The Birthplace // 110 on the stall, trying as best he could to look as if he were pondering which one to buy. He'd become accustomed to being jostled, so at first he didn't notice the elbow being dug purposefully into his ribs as anything out of the ordinary. But passive submission soon became irritation, and he turned angrily to swear at whichever Vassagonian scum was being so discourteously contemptuous of his discomfort. He found himself looking down at the top of a pale crimson hood, and the oath died on his lips: his tormentor had been merely some impetuous child. Then the person turned his face upwards to regard him, and Lone Wolf realized that he was confronting a very short man – yet no dwarf, for the features of the face were finely chiselled. "You're safe for the moment," the man said. "Speak to me without looking at me – I don't want the Sharnazim to think that I'm anything more than a fellow-customer who's had the misfortune to find himself inspecting the same pile of underwear as you are." Lone Wolf found himself grinning, despite or even because of the little Vassagonian's patent earnestness. He imagined what Qinefer's reaction would be when he told her that two master spies had discussed matters of life an death while rummaging through a heap of assorted knickers. He turned his gaze back to the garments, picking up one of the bundles as if he found the colour of the cloth – a rather virulent puce-green, or so it seemed in the torchlight – especially appealing. The small man must be the member of "our people" of whom the woman had spoken. "Your name?" he asked. "Akra. We have a mutual friend – Banedon. At my request he tried to save your hide down by the quay. I heard that he'd been successful, but that in doing so he may have lost his own. He was taken by that bastard Maouk to the palace along with a big, rather stupid barbarian he introduced to me as his `blood-brother manqué', or some such." Lone Wolf sucked in his lips and breathed a curse. So it had been Banedon he'd seen. Who the other person was he'd no idea; it was unlike fastidious Banedon to join company with somebody so obviously oafish. Still, it was wrong always to judge by appearances ... "By now," Akra was saying dismally, "the two of them are probably languishing in some lightless dungeon or, worse, providing sport for Kimah's torturers. We've no way of telling. I've

The Birthplace // 111 tried mind-speaking with Banedon, but without any success; there's been some kind of psychic disturbance surrounding the whole palace these past few years, and it confounds all our attempts at magic in its environs." Lone Wolf nodded and switched his attention to silken stockings. He fingered the frilly lace around their seams and wondered if Qinefer would enjoy setting fire to them; certainly he and Akra couldn't stand here browsing much longer without buying anything or they'd run the risk of drawing particularly unwelcome notice to themselves. The psychic disturbance Akra was talking about must be something to do with the Birthplace which Qinefer had mentioned to him on the few occasions when she hadn't adroitly switched the topic of the conversation to something else. "What do you want me to do?" he said. "Change your clothing, for a start. Even a blind man could tell that you're not a Vassagonian when you're dressed like that." "I can hardly strip off out here, in front of everybody." "Actually," said Akra, "if you were lucky, you could. Very few of the people around us have had a sudden urge to come to make a few purchases this late in the day. Still, it'd be best to be on the safe side. This merchant's a good friend of ours. Duck down under his stall and you'll find a jellabah and a pair of civilized shoes waiting for you. You can leave your Sommlending gear there." "What about my sword?" He touched the hilt of the Sommerswerd. "You'll find a scimitar there as well. Put it in your belt the way everyone else does." "I can't leave my sword." Akra glanced up at him with a vexed expression on his face. Clearly he was thinking that these Sommlending could be tiresomely petty at times. But "Hide it in your clothing, if you can" was all he said before turning back with apparent enthusiasm to the clothing on offer. Crouching down, Lone Wolf lifted up the edge of the cloth that draped the stall and slipped beneath. Changing in the confined space and dim illumination was difficult, but with a wealth of profanity and a couple of bruises he managed it. The most difficult part was pulling the jellabah down over the length of the Sommerswerd, which he kept attached to his belt; the belt-buckle was cold for a few seconds against his bare skin. Satisfied that his strange-feeling garb was roughly in the correct

The Birthplace // 112 position, he crawled back out from under the stall and, as unobtrusively as was feasible, stood up to his full height once more. He felt slightly off-balance in the Vassagonian shoes, which had long curled toes and pinched his feet at the sides. Akra was no longer anywhere to be seen, and he assumed that the little man had simply slipped off and left him, having fulfilled his purpose of making sure that Lone Wolf changed into something less noticeable. He smoothed the fine cotton of the green robe down over his abdomen; now that he was becoming accustomed to it, he found that the airy garment was unexpectedly comfortable. Then Akra was by his side again. "Here," said the Vassagonian. "You'd better wear this." "This" was a black sash. Glancing around him, Lone Wolf saw that everyone else was wearing one just like it; clearly it denoted mourning for the dead Zakhan. Quickly Lone Wolf tied the strip of cloth around his waist, over the sash through which he'd put his scimitar. The rig was cumbersome, and because of the Sommerswerd he'd been forced to wear the Vassagonian weapon on the wrong side for his sword arm, but it couldn't be helped. "Will I pass for one of your countrymen yet?" he said softly. "If you put your hood up to shade your face and cover that damned hair of yours," said Akra, "then, yes." Again Lone Wolf did as he was told, and at last Akra seemed satisfied. "Carry on down this line of stalls towards the centre of town," the short man said, and then caught himself irritatedly. "Of course, you don't know your way around here. Towards our left, towards our left. After about a hundred yards you'll come to the last stall; keep going for a minute or two longer and you'll come to a crossroads. Turn sharp left – ignore the broader street; it's the narrow one you're after – and go on until you see a tavern called the Singing Crescent. If I can I'll join you there in about an hour; if not, it'll be someone else. You've got enough money to buy yourself a meal and some ale, I trust?" Lone Wolf jangled his pouch in answer. "Good. Until we meet again . . ." And Akra was gone. #

The Birthplace // 113 Finding the Singing Crescent proved even less difficult than Lone Wolf had expected. In a shabby street crowded with shabbier eating places, taverns and uncovered fruit and vegetable stalls it stood out as having something of the gaiety that one might expect of its Sommlending equivalent. There were bright lights in the windows and a buzz of spirited conversation from within; the inn's large triangular sign, recently repainted and showing a crescent-Moon face playing a nose-flute for the benefit of a quartet of formally dressed dancers, projected so far from the building's frontage that it nearly touched the wall on the far side of the street. A large porcelain figure of a dragon belching flame stood to one side of the doorway. The smells of fresh food and spilled ale mixed in the air outside, drowning the stench from the open drainage channel that ran, a flume of turds, down the centre of the street. Pausing before entering, Lone Wolf ran his eyes over a printed notice that had been freshly pasted to the door. Picking his way with some difficulty among the elegantly curved ideograms – his ability in spoken Vassagonian was considerably more advanced than his mastery of the written version of the language – he read: THE ZAKHAN IS DEAD – LONG LIVE THE ZAKHAN! His most illustrious majesty, Zakhan Moudalla the Exalted, has passed into the realm of the Majhan. May his spirit never die! By the grace of the Council of Kadi, the Funtal of Kara Kala and the Judicar of Barrakeesh, it is decreed that Kimah, Emir of Ferufezan, Protector of the Dry Main, shall by right claim the throne of Vassagonia. Through the unity of the Seven Cities, he will lead his people to greatness. LONG MAY HE REIGN! Already the poster had attracted a goodly share of graffiti, much of it obscene; clearly even at this petty level people were prepared to risk the wrath of the Sharnazim in order to register their dissent. Lone Wolf grinned bitterly at one or two of the more caustic remarks and raised his hand to push the door open. A gust of tobacco and other smoke greeted him. He was just about to step inside when there was a sudden kerfuffle ten or fifteen yards further down the street. Half a dozen Sharnazim were pushing their way against the reluctant tide of pedestrians, and one of them had lost his temper at all the jostling. In shoving aside a burly woman he'd thrown her against a wheeled

The Birthplace // 114 stall covered in pyramidally stacked fruits of every kind. Pomegranates and persimmons danced along the gutters in the torchlight. The stout aproned fruit-seller raised his voice in fury, cursing the Sharnaz for his bullying ways . . . There was an abrupt silence. The Sharnaz, a sneer on his thin lips, returned his bloodied scimitar to his belt. The headless corpse of the fruit-seller toppled forward onto the ruins of his trade. Accustomed as he'd become over the years to senseless brutality, Lone Wolf was shocked by the soldier's ruthless arrogance. These people must believe that their control over the Barrakeeshians is utter, he thought. If they come into the Singing Sceptre and find me there, they're going to take one look at me and cut me to pieces just on suspicion. I'd better get out of here and come back later . . . Pulling his hood closer around his face, he stepped casually towards the centre of the street, hoping to able to slip away unnoticed among the crowd of dumbstruck citizens staring at the outrage. At first all seemed to be going well, but he'd failed to take account of his shoes. One moment he was ambling confidently along the edge of the foul-smelling drainage ditch; the next he was tumbling backwards, his arms scooping greedily but uselessly at the air. A second later he was sitting up to his waist in a filthy soup of animal and vegetable detritus. Some of the vile liquid had splashed into his nostrils, and he gagged as he tried to breathe. The noise had attracted the attention of the Sharnazim. "You there!" one of them – the one who had just put away his sword – bawled furiously. "C'mere!" Later Lone Wolf would wonder whether he wouldn't have been best to stay where he was, hoping that the Sharnaz would simply insult him for a few minutes before getting bored and leaving him alone. With luck he'd have been able to bluff it out, especially since, in the poor light, his face would have been all but invisible under his hood. However, his instincts acted so swiftly that he didn't have time to think things through. Ignoring whatever it was that squished between the fingers of his right hand, he pulled himself up into a half-crouch and began running away, slipping and slithering in the greasy water. The Sharnazim promptly began bellowing at everyone to clear out of their way, and gave chase. Luckily the press of citizens forced them, too, to make as best speed they could along the ditch.

The Birthplace // 115 Unseen by Lone Wolf, one of them stumbled and fell face-first into the mire, where he was trampled underfoot by one of his fellows. The others came on inexorably. The shouting of the Sharnazim had opened up the sluice-gates of noise, and now every Barrakeeshian in the street seemed set on making his or her views heard as loudly as possible. The fronts of the taverns and shops seemed to resonate to the whoops and howls of the populace. Once again the people are trying to help me, thought Lone Wolf, skidding on a mouldering orange. Their hatred for the new Zakhan must run very deep if they're willing to back any and every fugitive against his men. Three young men deliberately fell into the ditch just after he'd passed them, their "accident" slowing up the Sharnazim's pursuit yet further; one of them lost his gullet to the point of a scimitar for his bravery, but by then Lone Wolf was out of sight. Seizing a moment when the Sharnazim were blocked off from view by the milling crowds, Lone Wolf had cut off through an opening that was too narrow even to be called an alley. A cat shrieked at him as he stumbled over it in the darkness, feeling his way forwards with his hands outstretched in front of him. He felt dogshit squelching beneath his feet, but disregarded it; it couldn't make him stink any worse than he already did. He could see bright lights ahead, and he ploughed on remorselessly towards them, trying not to think about some of the other things over which he was tripping. If the street which he'd just left had been the sporting ground of the poor but passably honest, as well as of young aristocrats out for an evening enjoying the somewhat seedy delights of the city's low life, the plaza in which he now found himself was a theatrical stage for the rich. Every last detail –including the splendidly caparisoned pedestrians – appeared to have been planned minutely and put in its precise position, there to remain undisturbed for the rest of time. One or two of the wealthy couples taking the night air glanced up at him as he debouched from the strait opening; one man wrinkled his nose and frowned at the intrusion, but the others nodded courteously and passed on their way, as if they were accustomed to sewage-strewn wild-eyed maniacs thrusting themselves without warning into their midst – one of them even bid Lone Wolf a formal "good evening". But none of them looked as if they'd offer him any help. There was an ascetic-looking tavern nearby whose name – the Hunted Lord – was oddly apposite in the circumstances, and

The Birthplace // 116 Lone Wolf half-turned to seek refuge in it before he realized that, in his filthy condition, he'd be out on his ear before he'd got completely in the door. Instead he leapt towards the nearest dwelling-place, a small but wealthy looking house set back from the plaza by a well tended garden of shrubs and low-standing trees. Over its doorway hung a carved wooden image of a stylized fish; Lone Wolf vaguely recognized the symbol as having a religious origin, and hoped that the religion concerned put a lot of stress on the charity-to-strangers-in-need aspect of things. Most of all, though, he hoped to find the place deserted: he was in no mood for having to terrorize any occupants into giving him assistance. The sprucely painted blue door was unlocked and unlatched, and he pushed it open, leaving it slightly ajar so that he could make a rapid exit if need be. He had his sabre in his hand, and wished it were the Sommerswerd. He was in a hallway no wider than his outstretched arms could reach; upright chairs, their seats pneumatically upholstered and their gilt backs carved into weird and fantastical shapes, were neatly lined up along one wall. The air was thick with incense and another, intoxicatingly exotic aroma; almost at once his brain began to feel as if someone had softened it around the edges. Ishir have mercy on me, he thought. It'd be just my luck to find I'd stumbled into a den of dope-addicts. The hall had a curiously insulated feel to it, as if any sound would be immediately deadened by its flock-papered walls; the only noise that disturbed the silence was the tinkling song of running water. The far end of the hall opened out into a larger room, its floor empty and tiled in polished stone. At its centre was the fountain he'd heard; like the sign outside the door, it was shaped in the idealized form of a plump fish, the water spraying from a rosette of holes in the beast's granite mouth to land in a blue-green polished marble basin below. Framing the fountain was a grandiloquent archway built out of burnished pinkish-red sandstone, its purpose purely ornamental, for it bore no weight. Several small portals, pinched and miserly seeming by comparison with this grandiose edifice, led out of the room. The place seemed to be as deserted as the hallway, and Lone Wolf slowly lowered his scimitar to his side. As if by a conjurer's trick, a tall man in a black jellabah suddenly stepped from behind one of the pillars and regarded Lone Wolf quizzically, his head on one side, his thin pale hands crossed in front of his breast. Another of the confounded Sharnazim? I'd have been

The Birthplace // 117 better off in the addicts' den . . . Too startled to move, Lone Wolf watched dumbfounded as the man took a couple of steps to put one cupped hand into the water raining from the fish's mouth and then lift it to his lips. "Who are you?" snarled Lone Wolf. "I think that question should more properly come from me," said the man mildly, regarding Lone Wolf's bedraggled appearance dispassionately. "This is my house and my lonely temple; you, sir, whoever you might be, are the intruder. You are welcome to whatever sustenance I can offer you, for that is my way; but as my guest you must bring me the gift of your name." "Lone Wolf." The words grudgingly spoken, the sabre raised. "And I see by your face that you are a Sommlending," the man continued, ignoring Lone Wolf's insolence. "What is it that brings you to Barrakeesh – more specifically, to my home?" The man's austere courtesy made Lone Wolf feel that his show of aggression was merely petty boorishness, and he lowered his sword again. He began to explain himself, but just then he heard through the open door behind him a clamour and a shouting that told him that the Sharnazim had finally succeeded in breaking through the encroaching crowds near the Singing Crescent and tracking his progress as far as the plaza; to judge by the yells and screams, Kimah's secret police had as little compunction in dealing with the rich nobles of this area as they had shown in their treatment of the people in the poorer quarters. The black-robed man heard the racket at the same moment as Lone Wolf did, and at once his body became more animated, although he still moved with a certain determined cool economy that the Kai Lord envied. His host put a finger up to his lips, and listened for a few seconds longer. "It won't take Kimah's men many minutes to find out where you've come," he said. "Some of my neighbours were less distressed than others to hear of the succession, and will help the Sharnazim as best they can. But now that you've told me your name you've become my guest, and it's my duty as a host to give my loyalties to you – even if that were not anyway my inclination. There's no rear egress from this house, I'm afraid; the best I can offer you is my cellar. Come, follow me." He led Lone Wolf through one of the miniature portals and along a narrow passageway. Halfway down it he stopped, gesturing

The Birthplace // 118 to Lone Wolf to do likewise. His hands moved rapidly across the wall, his fingers delicately pushing against it in several places. At a final touch from his palm, a vertical rectangle of the wall seemed to peel away from the rest, revealing a gloomy ladder of steps leading downwards. "Here," said the man, once more listening out for any sounds of Sharnazim intrusion into his house, "take this." He plucked a torch from its wall-sconce and pressed it into Lone Wolf's hand; then he pushed him in the small of the back towards the dark opening in the wall. "I'll come and let you out again once they've gone," he added urgently. Lone Wolf slipped through the doorway and took several uncertain steps down the ladder. Turning back for a moment, he glanced back up at the man. "Thanks," he said simply. The man put his head to one side again; it appeared to be an unconscious characteristic of his. "As I said," he murmured smoothly, "you're my guest and I'm your host. It would be impossible for me to do anything else but assist you." Then he was shutting the aperture again, leaving Lone Wolf alone in the torchlight. The torchlight. That was a bit of a problem. If Lone Wolf set fire to anything down here he'd roast alive; he hadn't a clue how to let himself out. Looking at the blazing torch with suspicion he clambered the rest of the way down the ladder and found himself in a fairly spacious box of a room. Even down here, although the air was ripe with the stench of putrescing faeces for some reason (at first Lone Wolf thought it was himself stinking out the confined space), not a mote of dust could be seen; clearly his host was a punctilious housekeeper. Neither was there any of the litter normally found scattered around cellars – broken boxes, pieces of furniture that would have been easy to mend ten years ago, clothing that nobody wants and nobody wants to throw out, children's discarded toys . . . Instead the cellar was completely empty except for a small, three-legged circular table on whose leather-covered top rested a sealed bottle of water and an airtight metal box which Lone Wolf soon discovered, after lodging his torch in a wall-bracket, contained cold smoked meats and crumbly orange goats' cheese. Although he wasn't really hungry, he ate as much as he could. Another box left on the table held tinder and

The Birthplace // 119 flints; and on the floor beside it there was a coil of thin but apparently tough hempen rope. It was obvious that this was far from the first time that his host had spirited away some fugitive. Lone Wolf, whose knowledge of religious matters was minimal and his understanding of them less, wondered if in Vassagonia the adherents of the fish-cult were liable to persecution by the authorities or the mob. He found himself yawning as he tucked the tinderbox away in one of the pockets of his filthy jellabah. It seemed such a waste of human energies to bother harassing people over trivia like that. If people chose not to accept that Ishir was the benefactress of the world and offered their prayers to fanciful fish-gods or the Vassagonians' Majhan or to no one at all, that was their affair. He stretched his body, luxuriating in the feeling that, just for a while, he wasn't running from enemy weapons. For the first time in the past few frenetic hours he was able to let his Kai essence balm his various cuts and bruises, so that their aches slowly ebbed away. The floor didn't look very comfortable, but he decided drowsily to lie down for a little while and see if he could catch some sleep . . . A burst of noise from above jolted him into full alertness. Raised voices and crashing destruction told him that the Sharnazim had broken into the house and, in their usual tyrannical, unsubtle way were trampling through it, smashing anything that happened to get in their way. Now screaming started, and for a few moments Lone Wolf couldn't equate the terrified, agonized high-pitched wail with the clipped courtesy of the man who had led him here. The screaming became louder and louder as the torture presumably progressed, and Lone Wolf began to look around him agitatedly. The poor bleeder, no matter how brave he is, won't be able to take it much longer – no one could! If only I knew how to get through that door back into the house – then at least I could put an end to his torment! Even just listening to it is crucifying my soul . . . Set into the floor in one corner of the cellar was a metal grille; it seemed to be his only possibility of finding a hiding-place. Of course, if the Sharnazim located the cellar and succeeded in breaking into it, it could be only a matter of a few seconds more before they were drawn to investigate whatever lay on the other side of that grille. Still, any chance was better than none. Abruptly the screaming stopped. The Sharnazim had taken mercy on their victim.

The Birthplace // 120 Did he talk? Did he manage to keep his silence to the end? I don't blame him if he didn't. Oh, Ishir, I hope you took him gently at the last into your mothering arms . . . He put his fingers between the bars of the iron latticework and his feet on either side of it. Arching the muscles of his back and shoulders, he strained at it until his throat muscles stood out like metal hawsers and his cheeks seemed to be trying to drag his eyes from their sockets. The fact that whatever was on the other side of the grille was obviously the source of the room's foul stench hardly helped. The heavy iron grating refused to budge, and he had to rest for a few moments, whooping the air into his lungs. Even though it was cool down here, sweat was running down his reddened face and neck and soaking into the cotton of his jellabah. His hands felt as if they'd been burnt where the metal bars had cut into them; he flexed his fingers, finding the sharp, piercing agony easier to cope with than its throbbing longer-term relative. Once again he strained his body in an attempt to budge the metal, and this time he was rewarded by a creaking noise as some of the mortar surrounding the grating crumbled away and fell into the blackness beyond. He fumbled under the folds of his robe and found the Sommerswerd's hilt. The sword's soul-strength came pouring into him, and his vision cleared. Now, one last supreme effort and . . . Crrrrack! He staggered across the room, the grating in his hands, and crashed backwards into the opposite wall. His skull hit the stone with sickening force, and for a few seconds he thought he was going to collapse; as much as anything his consciousness was revived by the noise of the Sharnazim attacking the entrance to the cellar with their fists and weapons. My host must have told them everything except the trick of opening the wall, he thought miserably as he gathered up the coil of rope, slinging it over his left arm, and snatched the torch from the wall. The fools killed him too soon. Ishir be thanked, for both his sake and mind. Bent over so that he could lug the heavy grating behind him using his right arm, he staggered backwards towards the hole in the floor. Even if all he found down there was a tomb, it was still preferable to staying here to face the wrath of the Sharnazim. Once the grating was beside the hole he began to lower himself, feet first, into the unknown. As he'd hoped and expected

The Birthplace // 121 from the way that the cellar had so obviously been used as a bolt-hole before, there were metal spikes sticking out horizontally which he could use as foot- and handholds. As soon as he'd climbed down far enough, he braced his shoulders against the rear of the pit and dragged the grille across to cover the opening; it chunked securely into place. Even the most casual inspection from within the cellar would show the signs that the grille had been recently moved, but it might take the Sharnazim a few valuable seconds to think of examining it that closely. Down and down he climbed, his back in torment as the cloth of his robe was abraded away against the rough wall of the pit. The stench was getting pungently worse, so that it seemed to be driving his mind into the wilderness of insanity; he paused for a few seconds to let the debris of the meal he'd just eaten cascade down the front of his clothing. The tang of the vomit somehow made the overall fetor seem a little less oppressive. I must bottle it and market it for the ladies, he thought wildly, and began to giggle. Once started, he found it hard to stop. He knew where he was heading. On board the Divine Dawn the crewman they'd called "The Stink" had told him all about it in lovingly rounded detail. Condemned for a trivial crime which he claimed he'd never committed (although Lone Wolf had been sceptical about this loudly professed innocence he'd kept his peace), "The Stink" had been manacled to one of the walls of the Baga-darooz, Barrakeesh's principal sewerage system, the prey to rats and constant, purging attacks of enteritis alike. The experience had scarred the rest of his life; his obsession with perfumes and the minutiae of personal hygiene was only the most manifest of the many symptoms he displayed of permanent mental disorder. It was into the Baga-darooz that Lone Wolf was descending, slowly but steadily. Some of the crewmen had laughed at the tales "The Stink" told of his incarceration – shit's always good for a joke – but Lone Wolf hadn't. He'd seen the abject misery in the man's eyes, and had empathized with it. No one would think it funny to condemn someone to live for a year and a day in the presence of an ear-splitting scream of noise; to be forced to take into one's mouth a foul-tasting liquid every minute of every hour of every day of a year and a day could have destroyed a man entirely; yet the thought of living for that long in the intimate embrace of the stench of sewage, so that it permeated every cell of one's body and one

The Birthplace // 122 spent the rest of one's life feeling permanently tainted by it – oh, that had been hilarious to the sailors aboard the Divine Dawn. Instead, Lone Wolf had looked at "The Stink" with unbounded respect. The man had somehow survived the ordeal with most of his mental faculties, if not unimpaired, then at least in sufficiently good order for him to function as a relatively normal human being. He had still been able to laugh, to share a jest . . . although the jeers of his crewmates about his incarceration drew tears to his eyes, even so many years later. "The Stink" had a few advantages over me, though, thought Lone Wolf as he let himself down onto the stone walkway that flanked the fetid, torpid flow of the Baga-darooz. His captors may have whipped him from time to time, but at least they fed him bread and water twice a day, so that he knew he wouldn't die of starvation. He retched again, heaving painfully, this time adding a thin stream of acid-tasting bile to the sewer's noisome contents. And he also knew that, if only he could live long enough, one day his sentence would come to its end, and he'd be released out under the open sky once again, be able to feel the fresh purity of the sea's stinging salt breeze against his face . . . I have no food with me. And my sentence may never come to its end.

The Birthplace // 123

Chapter Five BANEDON

"This," Banedon had said, "is going to be exceptionally difficult." It was the understatement of his life. Thog looked at him. A cloud of bewilderment began to cross the big man's sweat-streaked face, but gave up half-way. "What's going to be difficult?" he asked. "Two things, really," Banedon replied abstractedly, "and I'm beginning to wonder if the nonmagical one isn't the more difficult of the two . . ." Still looking down at the almost motionless form of the tall Vassagonian sprawled in the soiled hay, Banedon rolled up the sleeves of his robe; the gesture was symbolic rather than practical. He'd already listened to Allani's shallow, fretful breathing and realized that there was nothing any normal herbalist or practitioner of physic could have done: it was a miracle that the man had lived as long as he had. Banedon had called up an elementary spell to heal the wound, including the complicated lacerations of some of Allani's internal organs, but the more difficult part of the cure – the repairs that had to be effected to the injured man's spiritual aura – had required a more arduous testing of Banedon's second-level abilities, and now he felt drained from his exertions. Ideally he would have liked to go off and curl up in a quiet corner somewhere to try to catch some sleep, as Allani was now doing, but instead he was contemplating attempting a yet more demanding piece of enchantment. More demanding? That was another understatement to match the first. He was by no means certain that it was something he could achieve on his own. Jenara, what do you think? A moment later her voice was in his mind, her thoughts bubbling and tumbling over each other in a froth of overeagerness. Banedon sighed. It was clear that she was enjoying the luxury of being able to share her thoughts with someone else after several years of self-imposed abstinence. The message she was imparting to him was as confused and confusing as the ones the more adept students of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star produced when they first discovered the art. It took them time to grow out of it, to

The Birthplace // 124 learn to control their thinking so that their mind-speaking was coherent. In Jenara's case, however, time was an indulgence that was in parlously short supply. Calm yourself, Jenara, he thought peremptorily, hoping that he didn't sound too harsh to her. There was a further short period of confusion, and then he could understand her with crystal clarity. I'm sorry. There's no need to be. We can discuss it later – OK? I want to know if you can help me . . . He explained what it was he was proposing to do, and her immediate reaction was negative. I don't think it can be done, she told him. It's possible, he said. Loi-Kymar taught me the pattern that has to be created, but even he admitted that it was something he'd never tried himself except with simple things, like insects. And it's always hard to tell, with insects, whether or not you've been successful. Can you think of any other way of saving him? Do you really need to save him that badly? Is it worth the risk? Yes, he responded. It's definitely worth the risk. From what I've been told ever since I heard Kimah's name for the first time, should he retain the Zakhanship for long enough to establish his own dynasty, the future not just for Vassagonia but for much of the Lastlands looks bleak. Bleak? It looks like an eternity-long nightmare! I've probed into Allani's unconscious mind, and I think that if anyone can save the situation it's him. I can't predict whether or not he'll ever become Zakhan, as the people wish, but I feel certain he'll bring stability to the realm – and hence to much of the world. Can you imagine what it would be like if this peace compact of Lone Wolf's between Sommerlund and Vassagonia were signed by a Zakhan who really believed that it represented the path of the future? There was a pause before he heard her thoughts again. I can imagine it, she said eventually, but I'm not so certain I can believe in it. Still, if you're right . . . then, yes, I think you should try Loi-Kymar's pattern, and I'll willingly give you what assistance I can in the construction of the psychic reticulum you require. Tell me of it. It took him some minutes to convey to her the full complexity of the mental configuration he wished to set up, and on several occasions she asked him to retransmit to her some of the details. Banedon found the experience frustrating, as he'd known he would. As with so many of the spells involved in second-level magic, the basic skeleton of the pattern was unbelievably simple, and from it all the rest budded naturally to produce the myriad

The Birthplace // 125 finer subcomponents that made the pattern as a whole appear to be so complicated. The skeleton lay in his own mind as a single datum, so that were he asked to identify and describe it would have been possible to do so to himself instantaneously, much in the same way as he could identify a dog as being a dog without having to think it through. Conveying the skeleton to someone else's mind, however, was a fiendishly intricate task even in the most intimate mind-speech (in words it would have taken hours, days or even months) – rather like trying to say what the dog was to someone who had never seen one – and there were all sorts of possible ways in which things might go wrong. By the time that he was satisfied that Jenara knew the configuration precisely – there was a lovely warming glow of mental energy between them in the instant that the images of the pattern in their two minds coincided exactly – he was feeling snappish and ready to ditch the entire enterprise. He swore gratuitously at Thog, who pondered the reason for Banedon's wrath for a little while before shrugging it off as yet another of life's frequent mysteries. The smashing of the apothecary shop's window and then its stock took both the men by surprise. We really haven't got very long now, Banedon thought sharply to Jenara. There are some things I must do here before I seek you out again. Good luck. And then her thoughts were gone from him, leaving him feeling strangely lonely. He looked at his bulky companion. "Thog," he began, "have you ever been taken prisoner before?" The giant grinned and nodded his head enthusiastically. "Yes," he said, although confirmation was hardly necessary. "It's great fun. You get to maim and kill lots of people before they finally get the ropes round you and drag you off to whatever fate has in store for you. Usually it's torture, which is the downer of the whole business; but it's well worth putting up with it for the thrill of the first part. I'm all for getting captured – especially when I get rescued in the end by a flimsily dressed amazonian witch-queen with gigantic . . ." "Yes," said Banedon, putting up a hand to stop the flow: this was indeed going to be trickier than conveying the second-level matrix to Jenara's mind had been. "But have you ever thought about being captured in a different way, when you only pretend to maim and kill the people who're trying to take you prisoner?"

The Birthplace // 126 Thog looked bemused. "Wouldn't they be able to tell?" he asked. By the time the Sharnazim were prising apart the last two bricks of the apothecary shop Banedon had succeeded in explaining to Thog what he wanted him to do. The warrior was not entirely convinced that the plan was a sensible one, but he gave a weak promise that he would try to do his best to obey the instructions he'd so painfully memorized. Banedon clandestinely used a little magic to bolster this weak promise into a strong one and then woke Allani. The Vassagonian sat bolt upright and reached for the scimitar that should have been at his side. His head snapped from side to side as he sought some means of escape; finding none, he glared at his two apparent warders. "Who are you?" "Friends," said Banedon mildly. "For the moment, that's all you need to know. If we'd time I'd explain further, but your compatriots in black are searching the dock area and it can't be long before they reach us here. By that time I want you well hidden. My friend Thog, here, will help you find somewhere. He'll also lend you a couple of spare daggers." Allani shook his head disorientatedly. "I don't understand what's going on," he said, his voice almost whining. "Don't worry," said Thog cheerfully. "Neither do I." The two men clattered up the ladder to the storey above, leaving Banedon alone with the mule. For a few seconds he refused to meet the beast's eyes, but then he steeled himself. The worst of it all was that the animal seemed to have some glimmering of what it was that Banedon had in mind. If it had kicked and bellowed he'd have felt better; instead it just gazed at him with a look of such mute forgivingness that all his purposefulness seemed to melt away. He felt as if he were premeditating a murder – which, in essence, he was. For Allani to live, this beast which had trusted him as its master for so long must die. The equation was as simple as that . . . and yet it wasn't simple at all. Banedon found it paradoxical that he could contemplate with equanimity the cost in human lives of Vassagonia's future, and dispassionately weigh up whether or not the anticipated peace of tomorrow justified the bloodshed of today; but the sacrifice of this dumb animal couldn't be treated in such a detached way. Although his rational mind was telling him that what he was going to do was no more cruel than the butchery of an animal for meat, his heart

The Birthplace // 127 was reproachfully insisting that he was about to commit a heinous crime. "I'm sorry, old friend," he said, tears in his eyes, caressing the mule's cheek. It looked as if it was thinking of biting at him, and that cheered him up. Jenara, do you have the template ready in your mind? He knelt down in the foul-smelling hay in front of the animal. Yes. It's time. He felt her concurrence. She conjured up in his mind an image of herself kneeling on a rush mat in the villa they had shared these past months. On a low table beside her there was a painted wooden bowl of water, and as he looked at the surface of the liquid through her dark eyes he could see the face of the Guildmaster emerging. The old man was smiling reassuringly at them both. He approves of what we're about to try, said Jenara, and prays that Ishir aid us. More than that he cannot do from far Toran. Banedon nodded. Left-handed magic was affected by an inverse-square law over distance. The energies upon which the Guildmaster would have had to draw in order to add his potency to their own would have been gargantuan. The Guildmaster had told them how, a year ago, when he had wished to use a powerful spell over the much shorter distance from Toran to the ruined city of Maaken, in Sommerlund's province of Ruanon, he had had to employ the colossal earth-energies generated by lowering the huge crystal star that floated above the roof of the Brotherhood's guild building. Even had he been prepared to try such desperate measures again in order to help Banedon and Jenara, there wouldn't have been the time to set the operation up. Banedon smiled ruefully. All this effort to kill a mule. Jenara chided him: To save a human life and possibly a nation's, she thought waspishly. He could sense her mind puckering with disapproval of his sentimentality. She was right. The deed had to be done – and the sooner the better, for the Sharnazim had finished demolishing the apothecary shop and were beginning to search further afield. He shrugged away the thought of the pain he was about to inflict himself and closed his eyes. He listened to the flow of blood through his own arteries and steadied it; then he slowed the pulse of his heart until it sounded in his ears like a soft, distant touch of a hand to the skin of a timpanum. For a split second he permitted his flesh to feel the embrace of the air around him in all its ecstatic

The Birthplace // 128 sensual intensity; then he barred physical sensation from all of his body except his fingertips and his ears, where he concentrated his sensory receptiveness until it was as if he could feel the brush of individual air molecules against the whorls of his skin, and hear their random collisions as they danced around his head. The dull red glow of light through his eyelids receded until all he could see was an infinite and infinitely impenetrable blackness, at the edge of which his identity, his selfness, teetered like an acrobat on a high wire, sensing the incredible lostness and isolation of that eternal vacuum, that place where all echoes of emotion died. And then the vacuum was filled, no corner of its emptiness left vacant. Glistening in billiards of indistinguishable colours, perfectly symmetrical in its asymmetry, its curves traced with geometrical straightness, it spun slowly in his vision about a bewildering variety of axes that were all both collinear and mutually angled from each other. He gasped at the beauty of his own creation as he watched the pattern bud and spread with quicksilver swiftness, so that with every passing moment it changed unrecognizably while constantly remaining the same; here was the ultimate disorder that could be built by adding order to an ordered structure a billion billion times over. As the complexity of the configuration increased at an inhuman speed it simultaneously approached the simplicity of a single photon. The brilliance flared as Jenara conjoined her icon of the budding latticework with his, like two fiery handprints superimposed upon each other, so that his/her mental vision was almost blinded in the colourless fire that seared whitely across the universe he'd/she'd engendered with his/her thoughts and his/her images. There was stillness in the engulfing turmoil; the transfinity of motion created a stasis as the two templates added synergistically to each other's chaos. Ever and ever the unreckonable vortex of multidirectional vectors of movement expanded outwards through the universe's consciousness, until it burst through the skin of reason and became an utterly silent, all-embracing calm. Now it was impossible to move a finger, and almost infinitely difficult not to alter the shape of the entire universe. The changes he/she wished to effect were, in this blank tranquility, not so much just obvious and logical consequences of the existing flux of reality as inevitabilities born from the state that he'd/she'd created of the universe. He/she would have to alter nothing. For a fleeting instant he/she thought of the circumstances in which he/she existed as representing a "new" universe, but that wasn't

The Birthplace // 129 right: this was the way that the universe had always been, but his/her perception of it had been distorted through passage via a different set of arbitrarily selected lenses; all that had changed was the optical system through which he/she viewed a universe that, extending throughout all the dimensions and into the infinite past and infinite future, was unalterable. The glare of myriad rapidly coursing colours reappeared as he brushed the fingertips of both hands to the mule's coarse hair, and then ran them down to its curled mucous lips. Now touch was sight and sight, touch: the artificial qualitative boundaries erected within what was in reality a single sense were destroyed. The hue of his sensation of the mule's flesh altered, and as it did so the peripheral buds of the universe-filling configuration likewise altered before shrinking, withering away like leaves in autumn. Layer after layer towards the template that lay at its core the pattern transmogrified and somehow shrank while remaining the same size, until finally only the template itself remained, a blinding tracery of impeccably logical lines and quantities interwoven among each other and throughout the fabric of the blackness. He/she was gazing upon the naked skeleton of the matrix that was reality, and although the differences were infinitesimally small, this matrix was no longer identical with the one that Banedon had originally created. There was a quantum diminution in its brilliance as Jenara's superimposition was abruptly removed from the whole, and then it was receding from him, becoming more and more transparent as its size decreased, until all that was left was a grain of nothingness that could no longer be distinguished from the beach of nothingness in which it lay. In agony Banedon screamed with such ferocity that his scream was silent. # "Something wrong?" Thog asked, descending the ladder clumpingly and regarding the foetally crumpled form of his friend with something approaching alarm, albeit very slowly. "You don't look too good, if you ask me." "No," Banedon croaked, his face puffed and red and brine leaking from his eyes. "No, I don't think there's anything wrong." Then Thog noticed that there were not one but two human forms lying in the smirched hay. The other, lying on his back with

The Birthplace // 130 blood still slowly seeping from the gash in his abdomen, was Allani. Naked. "That's odd," said Thog, looking back up the ladder into the dimness of the storey above him, "I could have sworn that I'd just left him tucked away in a . . . The floorboards must have been weaker than we thought . . ." "Tell him to throw his outer clothing down to us," said Banedon with what seemed a herculean effort, wishing he could put more authority into his wheezing words. "If you've got any garments you can spare, give them to him. He may not be able to move from here until nightfall, maybe even tomorrow, and it'll get cold in here when the Sun's down. Oh, and tell him that with luck I'll be able to send Akra to fetch him from here." Visibly humouring his friend's insanity, Thog yelled these instructions into the gloom at the top of the ladder. Moments later, to his astonishment, Allani's turquoise jellabah was wrapping itself around his helmet and shoulders; the Vassagonian's curlicued boots followed, one after the other. The big man looked at these objects incredulously, then back up at the darkness. Poltergeists? His eyes fogged. "Dress this thing," said Banedon wearily, pointing a limp finger at the naked form beside him. "Be quick about it. The Sharnazim will be on us in seconds." As Thog fumbled with the body's flaccid limbs he felt the spark of life within it poignantly extinguished. "He's snuffed it," he muttered tenderly to Banedon. "Good," said the magician unexpectedly. He was painfully hauling himself up onto his hands and knees, his limbs trembling as if they belonged to an nonagenarian. "Ishir took mercy on the poor beast." Thog was bored of bewilderment, and decided to give it up for a while. Just before he did so, however, he was reminded by Banedon's use of the word "beast" that the mule seemed to have wandered off somewhere. The puzzle was: where? There was no way out of . . . No. He'd decided. No more riddles. Life was easier that way. Besides, there was a fray in the offing, and he'd be better off using his mind to look forward to the pleasures of it; he licked his lips as he decided to start with the morningstar, in the sophisticated artistry of whose use he'd been trained long ago, as a lad. Untutored amateurs simply lashed around themselves with the weapon, but adepts like himself preferred the more debonair coup de la vive force et l'incompréhension technique, whereby with a single

The Birthplace // 131 balletic downward blow one piledrove one's opponent's head into his thoracic cavity, or even beyond. Thog had once, while in part-time employment as a troubador, composed a wistful lyric in praise of this delicate martial manoeuvre, and he mouthed it to himself now as he slid the second shoe onto the appropriate dead foot. He was only just in time. The wooden door crashed inwards and a swarm of Sharnazim poured through it. Banedon was still having difficulty standing – he was leaning groggily against the rear wall with his eyes half-closed – so defence lay in Thog's hands alone. The big man turned like lightning to adopt a threatening stance, legs apart and knees half bent, his lips drawn back to reveal his rotting teeth in a feral snarl, the multiple spikes of the morningstar's heavy head glittering with rusty malevolence. The Sharnazim stopped, appalled, those in the rear cannoning into the backs of those in the front row. Thog was staring straight at a bright metal fence made of raised scimitars. The sight was an aesthetic delight. "They're only the drunks we threw in here," a Sharnaz began to explain, but he was silenced by a gesture from one of the others. "Drunk blood's as good as sober," said a guttural voice quietly. Banedon, who'd been running over in his mind the various attractions of sudden death, began to feel more as if life might, after all, be worth living. He coughed and, without looking back, Thog plucked a dagger from his belt and tossed it to him. With difficulty Banedon wrenched it out of the wall an inch from his throat. "You accursed scum have catalyzed my endocrines," Thog rasped. "What?" said one of the Sharnazim. "He means he's about to go berserk," Banedon explained coolly. "Oh." A moment's hush while the Sharnazim digested this information. Thog was suddenly a blaze of motion. It was difficult, through his berserker haze, to remind himself that his duty was to try not to maim any of these Vassagonian swine too badly, and certainly not to kill any of them. Even harder was to effect this using his morningstar, for he had to consciously override many

The Birthplace // 132 actions that had been trained into him for so many years that they'd become almost instinctive. The first sweep of the weapon in a sizzling arc almost threw him off his feet, because he was forcing himself to aim it into the empty air directly in front of the Sharnazim's heads, rather than at the heads themselves. He let out a savage, lymph-curdling war-whoop, but somehow his heart wasn't really in it. However, his heart was most certainly in his boot as it impacted a Vassagonian groin with such force that the man was lifted clear of the ground; the shock of this ferocious blow froze all of the Sharnazim for a split second, which Thog used to recover himself. His next howling arc with the morningstar shattered five legs and the doorjamb; unable to dislodge the weapon from the wood, he skipped backwards one pace and drew his trusty rune-encrusted blade from its scabbard. Only once had his sword failed him – far away and long ago in Ragadorn – but he preferred not to remember that humiliation. He scythed the air with it, listening to the whistle as it cleaved a respectful space around him. This time his war-whoop was more enthusiastic, for the Sharnazim were beginning to back away. "Thog!" barked Banedon in Sommlending, hoping that none of the Vassagonians would be able to comprehend that tongue. "Bridle your much acclaimed ferocity! The last thing we want is to frighten them off." Thog looked as if he were about to burst into tears. He'd just been looking forward to performing a few dismemberments – only superficial ones, of course – in order to give the illusion of a fight to the death, and now Banedon seemed to be telling him that he wasn't even allowed to do that. "Stop!" said a toneless voice. "Surrender yourselves at once and your lives may be spared!" Thog looked to Banedon for guidance. The magician nodded and threw down his unused dagger. Thog followed suit with his sword. The Sharnazim parted to allow Maouk to walk between them. He came to a halt in front of Thog and Banedon and put his hands on his waist. He stared at them coldly, not a trace of fear visible in his sharply delineated features even though Thog was looking almost as threatening disarmed as he had when armed. "You two buffoons have wasted too much of my men's time," said Maouk icily. "If you were merely drunkards then I would let my men enjoy themselves in granting you a drunkards' death. But there is more to you than meets the eye, I think.

The Birthplace // 133 Perhaps once you've had the opportunity for a little conversation with the Court Torturer you'll . . ." For the first time his gaze fell on the corpse. He started, but composed himself again almost at once. Nevertheless, a small tic began among the crows'-feet beside his left eye, and Banedon could tell that Maouk was one of those people who are rarely surprised by the outcome of events, and hence thoroughly disconcerted on the rare occasions when things do not accord with their expectations. Nevertheless, the Vassagonian's voice gave away nothing of any inner turmoil he might have been suffering. "Allani," he said. "I thought I'd finished him." "You did," said Banedon. "He died a few moments ago." "It shames me that he survived so long," said Maouk in his unemotional way. "If my hands were still as sure as they were a few years ago, he'd have been dead before he hit the ground. How strange" – taking a couple of steps forward to eye the body more closely – "he seems to have been wearing his shoes on the wrong feet. How slovenly my `good friend' Allani must have become in his later years." Thog looked accusingly at his own hands. "Oaf!" said Maouk. "He means," Banedon elaborated to Thog, "you." Thog looked up at the tall, sinister man who'd addressed him. There was hatred in the big man's small red eyes. Maouk hardly needed to be be capable of mind-speech to know that Thog was looking at vivid mental images of tearing him to shreds single-handedly. About this Maouk cared not one jot. The man was now totally in his power, and would remain so until he uttered his last despairing scream, having seen his own life stripped piecemeal away from him. Let him think what he liked. "Oaf," he repeated, "act like the beast of burden that's all you're fit to be, and pick up this hunk of meat. I wouldn't have one of my men soiling his hands by touching the carcase of this knave." Eyebrows threatening terrible destruction to come, Thog stooped and slung the limp corpse easily over his shoulder. "Now," said Maouk, "since I am not to have the pleasure of entertaining the King of Sommerlund's envoy at the Zakhan's palace, perhaps you two clowns would be good enough to join me in his stead? I'm sure you'll find good excuses for cancelling all your other appointments, no matter how urgent they might seem to you. Come, let me escort you to my palace in my own coach.

The Birthplace // 134 "I'm never one to refuse a free meal," said Banedon. The little man's calmness was infuriating Maouk, although he refused to let it show. It was almost as if he believed – truly believed – that all was not yet lost for him and his lumbering friend. He would soon see the folly of his ways. Few people who ventured into the torture chambers beneath the palace ever emerged alive, and those who did were merely broken remnants of humanity preserved from death only long enough to serve as a dreadful warning to all others who might offend the Zakhan or any of his officers. Maouk was uncertain if these two reprobates would tell him anything of interest, but already they had insulted him enough through their general conduct and demeanour – not to mention the way they had diverted his search for Lone Wolf – that they deserved the worst that his most exquisite architect of pain could offer them. He smiled sardonically. Several of the Sharnazim were detailed to escort Maouk and the two interlopers to the carriage and the remainder were instructed to spread out once more and seek the fugitive Sommlending pig, although Maouk was certain that Lone Wolf would by now have long flown from the dock area. A couple of men were ordered to dispose of their wounded fellows, which they did with ruthless despatch. Maouk didn't condescend to draw the caravan's blinds as the caravan clattered through the streets of Barrakeesh towards the Zakhan's palace. Near to the quay there were few people about, although skeletal pye-dogs rootled amid the heaps of discarded waste that littered the pavements, and sometimes a fat rat could be seen scuttling nervously away down a roadside grating. As they progressed, however, the streets became steadily more populated until, despite the shouts of their mounted escort and the spiteful cracking of their coachman's whip, the carriage was moving at little more than a slow walking-pace. Banedon, leaning back in the soft leather upholstery, looked for all the world as if he were dropping off to sleep; but in fact he was wide awake. He was sending his mind far afield among the crowds, hoping against all hope that Akra would be somewhere among them. However, there was no answering warmth of thought in response to his psychical plea . . . and this in itself was odd, because Akra had been quite definite that there were a fair number of mind-speaking adepts among Allani's supporters in Barrakeesh: surely one of them should by now have heard Banedon's call? It was as if his thoughts were winging away from him to become

The Birthplace // 135 immediately lost in an impenetrable barrier surrounding him, much as the Birthplace had generated a barrier around the palace that blocked off all magical communication between inside and outside. Could they have already come so close to the palace that they were within this prophylactic screen? Surely not. Then what else might be raising such a barrier? A doom-laden thought came to Banedon. He let his eyelids open just a fraction, so that he could see a narrow strip of his surroundings. Turning his head as though he were merely shifting in his doze, he moved until he could focus on the face of Maouk, opposite him. The sinister Vassagonian's face was partly hidden by his hood; he was looking out the side-window of the carriage, watching the passers-by, his lips moving slightly with impatience as if every moment that passed before they reached the palace were a moment too many. Banedon allowed the shell of his own mind to expand in a spherical wavefront that soon encompassed all of them in the carriage's luxurious interior. Almost at once he felt the betraying core of chill emptiness that represented the place in Maouk where the man's soul should have been. Except that he wasn't a man. Banedon had known that frigid mental touch before, many times, when prowling through the streets of Barrakeesh in search of Darklands infiltrators. Like the Darklords themselves, the spawn of Helgedad shared their souls with that of Naar, the God of the Darkness and of all Evil; they boasted of the fact, as if the spiritual equation conferred on them some portion of their God's own deity. What they did not realize – could never realize – was that Naar had played a joke of cosmic scale on them, for his own soul-stuff was an annihilating nothingness, an expunger rather than an affirmation of identity. As Banedon continued to watch him, Maouk slowly turned around to glance at the faces of his two captives, his superficial expression one of gloating and loathing in equal parts. But now that Banedon had told them to, his eyes were able to see beyond this mask to the visage hidden behind it. Oh, yes, the Nadziranim, the right-handed sorcerers of the Darklords, were becoming cleverer and cleverer in the evil magic they used to disguise the spawn they sent out into the Lastlands, but they could not hope to conceal that cold vacuum that lay at Naar's own heart. Maouk's face twisted into a complacent smile.

The Birthplace // 136 Banedon saw the hideous Helghast countenance beneath the outer mask split into a parodic leer. There were glowing red coals in the Helghast's eyes. For a moment they seemed to flare, as if they had recognized Banedon's gaze on them. But Maouk's face was bland again as he glanced from the further window of the carriage to see how their progress towards the palace was advancing. His lips were moving restlessly once more.

The Birthplace // 137

Chapter Six QINEFER

. . . tick tick . . . . . . tick tick . . . # Just as she did the last time, she's taken the land route from Sommerlund to Vassagonia. Viveka tried to persuade her to take Lone Wolf's black mare, Reason for Coming Back, as her mount, but instead, as if as a self-punishment, she selected the oldest and frailest of the horses at the Monastery. The beast proved to have a far greater stamina than anyone could have expected of it, and bore her without lameness south through all the length of Sommerlund until they had crossed even the Baronial Province of Ruanon, a territory through which Qinefer journeyed with a feeling of constant unease, for it was surrounded by these placid-seeming fields and sleepy hamlets that she played her part in the struggle against the evil Vassagonian nobleman Barraka and his rapacious hordes of cutthroats. Here, too, in Temple Deep by the Maakengorge, she was present during Barraka's last despairing attempt to raise the spirit of Vashna and his vast army from the dead. So it wasn't surprising that even the most innocuous of shadows filled her heart with an elusive dread, nor that at nights she slept with her sword in her hand, camped out far from habitation, alert so that she would be jerked into wakefulness by the tiniest sound of human encroachment. The ill tempered, scrawny nag she had brought with her, having served her so well in Sommerlund, was appalled by the sands of Casiorn, and became disobedient and intractable. She sold it to a merchant caravan she encountered, having first received the assurances of the men that they would ensure that the animal would live out its few remaining years in peace and plenty. In fact, as she had guessed they would, they used its stringy flesh for meat; but she salved her conscience by telling herself that she did not know that this was what had happened. They'd sold her, for too high a price, a camel that they were all glad to see the last of, because it had bitten each of them many times over. Strangely,

The Birthplace // 138 the beast took an immediate liking to Qinefer, and obeyed her commands with the docility and humility of a worshipping lover that dared not speak its love. She became quite fond of it – respectful, even, because on the one occasion that they were attacked by a small troop of thieving nomads while crossing the endless sands of the Dry Main, the bites and kicks of the camel had assisted her resistance more than any armed companion could have. When she sold the beast in Chiras there were tears in her eyes; and she fancied that, despite its hauteur, the camel, too, suffered its own inscrutable sorrow at their parting. From Chiras she came on foot, crossing the magnificent bridge over the estuary of the river Da and crossing the rich irrigated pastures around it before reaching the desert sands once more. Here, however, the landscape was not as bleak as it was in the Dry Main, for human artifice and the quirks of nature have conspired to create shallow aquifers beneath the torrid surface: hardy plants dot the environment, courageously eking out their precarious existence amid the roasting-hot days and, in winter, the freezing nights. Also, as she found, the road becomes more trafficked, with convoys of caravans as well as solitary travellers like herself leaving or converging on Barrakeesh. This last part of the journey was only about forty miles, but the heat and a certain half-admitted reluctance of her own to confront the object of her quest combined to put a lethargy in her movements, and it is only now, towards the evening of the third day out from Chiras, that she is coming to the defensive ramparts of the capital. The sentries at the side-gate through which she gains admittance don't interrogate her for long, although they note her beauty and the curves of her body and one of them runs salacious hands over her in a pretence of searching her for forbidden tracts or outlawed drugs. She endures the degradation in silence, for during her journey south and then east she has been trying to teach herself a new humility; her ideal is to greet each abasement as if it were a source of pleasure to her, but she has yet to achieve this ideal, and so beneath her passive exterior, quiescent under the man's sweaty palms, her spirit is seething with a rage that is all the more intense for being confined. At last his explorations are done, and she is at liberty to wander through the outer suburbs of the city, heading generally towards its centre and the palace of the Zakhan but doing so only slowly, in a long, rambling, spiralling route, as if she doesn't want to reach her destination too soon. There is something frightening in the aura of this woman, now that she is inside the city, and even the street-thieves detect it: even though they would have been hard-pressed to say what it was about her that warns them away from her, they allow her to continue on her way unmolested, spared their felonious attentions. Beggars, by contrast, are drawn to her; and although she has little enough money to spare, they accept her small coins gracefully, and call down the blessings of the Majhan on her head. It is in conversation with one of these mendicants that she learns for the first time that Moudalla is dead, and

The Birthplace // 139 that the ruthless Kimah has taken his place. She shudders at the tale of brutality the garrulous old man tells her, but as she passes on her way she lets it slip unnoticed from her memory, discarding it like a child's empty sweet-wrapper for the winds to take where they will. She is merely a visitor to this place; she has but a single objective, and it has nothing to do with the domestic politics of a nation that is not her own. Even when she sees two of the dreaded Sharnazim viciously beating a defenceless woman in the street her hand does not go to her sword: it does not occur to her that she has any right, let alone duty, to interfere in something that is not her concern. And the Sharnazim themselves, like the street-thieves, let her go on her way unmolested, even though they are harassing all foreigners who show their noses, and it is obvious from the way she holds herself and from her leather soldierly tunic that she is no Vassagonian; these hardened, violent men recognize that strangeness about her that sets her apart from normal humanity, as if she were an alien visitor from another world. They would never confess, not even to themselves, that they were frightened of her, but that is what they are. Yet there are some among them who look at her more earnestly. They do not see her as merely a strange unearthly woman walking in their midst; instead they recognize in her a spiritual tincture that will be of interest to their master, who is not the Zakhan Kimah. For these soldiers among the Sharnazim are not human beings, although to the casual observer they might seem like such; instead they are spawn born afresh from the Birthplace; they are Drakkarim and Helghast who are more familiar with the leaden skies of the Darklands than with the bright azure dome that tops Vassagonia. What they have found in her is the latent essence of the Kai spirit which even she doesn't yet fully know she possesses. When next their Sharnazim duties permit them to return to their barracks near the Zakhan's palace they will report her arrival, and the news will travel further up the ladder of responsibility until finally it is given to the Archlord Haakon himself, secure as he is in Helgedad on the far side of the nictating psychic womb that is the Birthplace. What he will bid them do once he has learned of her presence they do not know; for now, though, in the absence of instructions, they are content to watch her and observe her, so that between them all they will have a record of her every movement. She pauses in a shop to buy herself some provisions – a small loaf of coarse black unleavened bread and a bar of compressed honeyed oilseeds, which she eats as she walks; even the motions of her jaws are as aimless as her ambling walk. One man, slightly drunk on Barrakeesh's weak ale, mistakes her slow casualness for the deliberate provocativeness of a street-walker in search of custom, and accosts her with offers of trivial sums of money; she listens to him at first with incredulity, unable to understand what he's talking about, but then her face broadens into a grin for the first time for many miles, and to his surprise he finds that he is laughing with her as they part. He is even more surprised

The Birthplace // 140 when he finds, a little later, that his uncertain feet have taken him directly to his home. He falls asleep seeing dark laughing eyes in a black face, and cannot conceive the reason for his being haunted thus. Still she walks on. Now she has entered the commercial quarters of the city, where the streets are better illuminated (for darkness has fallen with the abruptness typical of these parts) and there are more people around. Hawkers try to sell her gewgaws, but she simply smiles vaguely at them and they turn away to find other customers whose effect on them will not be so unsettling – pleasurable, in many ways, but unsettling nevertheless. It is as if she were creating a space all around herself as she moves through the crowds: no one notices the existence of this oval of emptiness, nor that they themselves are unwilling to trespass within its invisible boundary-line, and yet they are dimly, subconsciously aware of its presence and respect its integrity. It is as if she were separated from the rest of humanity around her by a small gap of time, as if she were living a millisecond ahead of or behind the rest of the world; such a small distance along time's skewed dimension, and yet presenting as great a barrier as it would were the rift to be an eternity broad. It is as if she were a painting protected from human touch by a sheet of perfectly transparent glass so that, although not a photon of light is lost as it passes from the painted surface to the viewers' eyes, nevertheless the image is isolated – and its quality subtly altered – by the fact that there is no longer the potential of making tactile contact with it. It is as if she were Qinefer. Which, of course, she is. Except that, to her, her Qineferness has become no more than a mask which she maintains precariously in its place only by dint of an immense effort of will. Although the world around her cannot see it, she knows that the real Qinefer – her other self – is not at all like the exterior that she has so carefully crafted. At times she's able to keep the real Qinefer under her command, so that the other is locked away in a back attic of her mind and the person whom she used to think she was can control not only her body but also the thoughts that pass through her mind, so that the smiles she bestows on the beggars are smiles of the soul rather than just physical manipulations of her facial muscles – so that all of her reactions are what she wants them to be and not just involuntary deeds that she watches herself mechanically performing, like voiding her bowels. Even in these times, though – even in these best of times – the other self is talking to her, reminding her always that her own self-perception all these years has been fatally distorted, so that she has seen herself as a heroine, a loyal friend, a staunch and courageous warrior in the cause of Good, a person who gives rather than takes in her loving . . . That's not her, and never has been: she no longer recognizes the person to whom those descriptions might apply. Of

The Birthplace // 141 course she knew what would happen to the nag that had served her so faithfully during her long ride down through Sommerlund. Isn't that the way she treats all of those whom she publicly calls her "friends"? Isn't their reward for the friendship they give her inevitably betrayal? But then there are the worse times, when the other Qinefer is in complete governance of her, so that she lives according to the ancient creed that "do what thou wilt shalt be the whole of the Law"; it is a creed of death, of course, as condemned corpses proclaim from gibbets the world over, but that is not how the other person within her views it. Instead, it is a creed of life, constantly affirming vigorous vitality, until others affirm their own vitality, their own right, by putting an end to your gloriously hedonistic existence. At these times Qinefer finds the strand of herself that she used to regard as the whole has become peripheralized: it eats the food that powers the muscles that make the body do what the real Qinefer wants it to do; she herself watches from the sidelines, revolted and fascinated by turn. Does she hate the real Qinefer? Does she loathe her with the true abhorrence of one whose country has been invaded and tyrannized? She doesn't know. She's trying not to allow herself too many emotions these days, because she finds that they sap the low reserves of energy that she requires in order to keep herself in position as the mask over the real Qinefer, the shameful, twisted, bitter, treacherous person whom she has always really been. She thinks that, if she were able to, she would indeed regard the other self as a usurper, and abominate its intrusion accordingly . . . but she doesn't know and she's somehow never able to find the time to ponder such matters because she's always too busy, busy, busy maintaining her disguise. If only she knew someone closely enough to be able to talk to them. She recognizes, as night draws on, that she has been following a succession of ambages towards the city centre, and she recognizes also her wisdom in having done so. Her other self has no wish to seek out the Birthplace and confront whatever reality awaits her there, and so it has been a question of her having to masquerade her own need as a velleity, pushing here and there, whenever and wherever she can, against the amorphous bulk of not-quite-resistance that the other self has placed in her mind. What she wants most of all (and this, she believes, is a secret that she's been able to keep from the other self) is to find an agent that will force her to go directly to the palace. Once there she will be within the field of influence of the Birthplace, and it will be too late for the real Qinefer to change that. The trouble is that the real Qinefer, even when she has succeeded temporarily in incarcerating it in the prison of her unconscious, is alert to anything that she might attempt to do to further this aim. She knows that she cannot simply insult a Sharnaz and be hauled off for punishment: the other self's sense of self-preservation is too finely honed for her ever to be permitted to

The Birthplace // 142 execute such a positive action. She must advance by stealth. She has declined to buy herself a black mourning sash, like the ones that everybody else is wearing, because that is an act of omission and hence hasn't alerted her real self; unfortunately, none of the Sharnazim has thought to challenge her lack of hypocritical public respect for the memory of the old Zakhan: the soldiers have allowed her to continue on her way free from the molestation she so desires. . . . So she drifts slowly onwards . . . . . . tick tick . . . . . . tick tick . . . . . . until someone puts his hand on her shoulder from behind and tells her in a loud accusing voice that she is a traitor, an outlander spy, an enemy to the people of Vassagonia, a public criminal . . . . . . and she turns with a radiant smile of welcome to greet her captor, who covers his astonishment by punching her in the mouth with his studded glove and, as the blood spurts from her gashed lips, bundling her away with a glare of defiance at the shocked faces watching the arrest. # you're . . . . . . touched . . . . . . by the . . . . . . colours . . . . . . and the . . . . . . colours . . . . . . stick . . .

The Birthplace // 143

Chapter Seven LONE WOLF

He wasn't able to rest there for long, even though his climb down what had come to seem to him an infinitely long ladder of spikes had drained his energies. He was alerted to the fact that the Sharnazim had broken into the cellar and had realized where he'd escaped when chunks of dried mortar started raining down on his shoulders. Instinctively he looked upwards at the light at the top of the shaft down which he'd just clambered. He skipped aside just in time to avoid being brained by the heavy grating, which struck him a glancing blow on the left shoulder and then skidded off across the walkway to be lost with a ponderous splash in the liquid sewage of the main channel. It could be only a matter of moments before his pursuers climbed down after him. Forcing his Kai senses to dull the stinging stench of the air, he looked rapidly around him. He was standing forty or fifty feet from a place where a narrow tributary channel joined the main flow. The flow! With luck I can orient myself . . . The river of sewage seemed almost motionless as he stood at its edge, looking down on it. Here and there bubbles formed slowly and expanded until they burst lazily through their thin scummy skins to release gases that made his torch flare. He looked at the flame nervously; he'd no wish to be remembered in Sommerlund as the hero who'd ignominiously blown himself to pieces in the Baga-darooz. It was hard to tell the direction of flow of the sluggish, featureless homogeneous mass of sharn, but he knew that he had to – otherwise he might find himself walking straight towards even more repulsive scenes. "The Stink", an expert on all matters faecal, had given him a general run-down on the way that sewage was treated in Barrakeesh. Lone Wolf, who'd been eating his breakfast at the time, had listened with less than his usual attention, but he could remember the rough details. Fresh water was pumped along

The Birthplace // 144 a great aqueduct, some forty miles long, from the river Da, which met the sea by Chiras, to the northwest. On reaching the outskirts of Barrakeesh the aqueduct (the Grand Madani! That was the name "The Stink" had called it) split into countless branches which served the suburbs on the western side of the city. The main stream, though, circled around the city and came back through it from the east, picking up sewage as it went, before heading back in the general direction of Chiras to be pumped into the sea a few miles from the village. This complicated arrangement was designed to ensure that the citizens of Barrakeesh shouldn't have to go in fear of their delicate nostrils being afflicted by the odour of excrement: the people of Chiras clearly had much tougher nostrils, being hardy fisherman and their folk. Those hardy fishermen and their folk, who had complained to deaf ears for years about the pollution of their stretch of coastline, made a careful distinction between the fish for local use, netted to the east of their village, and the stuff they sent to Barrakeesh, caught to the west. It was a petty revenge, of course – the endemic food-poisoning in the city merely added to the volume of sewage it produced – but its justice amused the people of Chiras. Lone Wolf dug in the pockets of his jellabah for a scrap of paper or some other piece of litter, but they were empty. In desperation he took off one of his ridiculously spiral-tipped slippers and tossed it onto the sludge. Green like his robe, it sat on the surface like a beached boat before slowly moving off to his left. He threw its companion after it. Now he had a crude estimation of the direction of northwest. The tributary arriving from what he now knew to be the southeast was another matter. Its waters were swifter-moving and far less fetid and congested than those of the primary flow, which had passed under much of Barrakeesh and was hence heavily burdened. This must be one of the minor sewers, built to serve only a suburb. If he could make his way along it, against the current, he should in due course reach the Grand Madani – and it would be good to get away from the source of the worst of the acrid, warm reek. The main problem was that he'd have to forswear a walkway, because the men who'd built the sewers clearly hadn't reckoned that the tributary was important enough to merit one. A lesser but nevertheless pretty overwhelming disadvantage was that, although the tributary's waters were cleaner than those of the main flow, that was only a relative assessment. Looking along its low tunnel, he could see a landscape of crusted

The Birthplace // 145 green, black and chocolate-coloured scum through which protruded, like the peaks of oceanic mountains, larger items of snagged debris. The curved ceiling was ancient and in many places cracked; vast opal-grey clawed insects, half as long as his arm, scuttled fitfully in and out of the cracks, occasionally dropping with a splotch! to their doom. Sinuous rippling movements of the scum betrayed the presence beneath it of aquatic creatures of some type. The prospect filled Lone Wolf with gloom, but also with delight – for here, surely, was his escape route. Any sensible Sharnaz would discount it completely and stick to the walkway. He glanced behind him; still no sign of his pursuers. He stripped off his jellabah, made a bundle of it, and threw it over to the other bank of the tributary; let them think he'd leapt or waded across and then dumped the garment because it was inhibiting his freedom of movement. His shoes, still visible as they slowly edged away on the surface, would with any luck add to the illusion. Naked except for his belt, he checked that the Sommerswerd was securely in its sheath and that his pouch, into which he stuffed the tinder-box, was firmly secured. With a prayer to Ishir to give him strength, he lowered himself into the filth, his skin flinching from its cold, oily touch. By the time his feet touched the slithery bottom, he was up to his waist in the stuff. He held the torch high above him and began to push himself firmly against the current, his feet almost skating across the invisible faeces-coated stone beneath. # Time passed. He'd heard the Sharnazim reach the spot where the tributary joined the main stream, their arguments as they debated which way he might have gone, and a couple of satisfying splashes which signalled the end of the altercation, but by then a bend in the tunnel had taken him and his torchlight out of view. Moving as quickly as he dared – if he slipped and fell under the surface his torch would be extinguished, and Ishir alone knew what infections he'd pick up. A thought struck him. Why should he care about his torch being extinguished? He drew the Sommerswerd, and soon the weapon's caressing glow lit up the tunnel walls. He plunged the torch beneath the scum; with a protracted hiss the flame died, and then he continued on his way.

The Birthplace // 146 He'd expected that after a while his revulsion for what he was doing would diminish – that he'd become inured to the fact that he was covered in sewage. His mind, however, refused to work like that. Each time he felt that he was just about becoming accustomed to the situation one of the accursed insects would plummet down from the ceiling and splosh into the mire; one of them even landed on his back, clutching at his flesh with its keratinous little claws before slithering off into the flow. The swimming creatures, luckily, seemed terrified by his intrusion and gave him a wide berth, for which he thanked Ishir profusely: underclothes would have done little to protect his genitals from a determined clash of jaws, but they would certainly have made him feel less vulnerable. A better founded fear was infection: he shuddered to think what germs might be penetrating his mucous membranes to thrive and multiply in his body's warm tissues. Now he wished that he'd taken his chances on the walkway alongside the primary channel; it was possible that by opting for this more arduous route he'd already committed suicide, but wouldn't know it until, days or weeks later, the sweats and the fits and the vomiting started . . . There were other, more immediately tangible hazards. His first warning of these was a scraping sound ahead of and above him. He peered into the gloomy penumbra of the tunnel in front, but for a moment couldn't see anything. Then two oval red eyes caught the Sommerswerd's light. Lone Wolf kept on advancing as before – he could hardly move more warily than he was already doing – but his grip on the sword tightened, ready for combat. Yet the last thing he wanted right now was a fight. His whole body was heavy and weary, and the bruising on his shoulder from where the falling grille had hit him was throbbing painfully. If need be he could conquer his bodily shortcomings and defend himself, but he'd prefer to avoid the encounter. A far more important disadvantage under which he would labour was that any denizen of the Baga-darooz would certainly be accustomed and adapted to the circumstances, whereas he himself would be floundering around in the slippery channel, half submerged, his eyes straining to make the most of the light. On the other hand, a dweller in darkness would have difficulty accommodating its eyes to what to it would seem a searing brilliance . . .

The Birthplace // 147 As if in response to his thought, the red ovals narrowed. As he came closer to them, he could make out the long, heavy scaled length of a huge bull kwaraz clinging upside-down to the ceiling. He stopped. Kwaraz were not normally ferocious creatures, but if provoked or frightened – or if very hungry – they could bite a man in half without stressing their massive jaws in the slightest. Their long hooked claws were razor-sharp and, although kwarazim were not the swiftest of movers, could devastate flesh with a single sideswipe. And a kwaraz this size – it was about a dozen feet long and hugely muscled – could easily crush a human being; Lone Wolf didn't relish the prospect of venturing along the sewer beneath it. The creature, to judge by the pallor of its scales, was clearly a native of this subterranean realm. This surprised him for a second, for it was generally believed that kwaraz were indigenous only to the Maakenmire, that vast swamp to the far west of Vassagonia. He swiftly realized that finding a colony of them here was, after all, not to be unexpected. Conditions in the Maakenmire were fetid and moist, exactly as in the Baga-darooz; it wouldn't have taken long for a group that had strayed far from its natural habitat to acclimatize itself to the cooler temperatures and minimal illumination down here. Succeeding generations of the beasts would rapidly have adapted to the environment. The naturalists back home would be fascinated to learn of Lone Wolf's discovery, assuming that his discovery didn't choose to eat him first. The pallid creature stared at him, motionless except for its long horned tail, which twitched speculatively. Its ears were flat forward against its skull: the aggressive display of kwaraz involved raising the ears to reveal their brightly coloured interiors, so Lone Wolf was reassured that the beast had no immediate intentions of attacking him. Yet it might be frightened, and a terrified kwaraz was if anything more dangerous than an angry one . . . He drew upon the abilities that his Kai self possessed, and radiated goodwill towards the animal. I won't harm you unless I have to . . . I'm pleased to see you and to see that you're in no danger and that the feeding is good . . . we are brothers of the darkness and we do not wish to feud between ourselves . . . The words didn't matter, of course; all Lone Wolf could hope for was that the kwaraz's rudimentary brain could perceive the signals and interpret the sentiments. Either it did or the beast simply grew tired of looking at him. Moving in a slow, stop-and-start fashion, its claws clacking on

The Birthplace // 148 the ancient brickwork, it headed towards him, constantly flicking its eyes backwards and forwards between the Sommerswerd and his face. For a few heart-stopping seconds it was passing directly above him, the ridge of barbed scales along its spine only a couple of feet from his head; even over the stench of the sewer he could smell the kwaraz's steely reptilian odour; his nostrils protested at its alienness. And then the kwaraz had passed him. Scales creaked against each other as it turned its massive head to look at him one last time, and then it skittered rapidly in a long curve down the side of the tunnel to slip easily into the scum. A receding "V"-shaped pattern of ripples showed its course as it swam silently away beneath the surface. As soon as he had watched it out of sight Lone Wolf clamped down on his Kai senses, which had naturally become more acute while he'd been conveying his will to the kwaraz. Unfortunately this had applied to all his senses, including that of smell. Now that he had dulled his receptors once more, the air he was breathing seemed almost fresh. He moved on slowly, alert for any further kwaraz – the remainder of its brood couldn't be too far away – or other large creatures that might threaten him. He became even more cautious when there was a sudden outburst of anguished screaming from behind him: clearly his "friend" had discovered some Sharnazim prey. Which meant, of course, that despite his hopes some of Maouk's men had followed the tributary and weren't too far behind him. Even if the kwaraz failed to slay them all, this attack would certainly delay them . . . Nevertheless he kept moving as swiftly as the current and his caution would let him. It was impossible to judge the passage of time down here, but he guessed that it must have been about two hours later that the stink of the air began to get worse again. His first thought was that the channel he was in must have looped around to come close once more to the main sewer; he groaned, hearing the sound of his dismay echo away in both directions along the brick-lined tunnel. Then he stopped and allowed his Kai self to replay the course he had followed. He wasn't conscious of exactly what his Kai mind did as it ran through his memories of the past few hours, reading the details of his every movement and reviewing the orientations it had established for him along the way, but within

The Birthplace // 149 less than a second he had the reassuring knowledge that, despite the twists and turns the tunnel had taken, his overall course had been leading him more or less exactly due west. If the two channels did indeed come close to each other, it must have been the main sewer leading to Chiras that had swung round. But that still didn't explain the distinct smell of charring superimposed on the miasm of stale excrement . . . There was nothing for it but to press on and see what he would find. After what he estimated to be another hour or so – he'd started counting the bricks along the side of the tunnel, and reckoned that his average rate of progress was about half a mile an hour – he saw light ahead. Moreover, there were echoing noises, although as yet they were just an indiscriminate hotchpotch of unidentifiable sounds. It seemed almost certain that there were human beings in the part of the Baga-darooz complex which he was approaching – either that or, unknown to the Vassagonians, their sewerage system was home to a non-human culture, like the noodnics who inhabited the side-passages of Durenor's colossal transit tunnel, Tarnalin. Which would he prefer to meet – Vassagonians or the unknown sapient creatures of another evolutionary stock? To judge by his experiences among the noodnics, the latter. Either way, it seemed that he would have to find out soon, for there was no turning back: it was likely that the Sharnazim behind him had given up the pursuit, especially after their encounter with the hungry kwaraz, but he couldn't rely on it. The light ahead grew brighter, the noises louder. There were several people screaming in pain. Their tormented cries were punctuated by flat, snapping noises. Lone Wolf grimaced. The combination of sounds was far too easy for him to recognize – he'd heard it too often before. People were being whipped and, by the sound of it, mercilessly. And those were human screams. He thought with brief nostalgia of the gentle, if kleptomaniac, ways of the noodnics. He could see that he was approaching a major excavation, a huge opening carved crudely out of the surrounding mud and rock. He shivered. By the scale of the endeavour, this chamber must have been excavated in ancient times, by the peoples who had lived in much of Magnamund long before the emergence of the world's current races. Little was known about those primordial

The Birthplace // 150 civilizations, but the thought of their ancientness made Lone Wolf's hackles rise whenever he came near one of their gargantuan artefacts; perhaps it was the feeling they gave him of the colossal scale of past history, or perhaps it was merely the sense of alienness they conveyed to him. However, this time it wasn't the thought of those earlier civilizations that caused the chill in his spine: it was the human cruelty that he could hear being inflicted. Initially he was perplexed by the fact that he see no details of the chamber ahead except the distant wall, a black gap in whose centre indicated the entrance there of the channel along which he'd been walking. Where were the pieces of tackle he would have expected to see by the sides of the stream? It was curious that he couldn't see any obvious signs that there were other people around. Surely he should at least be encountering fresh litter, thrown into the foul water to be carried off into the main sewerage system? Very soon he realized the situation, and cursed himself for his own stupidity. All the while that he'd been wading through the sharn with the current against him he must have been rising steadily towards ground level; the gradient had been too slight and the surroundings too disorientating for him to notice the long, slow ascent. By contrast, the further from the centre of Barrakeesh it progressed, the further the main sewer must descend. The great chamber that he was just about to enter was spanned by a graceful arch which bore this offshoot of the Grand Madani. His vigilance became extreme as he inched his way into the open. To his right a long flight of steps, presumably put there to allow access to the arch by maintenance workers, zigzagged down the wall of the cavern; peering ahead, he could see a matching set of steps on the far side. The walls of the aqueduct were little higher than the level of the water – he wondered what happened during floods, but dismissed the speculation from his mind. Trying not to make himself too conspicuous, he risked leaning over to gaze down at what was below him. After so many hours during which every surface he'd touched had been sleek and slimily wet, the sensation of the coarse-grained dry rock against his palms was euphoric – he thought giddily that he could tolerate the virulent miasm for the rest of his life if only he could be permitted to carry on touching these blissfully arid-feeling stones. All too soon, reason prevailed. It must have been here – or in a similar place elsewhere in the Baga-darooz system – that "The Stink" had been incarcerated. Along one side of the broad channel of excrement, some fifty feet

The Birthplace // 151 below where he stood, a long line of metal stakes had been erected; to these, and to fitments along the wall behind them, had been chained men and women – and even, to judge by their size, some children. Those of the unfortunates who retained any clothing at all were in blood-soaked rags. Many were amputees. Some were howling like wild animals, sanity long-since driven from them, crouched ferally in the midst of pools of their own urine and excrement. Others seemed either to have retained some remnants of their wits or to have been driven into those deep pits of mania that are forever cut off from the reality of the outside world, for they stood or slumped in their bonds, either patiently biding their time of torment or mindlessly incapable of registering anything that was going on. A few were either sleeping or dead. Fires burned in braziers between the stakes, their smoke making the fetid air even more choking. Some of the fires were flaming vigorously, and near to them the skin of the chained victims was pink and shiny-seeming from long scorching. Lone Wolf thanked Ishir breathlessly that, as far as he could see, the guards' sadism didn't extend to the deliberate use of fire to torture their captives. It was a small enough mercy. The black-robed men who prowled ceaselessly back and forth along the sewer's walkway were equipped with long sjamboks, and they used these pitilessly to lash out viciously at their prisoners whenever the whim took them. As Lone Wolf watched, one of the men suddenly turned and savagely whipped his weapon across a captive's face; dissatisfied with the human damage this strike had caused, he then proceeded to rain several more bone-shattering blows on the limp and, Lone Wolf prayed, unconscious body of the victim. Had Lone Wolf been armed with a bow the guard – yes, and all his fellows – would have died where he stood. As it was, all Lone Wolf could do was swear that, if ever he could bring it into his power to do so, he would enable the prisoners of the Baga-darooz to exact their vengeance on those who tormented them here. And to think that people laughed at the tales "The Stink" told, he thought, tears coming to his eyes no matter how hard he tried to fight them back, and told him to stop making such a fuss over nothing . . . He made no attempt to conceal himself as he waded slowly across the aqueduct. After the brutality he had just witnessed it would have seemed, in a curious way, like cowardice to have hidden himself. At any moment he expected to hear a roar of

The Birthplace // 152 discovery from one of the bestial Vassagonian guards beneath him, but no shout came. I swear I will avenge what I saw here . . . # More time passed. The further he went, the less filthy the water. On one brief occasion it cleared sufficiently for him to be able to make out the dim shape of his feet on the slickly covered stones of the channel's bottom; the image was distorted by refraction in the water, but even despite that and the layer of scum on his foot, he was able to see that the skin was puckered and wrinkled, the flesh drawn back from his shrivelled toenails. He was almost relieved when a fresh wash of sewage came down towards him and obliterated the sight. The only sounds he could hear were his own small splashings and the constant thick gurgle of the cloying waters. It seemed as if he were living in a different world, one that comprised nothing but an endless web of bricked tunnels and a thick, acrid atmosphere of sulphurous gases. The screaming of the chained prisoners had been left behind him long ago; his memory of their torment seemed to belong in to a dream he'd once had. He could have waded mindlessly along here like this for ever, knowing no passage of time ... Apart from the fact that he was ragingly thirsty, there was only one thing wrong in his noxious heaven. His left arm had begun to throb from the blow he'd received from the grating the Sharnazim had dropped down on top of him. The pulsing sensation wasn't painful – indeed, that fact was troubling him, nagging away at his mind. Why wasn't it hurting him, when it should have been? Never mind. Don't worry about it. Just press on through the dark water . . . He was shocked out of his mesmerized complacency by an abrupt tug at his ankle. Before he could stop himself he'd fallen face-first into the sewer's greasy-feeling mire, sending up a great splash of brown, stinking water. He took an involuntary breath, and suddenly his nostrils were full of the oily slime; he could taste the vile putrescence of it at the back of his throat. Blinded by shit, he got shakily to his feet. His stomach ejected what little was in it, coating the back of his teeth with a mixture of regurgitated sewage and his own thick bile. He rubbed frenziedly at his eyes with the back of his wrist, not caring that the

The Birthplace // 153 hard metal pommel of the Sommerswerd cracked against his cheekbone. He forced his eyelids open despite the sludge caking them, then spat great gobbets of discoloured saliva. It was as if his body wanted to expel all the poison that had accumulated in him during the past twenty-four hours since he'd arrived in this accursed country – not just the faecal wastes of its inhabitants but also the sight of his friend Banedon being led off into captivity and his other friend Allani being treacherously stabbed in the belly by that thrice-accursed storgh-son Maoud, the insane beating that had been administered to the prisoner in the underground cavern, the ruthless massacre of the crew of the Divine Dawn . . . He was trying to rid himself of scenes and sounds that seemed worse, because of their recent vividness, than any he had witnessed before, even on the bloody field of battle. At last, with one final agonizing paroxysm, his body ceased convulsing. He looked around him, as he were expecting someone to have been watching him. There was nothing but the inscrutable wall of bricks trailing away from him in both directions as far as his eyes could penetrate the gloom. His body had purged itself of more than his revulsion; gone, too, was the seductive lassitude into which he'd allowed his mind to sink. Although he was now physically weak from his retching and his exhaustion, his mind felt fully alert for the first time since he'd seen that depraved flogging. He spared a few seconds to stir in the murky, frothy water with the Sommerswerd to try to clear it enough for him to see what it was that had tripped him. Half-embedded in the brown silt he could make out an ancient rusted breastplate, still attached to a metal, jointed arm. Who knew how many years or centuries it had been since some soldier, pioneering this route long before Lone Wolf, had met his lonely end separated by more than merely a yards-thick layer of solid rock from the rest of humanity. And, soldier, thought Lone Wolf dourly, you may have killed one more enemy, long after your own death. The sharp edge of the breastplate had ripped an ugly gash in his calf. Even now bacteria must be swarming in from their fecund breeding-grounds in the sewage through the torn tissues of the wound. As soon as the thought had passed from his mind he realized that it was too late to worry about further infection. He began to laugh hysterically; then he threw back his head and shouted his rancorous mirth at the arched ceiling, not caring that

The Birthplace // 154 the echoes of his misery might carry an unimaginable distance through the closed system of the Baga-darooz. His arm. His numb arm that he hadn't been too worried about . . . The last of the guffaws that came from his parched throat seemed to tear at his tongue. Had it not been for the lethargy that had the monotony of his travel through the tunnel had infused in him he'd have realized almost at once that the germs in the wastes of the Baga-darooz had already entered his system and begun to do their deadly work. Years ago, during the siege of Holmgard by the forces of the Darklord Zagarna, and more recently when the city of Ruanon was hemmed in by Barraka's bandit army, he'd seen people suffering from this ailment. "Limbdeath", the citizens of Ruanon had called it, and that was as good a name as any. It was borne by decaying untreated human faeces, and would enter the body through any wound or on food that had been tainted by contact with the raw sewage; less commonly, it was known to be able to penetrate the body's defences via the mucous membranes or even the cornea of the eye. The first symptom of the disease's attack was usually a numbness of the arm – almost without exception the left arm – followed by paralysis and, within twenty-four hours, tissue death. The only cure for the condition that Lone Wolf had ever encountered was amputation of the affected arm, as otherwise the creeping gangrene spread inexorably back through the circulatory system to cause a massive heart attack. He had heard that herbal cures had been discovered, but he knew little of these, as skilled herbalists were hard to find during times of siege, which for obvious reasons were also times when limbdeath was most likely to be prevalent. Besides, herbalists were always boasting of the fabulous cures of exotic diseases that they had been able to effect in distant towns and which they seemed mysteriously unable to perform in one's own when presented with more commonplace ailments. He remembered now how he'd dismissed his fears of infection when first he'd stepped into the sewer. Perhaps the voice of his Kai entity had been trying to speak to him, but he'd had too many other things on his mind at the time to hear its words of warning. For his heedlessness he would, it seemed, pay with his arm . . . if he were lucky. He'd lost count of the time that he'd been down here, and there was no certainty that he'd be able to find his

The Birthplace // 155 way out of the Baga-darooz before the gangrenous spread had had time to reach his heart. Already he could see in his mind's eye himself wandering endlessly through the sewerage system, becoming weaker by the hour, losing his mental faculties as inevitably as he lost his physical ones, until at last, with a sudden hammer-like blow, the life was driven from him. Maybe in a few hundred years' time someone would come across his remains and idly wonder who he had been, just as he had done when he'd seen the armour of the forgotten soldier. Desperately he began to knead the muscles of his arm, propping the Sommerswerd against the wall to leave his hand free and hoping against all reason that somehow he'd been wrong in his assumption that he was indeed suffering from limbdeath. The weapon's glow slowly ebbed, so that soon he was left in pitch darkness. This drove him to even more strenuous efforts, as if by stimulating some feeling in his arm he could also bring back the light. He knew that his digging fingers must be leaving bruises all over the flesh of his limp arm, but he could feel none of their pain. In fact, despite his labours, he could feel nothing in the arm at all. Eventually he gave up. Now the muscles of his right forearm and wrist were throbbing, too, but he knew that this was simply a result of their efforts. He reached out for the Sommerswerd, groping for the sword in the darkness. As soon as he felt the roughness of the metal of its hilt he began to see the golden light of its blade filtering through the mired water. Warmth began to creep back into him, too – the warmth of the Sommerswerd's soul-stuff. He made himself relax, so that he could better appreciate the sensation of coming-togetherness as the weapon's soul-stuff commingled with his own to create the Kai entity, the gestalt, that was greater than either of its constituent parts. I can't cure my limbdeath unaided, he thought suddenly, but could it be that the entity has the power to do so? Despite his desolation, he felt a surge of anger towards himself. Was he not supposed to be a Kai Lord, priding himself on his ability to draw upon the innate powers present within his own mind and body? Was it not this very ability that segregated him from his fellows? And yet, and yet . . . when he was faced with what seemed to be his sentence of death, what was his instant reaction? Did he coolly turn inwards to repel the invaders using the sophisticated powers of which he was so proud? No. Instead he had

The Birthplace // 156 shown his pride for what it really was: vanity. His reaction had been indistinguishable from that of the lowliest village idiot. He'd reverted to the primitive, pummelling and twisting his limb as if he were trying to punish it for his condition, driven on by a blind childish belief that, just because he didn't want something to be so, it wouldn't. He was hardly fit to be anything more than meat for the kwaraz . . . Much of what you have been thinking as you've been chastizing yourself is perfectly true, Lone Wolf, said his Kai entity in its dryasdust voice. As always, its tone conjured up in his mind a picture of an old, frail man walking through a snowstorm, untouched by the gale and the piercing cold, his parchment-like skin having the pallor of the dead. Yes, you did indeed regress to the primal, as an animal might free itself by blindly chewing off a leg that had been caught in a hunter's snare. But do not rebuke yourself too long for that. Even the very first and greatest of all the Kai Lords, Baron Raunor of Toran, he who fought at the Battle of the Maakengorge and later called himself Sun Eagle, had times when his own failings became the master of him. Some of his self-respect began to trickle back into Lone Wolf. It is easy to forget that the heroic figures of the dim past shared one's own imperfections. But, the gestalt voice was saying to him, in this instance your response was as effective in curing your affliction as any other might have been. The Kai powers that we share – you, the Sommerswerd, and the being that you have made of me – are considerable, and to many people seem miraculous and almost godly, yet they are not unbounded. Had you had thoughts for me earlier it is possible that we might have been able to stave off the invasion of your body by physical means. Now . . . now it is far too late for that: the course of the infection is far too far advanced. You must rely on the means available to any other mortal being. I must lose my arm? thought Lone Wolf despairingly. At least it wasn't his sword arm – yet of what use was a swordsman who was unable to bear a shield with which to defend himself from the blows of his foes? Not necessarily. Some magicians can overcome such ailments. And, although you were right in your surmise that most of the boasts of the herbalists are idle pretences, designed solely to part the credulous from their coins in exchange for brightly coloured potions, yet not all of their claims are sham. There do indeed exist herbal cures for limbdeath, although they are known only to a few: you will need Ishir to be smiling upon you even more generously than usual if you are to have the good fortune to find one such. Can you foretell whether or not I will be successful?

The Birthplace // 157 I dislike it when you address me as "you", Lone Wolf, as I've told you before. The practice betrays mental slovenliness, for as you well know I am not a separate entity from you. But leave that be. You know that I cannot foretell the future unambiguously – that I cannot see its fine detail. Your path into the future is but one of many that you might take. I can tell you, though, that it seems most probable that you will escape from this fetid maze with your life. As to what happens to you thereafter? I can tell you only that a cure lies along the paths of some of your possible futures, but I cannot predict which of those paths you will choose to follow. Lone Wolf felt an illogical resentment towards the gestalt entity. At one moment it patronized him as if it possessed infinite wisdom knowledge; at the next it dismissed his fate as a matter of little concern. Could it truly be that his Kai entity was formed from no more than the fusion of his soul-stuff with the Sommerswerd's? If so, its maddening characteristics must have been born from one of them – and it could hardly have been the weapon. It is educational for all of us to be humbled from time to time, he thought stiffly. One day you may mean such sentiments genuinely, Lone Wolf, said the ancient voice in his mind, and he could swear that he detected a note of smugness in its tone. But that day, if it ever dawns, will not be soon. That will be the herald of your total self-realization, the time when you attain the Grand Masterhood of the Kai. Until then, though, it is good for you to express the thoughts, even if you do not fully believe them. And then the presence of the gestalt was gone from him. He directed a few further mental questions towards it, but even as he did so he knew that his attempts were futile. His Kai entity had given him little comfort, and yet it had told him that he was likely to escape the Baga-darooz with his life . . . and doing so was, of course, a necessary prerequisite for any possibility of cure. There was no point in turning back the way he had come – for all he knew Maoud's Sharnazim were still doggedly following him – and so, holding the Sommerswerd before him, he resumed his wading, onwards against the torpid current. Even though the current was becoming detectably stronger he began to pick up speed. In part this was because the reassurance of the gestalt that he was likely to live drove him on to greater efforts, so that he could be free of the vile Baga-darooz as soon as possible; the other reason was that the water through which he was treading was become both shallower and progressively clearer of mire and solid wastes.

The Birthplace // 158 That he was coming closer to the surface of the ground soon became obvious, for now, every twenty or thirty yards, the ceiling of the tunnel was penetrated by a circular chute; through some of these, when he warily turned his face upwards, he could see daylight. But something curious was happening to the greasy water in the channel. When he first saw a sheen of riotously different colours on its surface he thought that his eyes must be playing japes with him, and ascribed the optical illusion to his incredible weariness; he grew more worried when he noticed how the plumes of separate colours, while they touched and plaited with each other, did not mix in the way one would normally expect. Finally he touched the hand grasping the Sommerswerd into the water, and as it came away he saw droplets of the different pigments falling from his knuckles. These were oil-based dyes, he realized. Immiscible with the water, they were also resistant to blending with each other – indeed, part of the master-dyer's art was persuading the different pigments to combine to produce new and unearthly hues. He must be passing beneath one of the areas of western Barrakeesh that Allani had mentioned during their evenings aboard the Divine Dawn – the quarter in which most of the members of Vassagonia's Guild of Linen-Weavers maintained their premises. The chutes along the ceilings must be their waste-pipes, through which they discharged unwanted dyes and unsuccessful blendings. His inference was confirmed a little while later when a sudden gush of vermilion liquid dropped from one of the vents ahead of him. The air was much cleaner here, reflecting the relative lack of faeces in the water. He began to feel a sense of optimism that had been absent from him almost since the time when he had spied the black flags of Barrakeesh through Allani's wooden-shafted telescope. Had he not been wading through water his step might almost have become jaunty . . . although he took care to hurry past each of the ceiling vents as he came to it. Where before he had glumly looked forward to nothing better than the amputation of his left arm, now his gut instincts were telling him that not only would he find a nonsurgical cure for his limbdeath but also his healed arm would be even stronger and more dexterous than it had been before. Oh, yes, he thought, grinning at his own childish enthusiasm, and I'll be able to pluck full-grown trees from the ground with it, and hurl them from one continent to the next.

The Birthplace // 159 The smile froze on his face. Just because the water smelled less noxious and was decorated in pretty colours, he'd allowed himself to become complacent. A wake of ripples moving rapidly towards him showed how dramatically ill founded that complacency had been: to judge by the wake, the creature swimming beneath the surface was serpentine and ten or more feet in length. He pushed himself back against the brightly stained wall to give the creature as wide a berth as possible, but clearly it had sensed his presence, for it immediately changed direction in response to his movement. As with the kwaraz, he willed expressions of affection towards it. These changed to gratitude as it slowed its movement and approached him less like an attacking predator and more like a creature that has found something interesting in its path and is pausing to inspect it. The animal nuzzled around his thighs for a few long seconds, and then slid lazily away from him, following the current towards the centre of the Baga-darooz complex. There was still sweat on his brow when, some minutes later, he heard a distant shriek of dismay from behind him. His first thought was that the beasts of the sewerage system showed remarkable good sense in their choice of victims to attack, for the kwaraz had likewise passed him by only to find succour in the flesh of the Sharnazim. This cheerful reflection was at once ousted from his mind by the recognition that the scream meant that, despite all the odds against them, the Sharnazim had indeed not given up their chase – encouraged, perhaps, by an occasional glimpse ahead of them of the Sommerswerd's brilliance. He judged from the sound of the harsh cry of dismay that he must still be several hundred yards ahead of them, despite his long pause after he had gashed his leg. Frowning, he realized that several hundred yards was not a huge margin: it'd be wise for him to take the first chance of escape from the system that he came across. He eyed the ceiling vents speculatively, but he knew that there was no possibility of his being able to climb up inside one of those smooth chutes. What might be possible, though, would be to brace himself inside one of them for long enough to remain unseen while his pursuers passed by underneath him. He stowed away the idea at the back of his mind for use if need be; ideally he would be well clear of the Baga-darooz by the time the Sharnazim reached this stage.

The Birthplace // 160 It wasn't long afterwards that he came to a place where the tunnel forked. The water coming down the lesser tine of the fork, the one to his left, was substantially cleaner than that in the right, suggesting that the lesser channel led more directly to the Grand Madani. Even had this not been the case, he would probably have opted for that channel anyway, simply because he longed for the feeling of fresher water against his skin. Half an hour later he began to wonder if he'd made the right choice when he came to a place where vilely gaseous liquids trickled from the ceiling vents to land with a fizzing hiss in the water. The violence of the chemical reactions was sufficient to make the water in this region detectably warmer than elsewhere, and wafts of roiling vapour were given off. Coughing and spluttering amidst the corrosive fumes, Lone Wolf traversed this fortunately short stretch of the tunnel as rapidly as he could. For some while afterwards he found breathing painful, and his chest felt taut. He guessed that he must have travelled under the foundations of an armaments manufactory, or a laboratory where alchemists whiled the time away with their garishly coloured stinks. But only a couple of hundred yards further on his trust in his judgement was rewarded. The tunnel suddenly broadened out to become a lofty chamber, about fifty feet long and maybe half that high. This seemed to be a maintenance area, because on the marble flagstoned walkway to Lone Wolf's right there were buckets, mops and other pieces of cleaning equipment neatly stacked in a corner; two torches guttered in wall-brackets, throwing a dim, fitful light over the moving water. The wall of the channel was built up to about breast height along this walkway, but in several places there were flights of marble steps allowing access between walkway and water. Looking around to make absolutely sure that there was no one in sight – a superfluous precaution, because the splashing of his arrival could hardly fail to have been heard by anyone who might have been working on the walkway – Lone Wolf wearily dragged his tired legs up the first flight of stairs he came to, and flopped down, the Sommerswerd laid out on the marble by his side, his legs dangling over the edge, his feet just clear of the scummy water. The smooth marble was like ice against his naked buttocks, but in the shroud of his exhaustion he hardly noticed. He used his leather pouch to try to scrape off the worst of the caked excrement from his thighs and cold-withered genitals, but his efforts had little effect. Where he could see it, the flesh of his

The Birthplace // 161 legs was a sickly grey-blue colour, like that of a corpse. The gash on his calf was looking white and ugly. His vision was blurring, as if someone had put a frame of black wool around everything he looked at, and each time that he closed his eyes he found it more difficult to force them open again. He knew that he couldn't stop here too long: aside from the fact that the Sharnazim couldn't be more than about half an hour behind him, there was a grave danger that he might fall asleep and succumb to exposure – it was already worrying him that, while his body was visibly suffering from the cold, he was feeling quite warm. Reluctantly, finding the strength from somewhere, he lugged himself up to stand on his wobbly legs. A rectangular doorway at the back of the walkway led into darkness. Presumably this must be the corridor used by the maintenance workers, and led eventually to ground level. He looked down at his spectacularly filthy nakedness, and realized that there were likely to be some intractable problems ahead – he could hardly expect to step unnoticed into some public place, exchange greetings with a few passing Barrakeeshians, and then stroll off as if there were nothing out of the ordinary. He shrugged. All ha could do was face the difficulty when he came to it. As he headed for the doorway a kwaraz inched out of the blackness of the passageway beyond. Lone Wolf became a statue. This beast wasn't nearly as big as the huge bull he'd encountered earlier, but it could nevertheless present a serious threat, if it wanted to. However, it seemed the kwaraz didn't want to. Its red oval eyes watching him from the crude frame of its squabbish skull, it scratched its way across the marble and eased itself from the lip of the walkway into the water. He watched it head off downstream, its body and tail moving sinuously with lazy power, and waited a few minutes for the sound of a scream. There was no sound but the sloshing of the water. Lone Wolf turned away. Either it was a case of third-time-lucky for the Sharnazim, or they'd finally given up all hope of catching him – or possibly they'd simply gone the wrong way at the last junction of tunnels. He shrugged. It didn't matter much. He paused, halfway to the door, and something approaching a smile came to his scabby lips. Watching the kwaraz swim with the current had given him an idea. Those chemicals raining down into the water, a couple of hundred yards back . . .

The Birthplace // 162 He helped himself to an empty bucket from the stash the maintenance workers had left and put it by the edge of the channel. With some difficulty, because of his useless arm, he was able to extract the torch he'd doused long ago, not long after first entering the system; its pitch-soaked head had dried out almost completely. He propped the torch in the bucket, using the coils of rope to keep it firmly in place. Again with incredible difficulty because of his paralysed arm, he succeeded after several attempt in sparking the flints to ignite a little heap of tinder. As soon as he was certain that the flame had properly caught, he grabbed up the torch, lit it, and then put it back in the bucket, once more lodging it securely in the rope, which soon began to smoulder. Trying to whistle nonchalantly through lips that seemed if anything dryer than the tinder had been, he launched the bucket out onto the water, and watched his little vessel as it bobbed off cheerfully in the direction the kwaraz had taken. He reckoned he had about ten minutes before the bucket would reach the chemicals. If he'd been right in his guess that they were wastes from a place where explosives were being made . . . The corridor went only about a dozen yards back from the open space, and ended in a wall that was blank except for the metal ladder bolted to it; to judge by the way the rungs shone in the light from the Sommerswerd, the ladder was the customary means the labourers used for coming to and from their place of work. There seemed little option but for Lone Wolf to follow their example. He sheathed the Sommerswerd and, not knowing what he could expect to find at the top, began to climb the ladder, ascending painstakingly rung by rung because of his useless arm, which had by now become nothing more than an encumbrance dangling from his shoulder. Concentrating on what he was doing with his right hand, the first he knew of the trapdoor at the top of the ladder was when he banged his head on it. He bent his neck and strained his shoulders against the horizontal wooden surface, mentally begging Ishir to have arranged things so that the workmen hadn't left anything too heavy on top of the closed trapdoor. His anxieties were not fulfilled. The trap lifted easily enough. He hadn't been prepared for the wall of noise that met him. There seemed to be a million human voices close by him, each trying to shout louder and more shrilly than the next. His eyes

The Birthplace // 163 were only a few inches amove the surface of what was obviously a street, the trapdoor propped jauntily against the back of his head; directly in front of him he could see countless pairs of feet in the distinctive Vassagonian curled-toe slippers. His vision was curtailed by a horizontal hem of cloth. Had it not been for his experiences changing out of his Sommlending garments into the jellabah, it might have taken him a some little time to work out where he was – under a covered stall in one of the many open-air markets that seemed to grow like weeds on every street corner in Barrakeesh. For a short while at least he would be safe here, his nakedness disguised from the public view by the hanging cloth. He pulled himself up onto the ground with as little clatter as possible – even though it was obvious that he would have had to make really quite a deal of racket before any of the yelling people around him would have heard anything. He eased the trapdoor back into place and looked around his temporary confinement in the wild hope that someone might have stuffed some cloth under the stall that he could use as makeshift clothing. It had indeed been a wild hope. A fair-haired man, streaked with excrement and dressed only in an empty orange-box would, if anything, attract more attention than a fair-haired man, streaked with excrement and stark naked. He dismissed immediately the crazy notion that occurred to him of pretending to be a sort of fairground mountebank, a professional buffoon who gratefully accepted people's coins in return for making a laughing-stock of himself. "Have your fruits gone rotten in the heat of the Sun, Bograz?" said one of the more comprehensible of the bawling voices. "Rotten? Rotten! I'll have you . . ." The stallholder sounded about the size of a fifty gallon barrel and twice as belligerent. "Yes, Bograz," confirmed another voice. "Your fruits stink like a wrestler's jockstrap." "How would you know?" said the first voice. "Haven't you ever . . ." "SHUT UP!" bellowed Bograz. "Insult my fruits would you? These fruits are as fresh as a maiden's . . ." He paused for breath. "Jockstrap?" suggested someone helpfully.

The Birthplace // 164 "Let me through! I'm a herbalist!" said a completely different voice. Lone Wolf could see the feet apparently scuffling with each other. "Where's the dying man?" "Dying man? There's no one dying here!" said Bograz. "First these whelkbrains say my fruits aren't fresh, now some lunatic tells me I'm about to have a stiff on my hands! I don't know what you people are complaining about. The atmosphere around my stall's as fragrant as a . . ." He took a deep, appreciative breath. Silence, as the crowd watched. "All right. Who's the accursed wrestler? No one leaves here until the wrestler . . ." Lone Wolf felt and then heard a colossal rumbling boom from beneath him. The trapdoor popped open like the lid of a jack-in-the-box and a gout of fire leapt up, singeing his hair and eyebrows. Outside, the people in the market were abruptly hushed. A far larger explosion, somewhere off in the general direction of the city centre, had assaulted their ears. Lone Wolf saw the light reflected from their polished slippers change colour as all the feet turned to look in the same direction. He chanced a glimpse out from under the cloth. No one was paying him any attention. He crawled as quickly as he could through the dense thicket of legs, shouldering aside knees quite roughly but still attracting no notice. As he came clear of the crowd he saw that the white frontage of the building facing him was dancing with flickering pinks and orange-reds. Getting to his feet, he glanced behind him and saw that the sky was lit up by a colossal column of flame; at the top of the sparking pillar a plume of dense black smoke had already been caught by the wind and was being teased away across the backdrop of clouds. Whatever explosives the Vassagonians had been manufacturing would never now be used in anger. No one now paid any attention to the fair-haired man, streaked with excrement and stark naked, who walked calmly across the street in which he'd found himself and up the imposing steps that led to a pair of heavy doors on whose glass had been etched the notice: BARRAKEESH PUBLIC BATHS Opening Hours: Dawn - Dusk (not Sebtahs) Hallucinogenic Unguents Extra

The Birthplace // 165

The white-robed attendant inside dimly registered that a client had entered the building, but he noticed nothing unusual – except the smell, but he was accustomed to that – as he boredly tossed the newcomer a towel, never looking up from the scroll of camel-racing tips he was myopically reading through the exotically fragrant smoke of his hand-rolled cigarette. Lone Wolf caught the big cinnamon-coloured towel and pattered across the vestibule, his bare feet slapping on the pink********************** and white marble of the floor. A door at the rear puffed steam around its edges and was obviously the entrance to the baths themselves. Beyond it he found a long, steam-filled hall; through the swirling mist he could see doorways off it at regular intervals along both sides, and surmised that these led to individual bathing areas. Chattering voices told him that some at least of these were in use. He confirmed this by glancing into the first entrance he came to. Two skinny men were sprawled by a large sunken bath, towels around their waists, talking about something to do with camel-racing, Lone Wolf guessed, hearing the word "filly" used frequently. Lone Wolf was beginning to understand why Allani had boasted to him about the free public baths of Barrakeesh. Everything he could see had a certain shabby opulence that bespoke true quality rather than ostentatious lavishness. The building had been erected hundreds of years before, in some half-forgotten reign, and its purpose was to impress the world not with itself, for every capital boasts grand buildings, but with the even more ancient water-supply it represented. In an arid country surrounded by other arid countries, fresh water was an unusual luxury and reserved almost exclusively for drinking. "Here in Vassagonia," the public baths said to the world, "we are so wealthy that we can afford not only to bathe ourselves in fresh water but to allow any passer-by to do likewise, without charge." The baths served also as a social centre for the socially powerful and the intelligentsia, who would cleanse their bodies and then foregather in one of several generously appointed fora within the building to debate the issues of the day or the finer nuances of science and philosophy. Lone Wolf could hear a distant susurrus of ebbing and flowing altercation; shielded from the outside world by the thick marble walls, the debaters presumably hadn't heard the explosion as the distant armaments works caught light.

The Birthplace // 166 Thanking Ishir that there was no one else around in the hall itself to see him, he quickly found a chamber that was unoccupied. There was a urinal carved out of the wall's marble in one corner, and he used it. Nearby there was a shelf made out of sandstone protruding from the wall; on it were bottles of oils and perfumes in various different bright colours, as well as a large bowl of cold water – which Lone Wolf, having tested it carefully to make sure that it really was what it seemed to be, drained in half a dozen long swallows. The unguents he eyed suspiciously, recalling the sign on the main door. The last thing he wanted was a flight into cocooned fantasy. He had a vision of the Sharnazim charging into the room, scimitars at the ready, to be greeted by nothing more threatening than a vacant, beatific grin. He recognized, though, the rich translucent purple of the oil of the larnuma tree in one of the bottles; he unstoppered the bottle and sniffed the liquid just to make sure, then dropped his towel and stepped into the shallow bath, the Sommerswerd still at his belt – the weapon had been wet before and, besides, he reflected with a smile, it needed the bath as much as he did. He lay in the warmth for several long minutes, feeling with his feet the turbulence of the perfumed water tumbling into the bath from a rusted iron tap at one end. The tap was shaped like the head of a huge bird, and its cruelly curved, wide-open maw, from which the water spewed, reminded him of the itikars he had encountered during the siege of the city of Ruanon. So far, since arriving in Vassagonia, he had seen nothing of these great beasts, which were used both for transport and in war; he sincerely hoped that he'd continue to see nothing of them . . . Once the worst of his coating of filth had rinsed off him he began rubbing the larnuma oil into his flesh, feeling his muscles relax and his aches ease as the aromatic liquor soaked into his tissues. No matter how hard he washed himself, he could still smell the stench of the Baga-darooz on his body. He wondered if he'd spend the rest of his life like "The Stink", perpetually believing that his body was surrounded by a miasma of malodour which would never disappear, no matter how often it were washed or the quantities of perfumes poured over it. He grimaced; the prospect wasn't pleasing. Even now, he wondered how much of the smell that offended him was real and how much the neurotic product of his brain. The bath waters were being drained off as rapidly as the supply from the tap replenished them – the vortex surrounding the small metal drain tickled his side pleasantly – and were now as

The Birthplace // 167 clear as before he'd climbed into them. The odour of their perfumes and the tang of the larnuma oil must surely have smothered any lingering taint of fetor that surrounded him, and yet his nostrils seemed still able to detect . . . Thought of "The Stink" reminded him of that hideous chamber he'd come across in the depths of the Baga-darooz, where the chained prisoners suffered their brutal fate. He'd sworn then that if it were in his power he'd gain their release and avenge them for the agonies the guards were inflicting on them. That private oath now seemed to be insulated from him by the billowing steam around him: it had been born of a remembered fury. Angry with himself, he clawed aside some of the vapour, as if by doing so he'd reveal the nakedness of his promise. Many, too many, of the evils of this world were perpetuated because people like himself allowed their initial horror and fury to be attenuated by the diluent of time. It was far too easy to relegate other people's sufferings to the pending file of one's mind, there to be slowly lost among all the other things about which one was determined to do something . . . soon. Already he felt remote from that nightmare scene, as if it had been something described to him over a tankard of ale by someone who'd heard about it from someone else, so that, after both of them had expressed all the expected horror and revulsion, they could feel that their consciences had been washed clean, leaving them free to talk about the latest sports results or something equally vital. By a deliberate effort of will, Lone Wolf caught hold of his memory of the suffering of the prisoners in that great subterranean vault; he tried to reify it in his mind, so that he could experience again the raw anger and misery that he'd felt when he'd been there, watching it all from the aqueduct, powerless to assist the victims . . . He felt the fire stirring within him again at last. Impatient now, he clambered out of the bath. The larnuma oil had done its work: his entire body, except for his paralysed arm, felt as if it had been gently massaged by tender hands over a period of hours. The gash in his leg, however, although looking much healthier than it had, was beginning to sting like crazy and also to leak a little thin blood. He ripped a strip off the end of the cinnamon-coloured towel and improvised a bandage. Once he'd dried himself thoroughly he wound the rest of the towel around his waist and began to worry about finding something to wear. No one would think twice about seeing him wandering around naked inside this building, of course, but he could hardly remain trapped here for the rest of his life.

The Birthplace // 168 A small antechamber contained nothing except a steady blast of hot air, in which he allowed himself to revel for a few self-indulgent minutes. Beyond, he could see one of the debating fora Allani had mentioned. He was relieved to see that many of the men and women conversing in groups or pairs among the countless small fountains were dressed only in towels, like himself, if at all; he wouldn't look out of place, for the moment. Except, of course, for the Sommerswerd. He settled his useless left arm on the weapon's hilt and draped his towel over it; the arrangement looked palpably unnatural, but he breathed a prayer that no one would notice it, or remark upon the fairness of his skin. Moving through the throng, he couldn't help smiling to himself. In Sommerlund an assembly like this of barely clad men and women would have sparked the holies into an immediate tirade against the evils of the flesh, and yet here in Vassagonia, because no one was remotely self-conscious about it, the nudity seemed completely natural. For the first time he fully understood why Qinefer found clothing nothing more than a socially necessary impediment: in warm weather she volubly resented the encumbrance of the garments that convention dictated she must wear. Lone Wolf had often teased her about it; but looking around him now he saw that she'd been right all along. The "shame" of nakedness was in the mind of the beholder. As he moved around aimlessly, occasionally feeling a cool wayward puff of spray from one of the fountains, he heard dribs and drabs of many different conversations. The principal topic was, as might have been expected, the new regime. Although no one had the courage to speak their true thoughts out loud, it was patent that few people thought highly of their new Zakhan: there was exaggerated praise for Moudalla, who in truth had been widely regarded during his lifetime as the detestable old buzzard he had in truth been, but at mention of Kimah's name there would be either an uneasy silence or a rapid changing of subject. To Lone Wolf's surprise, on occasion the new topic was himself; he'd assumed that Kimah and his henchman, Maouk, would have kept his arrival in the city as secret as possible, but it seemed that they'd chosen instead to spread false rumours about his villainy and ferocity. Luckily none of the Barrakeeshians equated the psychopathic Sommlending fugitive of their stories with the big, fair-haired stranger who carried his towel so awkwardly. Then there was a deliberate touch at his side. Akra.

The Birthplace // 169 The little man was wearing a yellow jellabah, but had loosened its top so that it hung around his waist. "How did you find me here?" said Lone Wolf, startled. "Believe it or not," said Akra, "by accident. I came here only to find out what the intelligentsia was saying about Kimah and, more importantly, about Allani. I was astonished to find you. What possessed you to be so stupid as to come here? It's obvious" – he waved a hand up and down expressively, indicating Lone Wolf's nakedness – "that you're an outlander, and the city's alive with talk of the renegade outlander who . . ." "Maybe nobody's noticed me just because I am so obvious," said Lone Wolf, cutting off Akra in mid-flow. As briefly as he could, he described what had happened to him since their last meeting, in the market-place. "You need more clothes," said Akra at last. "You also need to find a herbalist. The clothes aren't any problem – I'll fetch you some in a minute. As for your arm? I don't know too much about medicine, I'm afraid, but one of our people does. Her name's Bir Dar Masoun. She has a little shop just off the Saadi-tas-Ouda – I'll tell you how to get there once we've got clear of this place." "What of Allani?" began Lone Wolf, catching at Akra's arm as the small man was turning to go off in search of clothing. "I saw him captured by Maouk's men, but I was too far away to know if he was alive or dead." "Dead," said Akra tersely. Then he grinned. "At least as far as the general populace is concerned. Some of our people found him cowering in a warehouse down by the docks. He told them some tale of how a magician had brought him back to life – which is impossible, as anyone knows. I didn't understand everything of what he was babbling, but it'd seem that Banedon was able to fool the Sharnazim into carrying off what they thought was Allani's corpse. When the time's right, Allani will `rise from the grave', a miraculous feat that'll rally behind him all the waverers – after all, won't it be proof that the spirit of the Majhan itself prefers Allani for the throne. It'll be impossible for Kimah to match that." Again Akra grinned, and then he was gone. Lone Wolf continued to move among the crowd, trying to look as if he were heading towards someone with whom he wished to speak, so that he had no wish to be deflected from his aim by being drawn into any idle conversation beyond a polite exchange of greetings or apologies should he bump into anyone. The ploy

The Birthplace // 170 seemed to work, because he was still at large some minutes later when Akra returned, a white jellabah over his arm. "Hop into one of the side-chambers and get dressed," the little man said hurriedly, pulling his own robe up over his shoulders. "I didn't have time to get you any shoes, but don't worry – quite a lot of people are happy enough to go barefoot, so you won't be noticeable. I'll meet you over there by the main exit." He pointed. Lone Wolf did as he was told. The jellabah smelled slightly but distinctly of fresh sweat and exotically fragrant smoke. He guessed that Akra must have stolen it from someone's bath-side, and hoped that the someone wouldn't notice too soon and raise a furore. In a pocket he found a stub of charcoal, which he discarded. At the large arched doorway he found Akra fidgeting with impatience. "The sooner we get away the better," the little man snapped quietly. "What in Naar's name did you think you were doing when you blew up the Zakhan's munitions factory? This whole area of town's swarming with blasted Sharnazim, out for blood. We're lucky they haven't come in here yet. You should have told me, you idiot!" "It didn't seem relevant at the time," mumbled Lone Wolf as the two of them hurried across the broad reception vestibule he'd seen earlier. There was no sign of the white-robed attendant who'd been sitting here with his scroll and his exotically fragrant cigarette. "So? He'll wake up with a bruise, that's all," said Akra, seeing the direction of Lone Wolf's thoughts. "By then it'll be too late for him to bet on any of the races, so he'll have saved enough money to buy himself another jellabah and a bit more besides." Rather unconvincingly Akra added: "He'd thank me, if he knew." They were outside on the majestic marble steps, the two great outer doors of the bathing hall behind them. In the market-place below business was proceeding much as usual, although from time to time people would stop and look over towards the east, where a thin pall of smoke still hung. As Akra had warned, there were Sharnazim everywhere, stopping and searching the citizens at random; there were too many people around, however, for the Sharnazim's attempts at interrogation to be very effective, and so most of the people being stopped were tolerating the attentions with a good-humoured, slightly patronizing smile.

The Birthplace // 171 "We must separate," Akra hissed. "One of the Sharnazim might recognize my face, so it's dangerous for both of us to stay together any longer than we have to. If you have the lousy luck to be stopped and searched – well, you'll just have to hope for the best. Try not to attract attention to yourself by blowing anything else up, hmmm? Not even a balloon. Our people will be keeping you under surveillance, but they've been told not to risk blowing their cover: they'll intervene only if it's absolutely essential – so do be a good fellow and try not to make it absolutely essential, my friend." Lone Wolf smiled at Akra's nervous sarcasm. "How do I get to this herbalist, whatsername, that you mentioned?" "Bir Dar Masoun? Ah, yes, forgot about that. Things'd all be a lot simpler if you could simply resign yourself to doing without an arm, you know. Still . . ." The small man drew in his breath and looked around, thinking. "Hmmm. Your quickest way from here to the Mikarum – that's where most of the epiciers and herbarians hang out – is down that street over there. You'll find yourself in a warren of smaller streets after a while, but keep going in that direction until you get to the Saadi-tas-Ouda – the Square of the Dead. It's easy enough to tell when you've got there – as you'll find out. Cross over the square – or, better still, go around it. Down one of the side-streets you'll see Bir Dar Masoun's herb shop – you can't miss it. Mention my name and she'll know who you are. Now – go! And the Majhan be with you!" "And Ishir with you," Lone Wolf responded. Akra gave him a quizzical look, and then vanished into the throng. The hood of his jellabah pulled down about his face, Lone Wolf rounded his shoulders to make himself seem smaller and tried to look as Vassagonian as possible . . .

The Birthplace // 172

Chapter Eight BANEDON "I'm rather surprised," said Banedon with a yawn, "that we heard nothing of the Black Zakhan during the night. According to the legends, his shade is supposed to walk the palace by night, moaning and screaming because of the Evil that he did during his lifetime." He and Thog were sitting on the floor of the cell into which they'd been unceremoniously thrust the evening before. Around them were the scraps of their breakfast – roast game-fowl, fresh dark bread flown in by itikar from the granaries of Cloeasia, two eggs each, fried just right, and as much steaming hot jala as they could drink. It was marvellous what Banedon had been able to do with the rancid water and mouldering bread that had been hurled at them through the hatch in the door. Their manacles hung empty from the walls, ready for them to leap back into should they hear one of the guards approaching. Thog belched and looked at Banedon in puzzlement, his attendant flies feasting on the crumbs caught in his beard. "What are you talking about?" he said. "I hardly got any sleep at all last night for all the screaming that was going on. I hammered on the wall and yelled at them to shut up, but it didn't make any difference." "Yes," said Banedon, "but those were mortal screams – and rather convincing ones, if I may say so myself. I'm talking about spectral screams." Thog, who liked to take things one at a time, picked a piece of meat out from between his teeth, went cross-eyed as he examined it, and then popped it back into his mouth. "What do you mean, `rather convincing ones'?" he said. "In case you haven't noticed," said Banedon sarcastically, "we're in the Zakhan's imperial torture chambers. A lot of the other people around here have, like ourselves, been incarcerated against their wills. Those men we saw wandering around the corridors last night – the ones with the whips and knives – are well paid by the Zakhan to get their jollies tormenting the prisoners. Got that?" "Yes."

The Birthplace // 173 "I don't like people being tortured and I don't like the people who do the torturing. If some poor wretch is screaming his head off in the next room I can't get a wink of sleep. If a professional torturer is screaming his head off in the next room, however, I snuggle down like a babe." "Yes, but . . ." "If the aforesaid professional torturer," Banedon continued, "discovers that every time he hits his victim it is he himself who suffers the pain, what does he do?" Thog's brow wrinkled. "Stops?" he said doubtfully after a few seconds, expecting to be told what a fool he was. "Yes," said Banedon, and Thog looked surprised. "Or, rather," he amended, "that's what he tries to do. Unfortunately, one of the duties of all those Sharnazim guards who're prowling the passages is to check up that the torturers aren't slacking on the job – aren't short-changing the Zakhan, as it were. So I get a good night's sleep, as do the other prisoners; the torturers have a pretty bad time of it until I wake up briefly in the middle of the night and transfer the pain to the guards, for a change, at which the torturers, who've been in agonies for several hours because of the blasted guards not letting them stop . . . Well, you get the picture." Thog, who'd got the picture but couldn't get the wrapping off, nodded knowledgeably. "It's a marvellous thing, this magic," he pronounced. "Say what you will, there's nothing can rival it." "Another satisfied customer," murmured Banedon. "Now, as I was trying to say before you interrupted me, the Black Zakhan's spectre is reputed to haunt the Grand Palace of Barrakeesh nightly. The story is that, when he died, the Majhan didn't want him and Naar, to whom his soul rightly belonged, had other evils on his mind; whatever the truth of the matter – and it's always hard to tell, with legends, shut out from all the normal abodes that souls occupy, the Black Zakhan was left to conduct his lonely vigil." "Was he very evil, then?" Thog's eyes were round. "He was so evil that the Vassagonians had to invent a new word for it. I don't know what the word was, because the person who told me the legend was afraid of even uttering it; if you're really interested, you can buy a copy of it from one of those street-vendors in the back alleys of Barrakeesh. Whatever it is, you can take it from me that the Black Zakhan gave Evil a bad name."

The Birthplace // 174 "Tell me the legend," said Thog. He liked stories, and it would be good to have something to while away the hours until it was their turn to be tortured. "Well, you probably didn't notice as we were brought here, but just outside the palace walls there's a great mausoleum built out of black marble." "Yes, I saw it," said Thog. "An excellently balanced piece of architecture, I thought." Banedon stared at him, astonished, but carried on. "The Vassagonians call it `Horm-tas-Lallaim', which translates into Sommlending as `Tomb of the Princesses'. The princesses in question were the daughters of the Black Zakhan, and their remains are buried there – as are his, as you'll learn if you listen carefully. The Black Zakhan was the last of his lineage to rule Vassagonia. His ancestors who'd occupied the throne had been harsh enough, but even their barbaric excesses paled by comparison with his. He butchered his subjects indiscriminately, so that all over the land fresh gibbets had to be erected wherever there was a patch of open land large enough to accommodate one. Mind you, the ones who were gibbeted were the lucky ones." Banedon nodded significantly. Thog waited agog. "The Black Zakhan's favourite method of executing his enemies," Banedon continued, "which to his insane brain meant just about anybody, was to have them sawn slowly in half, starting at the feet and working slowly up the legs and torso until finally the victim's back and front halves fell asunder. Whenever someone was to be executed like this – which was most of the time – the Zakhan would come and watch the person's agonies, sitting in his black onyx throne and chuckling with delight. "Now, it was the Black Zakhan who had the Grand Palace erected, using an army of prisoners-of-war as his slaves; so viciously did these poor unfortunates suffer under the lash that, it is said, barely one out of every hundred of them survived until the construction was completed. The building of the palace had become the Zakhan's personal obsession, and he'd overseen every last minutia of the work. Anyone who made the slightest error was executed. Anyone who had to report the slightest delay to him was executed. Anyone who took too long a lunchtime . . ." "Was executed." Thog felt pleased to have been able to complete someone else's sentence.

The Birthplace // 175 "Even so," said Banedon, "there were still several thousand slaves left alive to tell the tale – and that's the important part: `to tell the tale'. Underneath the palace several large treasure chambers had been built at the Zakhan's behest. Their locations – even their very existence – had been kept a dead secret, and they were guarded by all sorts of ingeniously lethal traps. Even so, to the Black Zakhan the thought that all of these slaves, not to mention their guards and overseers, and the various architects he'd employed, knew the secret was intolerable: he had visions of them going off and telling everyone else where the treasure vaults were, how the traps could be avoided, and so on. So he decided to have all the surviving slaves slaughtered, not to mention their guards and overseers, and the various architects he'd employed, and the executioners who'd done all the slaughtering. As you can imagine, he had some difficulty recruiting executioners once news of this last bit got out. "Now, the Black Zakhan had two daughters, Kebilla and Sousse, whom the legend recalls as being of such unimaginable beauty that passing birds dropped from the skies in wide-beaked awe, you see, and who are we to doubt the legend? Any bird congratulating itself on not being stunned from the skies by Kebilla's loveliness was sure to have its existence curtailed, as it were, a moment later by the sight of Sousse. These daughters were as fair of mind as they were of body, and they had always protested against their father's barbarism. His plan to massacre the slaves was the last straw: they told him that, if he was going to kill the slaves, he'd have to kill the pair of them first. "It was an unwise move on their part. The Black Zakhan went into a rage so towering that it dwarfed any he'd ever gone into before, and ordered that Kebilla and Sousse should be executed before all the slaves, and in the revolting fashion that he enjoyed so much. You can imagine this madman, sitting in his special throne and cackling with mirth as his daughters suffered their last." "I'd rather not," muttered Thog. "It was only later that it dawned on him that perhaps he'd been a little strict with the girls – youth must be allowed its impetuousness, after all. It was too late to say sorry, of course, but he did the next best thing: he raised the Horm-tas-Lallaim as a memorial to them, and had their remains buried within." "What happened to him then?"

The Birthplace // 176 "Well, if his mind had been unbalanced before, it was a couple of neurons short of a brainmass by now. Racked by despair and self-loathing, plunged to the very depths of misery by the loss of his daughters and the knowledge that he himself had been responsible for that loss, he wept and screamed by night and tore out his hair by day. The legend tells us that he survived a further two years in this piteous state before his grief struck him dead." "And about time too," said Thog darkly. "I'd have gladly killed him myself. Slowly. Not so much with my bare hands as with my stark staring naked ones." He formed a fist with one hand and punched the palm of the other. "Well, you may have some killing to do during the next few hours," said Banedon, rubbing his own palms together as if he were washing his hands of the legend. "Although, thanks to my foresight in organizing that the Sharnazim be a little careless, you shouldn't be short of weapons." He glanced at Thog's belt, which still held its full complement – including the morningstar, which they'd retrieved from the warehouse door. "I have enough," said Thog sombrely, checking. Ah, the brave battles he'd fought with these weapons in the days when he'd thundered along the highways of the Lastlands . . . "Right," said Banedon, "if you've completely finished your breakfast I think it's time we set about getting out of this dump. Allani's corpse should have done its work, and Allani himself should be well clear of the docks by now. There's no need for us to hang around here any longer than we have to." # Outside their cell there was a dank corridor, whose shadows in the torchlight seemed to have grasping arms that reached out towards Thog's feet. He'd been impressed by the way his slight companion had dealt with the lock of the door – Banedon had simply glared at it, and the metal had wilted away worriedly – but he was less certain that the magician would be able to deal with all the other impediments that stood in their way with equal facility. Thog shrugged. Banedon had shown himself to be pretty competent, so far, in all their dealings with threats; it was a little foolish to start becoming anxious about his abilities at this late stage. Besides, should the wizardry fail them, there was always Thog's good, strong arm to fall back on – the arm that had once struck terror into the

The Birthplace // 177 very bowels of the Tarnalin Thundercats and their fiendish leader, Futtok the Short; the arm over which more nubile virgins had swooned than there were in all of Ragadorn; the arm that had once single-handedly conquered the massed armies of Gorn Cove in a titanic duel at tug-o'-war about which people still talked in awed whispers (well, Thog did); the arm that had . . . "For the sake of Ishir, don't just stand there daydreaming, Thog!" said Banedon waspishly. "Come help me unlock a few of these cell doors." Thog looked at him resentfully. He'd been just about to have a mental reprise of the nubile virgins, his favourite part. All along the passageway were great oaken doors; each had a small hatchway just above the ground, for delivery of rations, and an even smaller grille at face-height, through which the Sharnazim guards could observe the prisoners and the atrocities being committed upon them. All but one of the six guards visible were curled up unconscious, their faces masks of blazing agony, and a blow from Thog's foot soon made it a round half-dozen. Ah, the sturdy foot that . . . Keys still hung in most of the locks, and Banedon was industriously releasing gibbering torturers, who fled on the wings of insanity, and their erstwhile victims, who were calmly proceeding to help free their fellows. On a couple of occasions Banedon had to repeat his wilting-glare spell, and Thog had to fell one torturer whose mind had somehow survived the terrors of the night, but otherwise everything was going smoothly. Then Banedon stopped in the doorway of a cell he had just unlocked, and his face became sombre. "Carry on, the lot of you," he said irritatedly, not turning to see if they were obeying his instruction or not. "I'll rejoin you in a moment or two." He entered the cell and closed the door behind him. "Qinefer!" he breathed. "However did you . . .?" "Of my own free will," she said. She was standing in the far corner, her hands fettered and blood around her feet. Her face was bruised and bleeding, and her tunic was ripped and stained where someone had tried to rip it from her shoulders. Her left wrist was broken, the hand hanging at an unusual backward angle. On the cold, filthy floor in front of her lay sprawled the corpse of her tormentor, his blind glazed eyes turned to stare vacantly at the ceiling and his tongue protruding impossibly far between his teeth. His hands were still clutching uselessly towards his throat, where the livid marks of metal links showed how he had died.

The Birthplace // 178 "You killed one of the scum," said Banedon, nodding towards the corpse. "Well done. Here, let me release you." "It was something I did in my weakness," she said softly and, half-bent to reach for the fetters at her feet, he looked startledly up at her. The voice was Qinefer's, of course, and yet in some strange way it wasn't. Her eyes were staring at him gravely, as if there was nothing else in all the world that she should look at. Her face was beatific. "Had I been stronger I would have welcomed his blows as friends," she explained, "but I was too cowardly to embrace the pain he so generously gave to me. And so I gave in to my weakness." "When was this?" "Soon after they brought me here. They were so kind to bring me here . . . and I have rewarded them by doing this to one of their servants." She prodded with her bare toe in the direction of the dead torturer. Banedon, watching her face in horror, saw a large round tear form in one of her brown eyes. "He deserved to die," he whispered intensely. "His life wasn't worth a storgh's spit. You did humanity a service when you snuffed him out of existence, Qinefer." "No," she said seriously. "He was such a charming man, really, and he came her to me only to give me pleasure. It was my shame that I wasn't courageous enough to endure the pleasure that he was trying to give me." "Are you deranged?" hissed Banedon. "Possessed?" "Possessed?" she repeated, in her eerily not-quite-Qinefer voice. "No, nobody owns me any longer. There was a person who thought she owned me, but I think that the pleasure this servant brought for my delectation drove her clear of my body. She's masqueraded as me for too many years now, but I think she's finally gone for good." "Qinefer! You're talking madness!" Banedon had heard of people being driven insane by pain, but he'd never witnessed it himself. He'd expected that the person would be loudly raving, an idiot drooling at the mouth; what he hadn't anticipated was this cool, enticingly quasi-logical quietness. Nor had he anticipated that the person would be someone of whom he was as fond as he was of Qinefer. The two of them had met only occasionally over the years, but each time he'd been impressed by her openness, by the whole-hearted friendship that

The Birthplace // 179 she'd offered him, by her generosity of spirit. He wouldn't have been ashamed to have admitted to her that he loved her – not in any sexual or romantic sense, although the physical attraction she held for him was a part of it, but just as one human being loves another for their very existence. And now the Qinefer he loved was only partly there. The fact that the rest of her – the essence of her – was missing made his spine cold. "I was mad before," she said, correcting him politely. "At least, the person who was usurping my body and my mind was mad, and I think she was driving me that way, too. Now I'm very sane, Banedon; I can see things much more clearly than I've ever been able to before." "Let me get you out of these fetters," he said, ducking down again towards her feet. "Then I'll cure your wrist, and then perhaps we can talk a bit more." And you, Banedon, he thought, you're sounding like one of those physicians who's all bonhomie and comforting platitudes when you're trying to tell them something important about what's wrong with you. The ones who think they know it all and that you're an ignoramus too stupid to have read a book, who has to be humoured with words like "tummy" and "back passage". Ishir! The times I've heard myself beginning to sound like them before I've despised myself and begged my patient's forgiveness and cursed my own patronizing stupidity. Now . . . now I can't think of anything to say to her except those hackneyed clichés. I haven't got the guts to say anything else. "I love you, Qinefer, and it's like a dagger twisting in my spine to see the shell of you like this"? That's what I'd like to say – that's what I feel – but for me to say would be wrong in oh, so many ways. So I'll stick to "It'll all seem so much better once we've had a nice cup of jala and a giggle together" . . . Yes, and she's the one who's been talking about failure of courage . . . She was docile as he freed her feet and took her wrist. The break was a clean one, and so the spell he had to contrive was relatively simple. He felt her arm grow whole again beneath the flesh. But when he made to touch his fingers to her face, to her swollen, bleeding lip, she waved his hands away. "Please," she said. A moment later she added: "Please leave me something by which I can remember his kindness to me. Something to remind me of the cruel way that I spurned his kindness, his consideration for me, so that I can find the proper depths of my repentance of my act." "He was a torturer!" Banedon shouted. "He'd have inflicted pain after pain on you until you died. He probably laughed at the exquisiteness of your agony!"

The Birthplace // 180 "He laughed to see my enjoyment of what he was doing to me," she said. "He was pleased by my pleasure. I would have shared it with him if I could have, but the person who used to possess so much of me became selfish and wouldn't let me. I think she wanted it all for herself. She was too much of a glutton to realize that sharing pleasure intensifies the ecstasy. Maybe she was right, though." Qinefer froze, her mouth open, her eyes wide as if she had just seen a physical revelation of a deity. "Yes, maybe she was right and I was wrong. Maybe she knew that if the ecstasy became any greater the pain that came with it would grow as well, and the pain was enough as it was to make me unable to experience any more of the pleasure. Have you ever been in Holmgard, Banedon?" He jumped at the sudden irrelevance of the question. "Yes, Qinefer, many times. But what has that to do with . . .?" "Oh, nothing. Nothing at all." Her voice had adopted an ethereal tone, as if she saw herself on an open hillside, casting wildflowers to the caprice of the breeze. "It wasn't important. I just wondered if you'd been there, because I've been there too. Many times. It's a very grand city, and the person I used to entertain inside me didn't like being there very much, so she avoided it as much as possible. She was the coward really, you see, not me." She grabbed Banedon's face and forced him to look directly into her eyes. "She was the coward!" She released him as abruptly as she had seized him, and turned away slightly, her eyes downcast to look at the grime of the floor beside her foot. She moved her toes in a little rhythmic wave, and seemed childishly delighted by the sight, because she did it again. "But that doesn't matter now, because she isn't here any longer. I see things so much more clearly now than I've ever done before – oh, but I told you that before, didn't I? Or was it someone else." She gave a false laugh. "With such a busy social life as I have, it's hard to tell who's who, what with all their coming and going." She turned to look at him again, her eyes seeming bright and alert. Her voice, when it came, was blithe. "You can screw me if you'd like, Banedon. I know you've always wanted to, and I really wouldn't mind." Banedon was dumbfounded. He couldn't think of anything to say that wasn't wrong.

The Birthplace // 181 "Never mind," she said to his relief. "You've missed your opportunity now, so you'll just have to wait for the next one – if there ever is a next one. In the mean time it's something that we'll just keep as a little secret between the two of us, shall we?" "Let me enter your mind, Qinefer," he said lamely. Jenara, can you help me again? Qinefer looked at him with an eyebrow exaggeratedly raised, her head poised to one side like a bird's. "My body isn't yours for the ravishing," she said brightly, "so you want to penetrate my mind?" "No," he said despairingly. I'll try, Banedon, I'll try – but this could be even more difficult than the last time. "I think you're ill, Qinefer, very ill, and I want to help you if I can. I could force my mind into yours if I really wanted to, but I'd much rather you asked me, that it was with your consent that I tried to help you." You're making things worse, Banedon. In this sort of situation everything you say can be distorted to give it some sort of sexual innuendo. Stop talking and let's see if we can do something to help the poor child. My mind is ready to help you construct another matrix, but I can't do anything unless you let me see the template. "I don't think I like you any more, Banedon. Let me gather my things and go – even though it's my party, so if you were a gentleman you'd be the one doing the going." She moved around the cell, her mimicry so perfect that Banedon could almost have sworn that he could see the toys and petty accoutrements she was picking up from the floor. "Where are you planning to go?" he said miserably, not knowing how he could stop her. "It's none of your business, none at all, but if you must know . . . well. There's a very important place that the person who used to possess me – the person you used to know – felt she simply had to visit. That's why the two of us came here, you know: she forced me against my will. Well, not against my will exactly, because she'd weakened my will to the extent that I no longer really cared where she took me. That was before my friend here" – she glanced at the corpse – "showed me the pleasure that was too much for her to bear, so that she went, you understand. I was in Temple Deep when Barraka tried to unleash Vashna on the world; perhaps you've heard about that. That's another place I wouldn't have gone except that she made me, because she was so selfish. But now that I'm here it would seem silly to go away without at least taking a peek at what it was she thought she so desperately needed to see.

The Birthplace // 182 She called it the Birthplace, and it was ever so, ever so important to her that she go there because she'd been there before. Do you understand what I mean?" "Yes," said Banedon. "She told me about the Birthplace." And then he noticed that he'd used the word "she". He was accepting that the person he was speaking to wasn't Qinefer, he'd become convinced by her madness. Or maybe she really was possessed – maybe her mind really had been driven out by some usurping evil spirit. "I have to go now," she said sweetly. "Thank you for a lovely party, dear Banedon." She giggled girlishly and put a hand to her mouth. "Oh, how too terribly silly of me! I forgot. It was my party, of course, so I shouldn't really be thanking you for it. But it's been nice seeing you again, Banedon; we must meet more often. Only next time please don't talk so incessantly about how much you'd like to screw me, because it's not really the sort of thing that my mummy likes to hear discussed at the dinner table. In fact, it's a jolly good thing she wasn't here to listen to you, because the person who used to live in here killed her, you know, but that was a long time ago and I see everything much more clearly than I did then. It's doing your best that counts, you know; as long as you're doing your best then no one can complain – it's all right if you're doing your best – and it'll be quite interesting seeing the Birthplace, so don't worry about me being bored while you're getting on with whatever it is you're getting on with. I gather not too many people have seen the Birthplace, so it's all rather exciting that I'm going to get the chance, isn't it. I do hope they don't try to overcharge the tourists because I find that so boring and besides I don't think I've got very much money with me. I really wouldn't mind it if you felt you had to screw me one day, Banedon, and if it'd make you happy, but right now I've got to fly. Oh, life's all hurry, hurry, hurry, isn't it? Say goodbye for me to that nice servant who gave me so much entertainment, there's a love." The door shut behind her. What's happening, Banedon? For the love of Ishir, can't you tell me what's happening? She's gone. I can tell that, you fool! Why did you let her go? She said she wanted to go to the Birthplace – I couldn't do anything to stop her. No, Jenara, it was worse than that. I'll tell you because I couldn't keep it from you anyway, even if I tried. I didn't want to stop her. I was too

The Birthplace // 183 weak to love her in her illness – I wanted her away from me, so that I didn't have to worry about her any longer. Haven't you ever felt like that before, Banedon? About anybody? Even someone you loved as much as you love Qinefer? No. Then you're a rare person. I'm a coward. I'm a traitor to those I hold dearest to me. No. You're a human being. Besides, you don't know anything more about the Birthplace than what Qinefer – the real Qinefer told us just after she'd been there before, and that wasn't much. If the real Qinefer thought it was so important for her to go back to somewhere that caused her so much pain the first time, I'm willing to bet that she was right – that it was something she had to do. Maybe going to the Birthplace is still the best thing for her to do. If she were still Qinefer, perhaps, but . . . Of course she's still Qinefer, you fool! That's easy enough for you to say, Jenara: you weren't here, listening to that person who's inhabiting her body. Qinefer doesn't seem to be there any longer . . . So, if she's dead already, why are you worrying so much about what happens to this usurper? Banedon, you're beginning to make as little sense as she was! Stop tormenting me like this, woman! You've got people's lives to save, Banedon. Get on about your business doing that, and let the rest take care of itself – all right? All right. All . . . right. He felt her thoughts leave him. He looked at his hands, curled his fingers once, twice. They were real. He could feel them bending, could feel the fingernails touch his palms. Reality was his own hands, his own body – the things he could touch and feel. Shrugging, he went towards the cell door. He stopped absolutely still just for a moment before opening it. Jenara, how is it that we can mind-speak with each other, despite the fact that I'm so close to the Birthplace? There was no reply, and so he pulled the door wide and, shaking his head, went out to join Thog and the others. # He found them by following the noise. Since no one had told them to do anything else, they'd carried on unlocking cell doors the rest

The Birthplace // 184 of the way down the passage and then, coming to a broader corridor cutting across the first, had split into two parties, one going left and the other, led by Thog, right. The one which had gone to the left had continued its work without interference until alerted by a sound of shouting and crashing that the other party had encountered a patrol of Sharnazim. By the time they'd arrived to reinforce their fellows the scuffle had been as good as over. When Banedon appeared a couple of minutes later he discovered a little army of fifty or sixty ex-prisoners of the Zakhan busying hurling unconscious and dead Sharnazim, stripped of their weapons, into their vacated cells. "A perfect example of the coup de la vive force et l'incompréhension," said Thog with a proud grin as he chucked one Sharnaz bodily into a cell. Banedon looked away, his stomach rebelling. "Did you see her?" he asked of no one in particular. "See who?" said Thog, resting from his labours. He'd sustained a cut across the muscle of his left shoulder but was otherwise apparently unharmed. The flies buzzed merrily around his face. A few of the other escapees had superficial wounds, and one was horribly dead. Most bore scars from their tortures. "Qinefer," said Banedon sharply, then realized that of course the name didn't mean anything to Thog. "A tall woman in a torn and bloodied tunic. She's black – her father was a Cloeasian or something – darker than a Vassagonian. She's got . . . she's got an expression in her eyes. If you'd seen her you'd know what I was talking about." "I saw her," said one of the Vassagonians, overhearing the conversation. "We were up in the opposite corridor, and she just pushed past us, muttering to herself. We just thought she was one of the crazies, so we let her be." "Did she say where she was heading?" The Vassagonian half-turned away from Banedon's hard stare. He'd been too long a prisoner to believe that freedom had now come, and his instinctive reaction was to expect the worst from this strange foreigner. The stories told in Barrakeesh's market-places about the cruelties of the Sommlending were legion and, while the man was sensible enough not to believe everything he was told, they did say there was no smoke without a fire . . . "She didn't say anything about anything," he said sullenly.

The Birthplace // 185 Banedon reached out and touched him on the shoulder. The man flinched, and a tic began to work in the tendon beneath his ear. "Thanks," said Banedon. "I'm sorry I alarmed you." The Vassagonian summoned a watery grin. "It's all right. My fault." Banedon left him and looked frustratedly back along the passage in the direction Qinefer must have taken. There was no earthly point in following her now, of course. Wherever she'd gone, she must be far away in this maze of tunnels and passageways: his chances of finding her would be minimal, even with whatever magical aids he could invoke, and anyway there'd be nothing he could do either to help her or simply to persuade her to turn back from the dangers into which she was venturing. He tapped his foot petulantly and then, realizing the futility of both the movement and the emotion underlying it, turned to more immediate concerns. He clapped his hands together. The mumblings and chatterings of the escapees died away raggedly, and soon he was the focus of their attention. "Does anyone among you know which direction we should take to get out of the palace?" he asked. Nobody seemed to have a clue. Banedon was briefly astonished that none of them had thought to ask the question before – it was such an obvious one. Then he realized that, as far as these poor battered remnants of humanity was concerned, what would happen in the future was largely irrelevant. They'd suffered torments worse than any that death could bring, and now they were free to enjoy the limited pleasures of the passages that linked the various parts of the Sharnazim's torture cellars. They could see no further than that. They couldn't foresee a future in which they were able to walk the streets of their city as free men and women, because they were trapped in the present moment. In a way, their minds were protecting them by making this so: to counter their loss of foresight was the fact that their fatalism – their tacit assumption that they would die before they ever saw the outside world again – shielded them from the terrible, final disappointment they would suffer should death become inevitable while their dreams were of the open sky and the scent of freedom that the fresh wind brought. Jenara, Banedon thought, can you read this maze and guide us through it?

The Birthplace // 186 He could feel her sigh in his mind. I can see nothing, Banedon – no more than you can. All I can suggest is that you ask Thog. Thog? Surely that great dolt won't . . . Banedon, you've really made an art out of not thinking things through, haven't you? Thog is not the brightest of souls, and for all his muscles and weaponry he's hardly the most fearsome of warriors, either. You wouldn't have asked him to aid you – to be the brawn to your brains – if it hadn't been for the fact that you knew he was ready, willing and available, would you? He was the best you could find in a hurry, and you knew that he was too simple-minded to be anything else but trustworthy. She was choosing a singularly inapposite time to mock him, Banedon thought angrily. He calmed his thoughts before next mind-speaking to her. All that you say is true, but what of it? Haven't you wondered why Thog's still alive? Banedon spluttered. The people nearest him looked at him puzzledly, wondering if he'd choked on a hair, or something. What are you prattling about, woman? Being a footloose warrior's a dangerous trade, Banedon, and few survive it for very long. Thog must be – what? – forty-five? Maybe a little older. For thirty years or more he's been wandering all over Magnamund picking fights with people. If half of what he's told you is true, he's been captured and tortured several times, and yet nobody's ever quite got round to killing him. He should have been killed – by the law of averages he should have been killed a hundred times over! Yet he's still very much alive, isn't he? Well . . . yes. The smell of Thog's sweat was filling Banedon's nostrils, confirming pungently – if any confirmation were needed – that the big man was indeed still vehemently in the land of the living. And yet it's never crossed your mind to wonder why? Maybe you should have thought of it as a teaming of your brawn and Thog's brains! Something – and we can't even begin to guess what it could be – must be watching over him like a guardian spirit, leading him away from the worst dangers. So, if you want to find a way of getting out of the palace, the best person you could think to ask is certainly Thog. He might not know why he knows, but there's a very good chance that he'll be able to tell you – or at least to give you some indication. Hmmm. Try it. Even if I'm wrong, you can't end up any more lost than you are now. "Er, Thog," said Banedon, ninety per cent certain that he was just about to do something very stupid, "have you ever been in

The Birthplace // 187 a labyrinth – you know, with hedges and lots of dead-ends, and things?" "Yes," said Thog cautiously, wondering where the question was leading. "They're fun." "Have you, um, ever been able to solve one? Get to the place in the centre and then get back out again?" Thog beamed. "Of course I have. It's easy!" Banedon looked incredulous. Clearly Jenara had been right after all. "Do you think your instincts might be able to . . . well, not to put too fine a point on it, to lead us out of here?" "Don't see why not. Can't guarantee it, mind – especially if we bump into more of these accursed Sharnazim – but I'm willing to give it a whirl." "Ah. Then – then lead on, and we'll follow you." Banedon turned to the others. "Unlock as many cells as you can," he said, "while we're following Thog, but don't allow it to delay us too much – if we have to leave some people still captive, we'll have to. If we can get out of here we may be able to help overthrow Kimah, so that the poor wretches are finally freed; that's the best we can hope for. Agreed?" There was some muttering, but Banedon could see that by and large they did agree. The minority wouldn't cause any trouble, because they were the ones who assumed with the greatest certainty that they were all effectively dead anyway, so that what they did or didn't do wouldn't make any difference in the long run. "Right," Banedon said. "It's time we were moving. Thog?" Thog sniffed the stale air experimentally, and then set off firmly in the direction in which they'd already been going; the others straggled along behind him. As he went, Thog wondered, not for the first time, if his magical friend were perhaps a couple of runes short of an incantation. Everybody knew that it was simple enough to get in and out of labyrinths: all you had to do was make sure to take an axe with you. He took the next left. # It was two hours later, and an embarrassing number of Sharnazim had gone to the arms of Naar; some had been Helghast, and thus

The Birthplace // 188 impervious to the prisoners' physical attacks. Banedon, his lip wrinkling with fastidious distaste for the chore, had used a fairly elementary second-level spell – if any second-level spell could be described as elementary – to dispose of them. They'd encountered a number of Drakkarim, too, and the amazingly strong, ferocious humanoids had contributed substantially to the prisoners' own rising casualty list. At least a third of the escapees had lost their lives; since, all told, about a hundred and fifty had been released before they'd come to the last of the cells, Banedon was finding the death-toll depressing – and worrying, because the constant attrition of their numbers couldn't go on too much longer at this rate. Soon, surely, they must be confronted by an organized band of Sharnazim, sent to flush out the rebels from the passageways. It was inconceivable that the terrified fugitives who'd fled for their lives from the makeshift army hadn't yet reported the uprising to their superiors. Could it be that those superiors were simply waiting until the escapees reached open space, where it would be easier to massacre them than in the constricted corridors? It seemed all too dismally probable. Banedon was beginning to lose faith in Thog's instincts. So, for that matter, was Thog. The constant twists and turns they'd taken had thoroughly disorientated the big man; and, since he hadn't had the first idea of their orientation to begin with, he was now slowly beginning to have a glimmering of the possibility that he was utterly lost. Still, as his mother might have once advised him, never give up hope until it gives you up: he ploughed on with a confident expression on his face, his morningstar jauntily clutched in his beefy hand. Ah, the mighty hand that had . . . He glanced at the hand and realized that he couldn't recall anything particularly interesting it had done. The nubile virgins had invariably preferred the other, for reasons he'd never been able to fathom. Maybe it was the clusters of warts? No, that couldn't be it – the clusters of warts were just as good on this hand. He shook his head in bafflement. Women! How could a man ever hope to understand their ways? Thog turned yet another corner and had gone about ten yards before he noticed, to his astonishment, that the scene ahead of him wasn't just another long stretch of gloomily lit passageway. There was brightness some fifty yards away. He halted abruptly and held out his arms to either side, stopping the people behind him. His eyes narrowed, adjusting to the glare. Banedon slipped

The Birthplace // 189 under his outstretched arm and stood in front of him, moving his fingers in a complicated design and then looking thwarted. Now they could see that the corridor led into a large room, well lit room. Banedon put his finger to his lips and then signalled to Thog to follow him as he crept forwards, leaving the rest of the band huddling nervously together. Banedon was relieved that Thog was able to move more quietly than he'd expected; with the occasional swiftly stilled exception, even the clanking was missing. As they stole towards the light, checking each of the narrow cross-corridors they passed in case of any possible ambush, Banedon's unease grew. He'd tried to send a magical probe ahead of them to spy on the interior of the room, but something had repelled it, so that all he'd been able to catch a glimpse of was a single wood-and-sandstone wall along which hung, alternately, flickering torches and burnished pieces of armour. From the brief glance he'd had he guessed that the place was a guard-room of some kind . . . but why should the enemy bother to invoke magical defences for a mere guard-room? He began to wish that, as soon as they'd seen the bright light, he'd turned the escapees around to seek refuge in another direction. They came to the room's threshold and halted. Yes, it was some kind of guard-room, and, to judge by the three-quarters of it that Banedon and Thog could see, it was empty. Banedon began to breathe more steadily. There was a clash of arms behind him, and several voices began screaming. He turned and saw that Sharnazim were pouring out of those narrow side-corridors that he and Thog had checked so perfunctorily. Instantly Thog was gone from his side, morningstar on high, shredding the air with an ululating battle-cry. "Come on in, Banedon," said Maouk. Even though his flat voice was quiet, Banedon could hear it quite distinctly over the yelling of the fighting men and women. "Come on, I say, come on in. I've been expecting you." For a moment Banedon's legs refused to obey him, but then, with as much of an appearance of confidence as he could muster, he walked into the guard-room and looked around him. A long trestle table was placed centrally in the room; there were chairs spaced out down its length, and at its far end, seated in a high-winged chair, was the Helghast that called itself Maouk, its elbows relaxed on the table, smoking a cheroot. With no one else

The Birthplace // 190 to witness it, the Helghast wasn't troubling to maintain its false mask of humanity. Maouk puffed out a cloud of tobacco-smoke and watched it coil and unfurl in the air. Despite himself, Banedon found that the strength of the spawn's stare was such that he, too, was forced to look at the smoke. Soon the purple-grey cloud was beginning to dissipate, tugged apart by small air-currents. Yet not all of it was floating adrift. A core of it remained spiralling in the air, and it wasn't purple-grey like the rest had been but a myriad of different temporary colours, constantly changing in hue and intensity, as if their light was flicking backwards and forwards from one end of the spectrum to the other, its wavelength being only occasionally within the visible range. "You see," said Maouk, "you're not the only one who can call upon magic. Let me introduce you to my friend here." Banedon's mouth was open. Furious with the stereotype, he tried to force it to close, but the muscles ignored his instructions. He'd never before seen a Nadziran – so far as he knew, no living human being had – but in some of the books stored by the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star in Toran there were descriptions and drawings of the ethereal right-handed magicians who worked in the cause of the forces of Darkness. The frenetic flashing of the cloudy Nadziran seemed to be taunting him. "I wish," said Banedon in a hoarse whisper to Maouk, "I wish I'd killed you the moment I realized what you were." "I thought you were going to," the Helghast confessed. "But then I saw that your vanity was going to preserve my humble existence just a little while longer. You wanted to see out some more of the game, to show off your magical prowess by venturing all the way to the centre of the storgh's lair and then back out again. It seemed a puerile and futile plan to me, but then we from the Darklands have so little understanding of the stimuli that motivate you humans." He doesn't know about Allani! thought Banedon gleefully. The Nadziran flickered at him. Know what about Allani? said Jenara's voice in his mind. Jenara! That's as good a name as any for me, came the Nadziran's thought. It was still adopting Jenara's characteristic pattern of thinking, but now that Banedon knew of the imposture he could detect quite easily the chilly alienness that framed it. It's certainly the

The Birthplace // 191 one you were content enough to address me by earlier in the day, when you wished to try to cure that madwoman. And was it not kind of me to suggest that Thog could act as your guide? Under my encouragement, did he not guide you well? By all means continue to call me Jenara if you'd find that pleasing. "I wouldn't dirty her name by using it for you, you bastard!" snarled Banedon aloud. Suit yourself. Now, what was it you weren't going to tell us about Allani? "Nothing." "Come now, Banedon," said the Helghast. "My friend and I have considerable patience, but it isn't infinite. Should it become necessary, then we're perfectly capable of employing a few techniques that are far beyond the wildest dreams of those dabblers who serve as Kimah's torturers." "I can't believe that that's all you brought me here for – to talk about Allani." "You're right: it was you who introduced the subject. No, my master and I thought it worth the expenditure of a few of the Zakhan's Sharnazim to bring you here for quite a different reason. You see, Banedon, we think that secretly you'd like to become one of us, your life and your very considerable abilities devoted to the cause of Naar. Once we've recruited you to our following, you'll be free to roam Magnamund very much as you've done throughout your life so far; your friends might notice that their old acquaintance Banedon has changed a little, but they probably won't attach any importance to it – in fact, with your own powers augmented by the Nadziranim's right-handed skills, you'll be able to make sure that you're friends don't attach any importance to it. You see, you can go into places where none of us could hope to venture. Why, you could enjoy the delicious irony of shaking your Guildmaster's hand watching those trusting grey eyes of his, all the while laughing inside yourself at his stupid ignorance of the fact that you're really a proud servant of the great God of Darkness himself." "I'd die before I did that!" Banedon shouted at the Helghast's impassive face. How very perceptive of you, chipped in the Nadziran. Of course you would. But it would be only, shall we say, a little death. The Banedon you think of as "you" would still survive inside you, and would still be able to enjoy all the pleasures of life. It's just that there'd be an other Banedon there as well – a real Banedon, if you care to think of it that way – who'd be making all the

The Birthplace // 192 decisions and doing all the work for you. You could view it not so much as a death at all, in fact, but as a rebirth. "With all due respect, I reject your offer. Kill me if you must, but let that be an end of it!" "Brave words," said the Helghast, "but, really, wasted breath. We hadn't anticipated that you'd be altogether a willing convert to our cause – to tell you the truth, we hadn't thought about it at all, because your willingness or otherwise is really utterly irrelevant." "I'm not the only one to speak brave but empty words," said Banedon. "It would require only a simple spell for me to take my own life." "In normal circumstances, yes," said the Helghast, looking at the dead stub of its cigar as if it were wondering where the object had come from. "However, my friend" – a languid wave at the glittering Nadziran – "has taken precautions to ensure that that option is not open to you. For the same reason, you'll find that you're incapable of formulating a spell that will harm me." "Your `friend' may overestimate his own abilities. Or underestimate mine." "I . . . think not." The words were spoken with absolute finality, and Banedon's hopes sank. "How do you plan to bring me to this `little death', as your `friend' described it? Have you converted others to your cause already? Come on, if there's nothing I can do to dodge the fate you have in store for me, surely you might as well tell me if there are others in the Lastlands who seem to be humans but are in fact agents of your master." To Banedon's fury, his palms were sweating. He put his hands casually in the pockets of his jellabah, but it still seemed to him as if this sign of his fear must be luminously obvious to the Helghast. Maouk turned its head to stare at him fixedly. Banedon could see the hellish dark-red glow in the spawn's cavernous eye-sockets. "I have little trust for any words you say, Banedon, and if I didn't know that your `little death' was inevitable I would have none at all. Still, I don't see how it can harm us to tell you of what awaits you. I know that you've heard about the Birthplace from the madwoman you found in the cells; she is the only human to have been there and lived to tell the tale. She did our cause a great

The Birthplace // 193 service by her intrusion. Before she came we had no knowledge of the way that the Birthplace could affect the human mind. Some of the guards who had strayed too close to it had been driven mad or even killed, but these side-effects held no interest for us. But then came the madwoman . . . and when we examined her before she left the palace we found that she had gained an other self, an aspect of her original self that intersected with Naar's own self. It was her and yet not-her, if you see what I mean; most importantly of all, it was stronger than she herself was. As I say, we let her go – as our emissary to the Lastlands, if you like." "Are you saying that Qinefer is an instrument of Darkness, a tool of Naar?" He laughed bitterly. "I don't believe you! Even in her madness she's as human as I am!" "Almost correct, but not quite, Banedon. Without even being conscious of its existence, she was able to store away the Naarness of her other self in a part of her mind where it was almost completely isolated from the rest of her, so that for all its strength it was effectively nullified – and certainly unable to dominate her in the way we had so optimistically anticipated. Yet `almost' is a much more important word than its dictionary meaning might lead you to believe, Banedon. Her other self was able to cling on to that little niche in her mind, and from there it was able to use its strength to start building outwards. It was a slow process, because her own personality was not without strength of its own, and it will never attain completion: too large a part of her will always remain human, even if deranged, and so she's useless to us now, and will remain so." "Then why did you make her come here? Why did you plant in her mind the imperative to visit the Birthplace once more? To savour the final death of her soul?" The muffled sounds of battle from the passageway behind him were dying now. The Sharnazim were ruthless in their work. He wished he'd died under their merciless bitikali . . . We didn't make her come here at all, responded the Nadziran, all resemblance to Jenara's tones almost gone now. It was the human part of her that insisted she revisit the Birthplace, and we are permitting her to do so for our own interest. She is a voluntary participant in an experiment we never sought to mount; now that it has been mounted, however, would it not be foolish of us to reject whatever knowledge we might gain from it? Banedon thought of the Qinefer he'd known in happier times. He wasn't by nature a martial man, yet at the moment he wished he had a neck in his hands so that he could wring it. The

The Birthplace // 194 people who had blindly followed him from their cells, trusting him: now they were slain at the bidding of these two complacent spawn of Darkness. Thog – poor, dimwitted Thog . . . "You're powerless to harm me, Banedon," the Helghast reminded him, seeing the thoughts in his eyes. "Besides, surely you, too, are interested in the results of the experiment? After all, you mustn't forget how profoundly they affect you. You don't think, once we'd discovered this unexpected power of the Birthplace as well as its inadequacy, that we just left it at that, do you? Of course not. We've made a number of minor modifications to the psychic flux-fields that hold the Birthplace open. They don't affect its main purpose, of course – although we've made other changes to render it more effective in that respect as well – but we think that future humans who are drawn into its embrace will not be able to resist its infiltration so successfully as that sorry madwoman you've befriended. But we'll soon know. It cannot be many hours before she completes her quest. And a little after that we'll know whether everything is ready or not for you to undergo your sudden change of mind about what is right and what is wrong." "You can't force me to . . ." "Oh, but we can." Thwarted, Banedon stared his hatred at the Helghast and the pulsing colours of the Nadziran. Some minutes passed, and then he felt the unhuman fingers of a right-handed magical influence wrap themselves around his mind. Against his will his head was forced to turn so that now he was gazing directly at the Nadziran alone. Its colours were beginning to transmute even more rapidly and more extremely now, in a complicated pattern that he constantly seemed within a hairsbreadth of comprehending. It was like one of the matrices he employed in his own magics, and yet there was something subtly alien about it that meant it would forever remain just outwith his understanding. From a million miles away he heard the echoes of the Helghast's flat voice: "We must start to prepare you for your encounter with the Birthplace now, Banedon." The asymmetric beat of the colours seemed to sound in his ears, too, as if they were chanting a piece of meaningless verse over and over and over and ... tick . . . tick . . .

The Birthplace // 195

tick . . . tick . . . you're touched by the colours and the colours stick . . . . . . and then, as he felt his mind drifting involuntarily towards the alluring vortex, he heard a ponderous clanking behind him. The spell broke. He whirled around and saw Thog standing in the doorway, his morningstar and clothing covered in liberal helpings of Sharnazim. For a moment the big man didn't notice anyone else in the room except Banedon. "You're not going to believe this," he blurted, astonishment written all over his broad face, "but we won! We actually blasted well won! Slaughtered the . . ." Then he saw the Helghast, which had half-risen to its feet. "Oh, hello," said Thog with a cheerful if slightly weary beam. "A Helghast, eh? I've never practised my coup de la vive force et l'incompréhension on one of them before." The Nadziran panicked, and Banedon felt all trace of its magical influence leave him. The smoky cloud billowed past him, impossibly attenuated by its own velocity, and vanished through a tiny ventilation hole high up in the wall. "I think it'll take the two of us together to tackle this beast, Thog," said Banedon, "but you can do the initial damage if you'd like." Later that day, a battered but happy little army emerged from a side-gate of the Grand Palace of Barrakeesh. Most of its soldiers melted away into the astounded throngs of bystanders, off to try to locate their families. At length only two remained, a small man and a giant barbarian. "I think we both deserve some of that Barrakeeshian beer, Banedon, don't you?" "We haven't destroyed the Birthplace. We haven't saved either of those friends of yours. We may have the Sharnazim in

The Birthplace // 196 disarray, but there are still far too many of them around. That scum Kimah is still on the throne as Zakhan. And you want a tankard of ale, Thog?" A thought rumbled and then a word came. "Yup."

The Birthplace // 197

Chapter Nine QINEFER / LONE WOLF

Something in the pattern of an area of brickwork tells her that this is the way she passed the other time. She hasn't any notion of how long she's been walking randomly through the warren beneath the palace – her stomach tells her that it's been a good while, but other than that there's no clue – and now at last serendipity has brought her to the place she's been before. She remembers how it was . . . They'd left the Zakhan. She'd followed the guards as they'd descended narrow stairs spiralling downwards and downwards until it had seemed to her that they must soon come to the centre of the world. The steps were made of a metal she couldn't recognize because of the patina of their age; she held fast to the smooth rail on her right, feeling it move through her palm as she watched the soldiers scamper down the seemingly infinite flight of steps. She was irritated by the way that the tip of her sword's scabbard went clickety-click over the edges of the steps just behind her, but there was nothing she could do to stop it. They were plunging down into total darkness. The torches the soldiers were carrying lit up the walls fitfully, so that Qinefer could see that she was surrounded by grotesque carvings of heads and eyes and mouths – but she could never see any of these images properly, because as soon as she looked at one the light would sweep away . . . Ahead of them was a bottomless darkness which even the torches of the guards couldn't bring into light. Qinefer felt cold. It was as if there were a chill sea-wind blowing against her, but the air was still. "Where are we?" she whispered as the three of them came to a halt. At last she didn't have to listen to the clickety-click. "The Birthplace," said one of the guards in a hushed voice. Clearly both of the Vassagonians were terrified. They looked shiftily up over Qinefer's shoulder as if they longed to flee back up the metal stairs. "Why does it have that name?" she asked harshly. Their fear was beginning to communicate itself to her. "Because it's the place where people – strange people, people we hardly recognize as people – are born." Yes, thought Qinefer, "strange people" who are either Helghast or Drakkarim. She felt pity for the guards. They might be, and probably were, capable of considerable cruelty, but they were as nothing

The Birthplace // 198 compared with the spawn of the Darklords. She realized that these soldiers, now looking so woebegone in the unsteady light of their torches, were hardly more than boys. She made a sudden decision. "Go," she said. "Go on back up. This is for me to deal with." The taller of the two guards gave her a nervous smile and pushed past her as he clattered back up the spiral staircase. She could hear his footfalls echoing as he retreated. The other continued to stare into the blackness. "You can leave, too, if you like," she said lightly. Still holding his torch above his shoulder, the guard turned. "I don't want to leave," he said. His voice was rough-edged, as though he'd only just learnt how to use his vocal cords. His face, which earlier she had seen as that of an adolescent boy, was completely changed. From a skeletal mask, fiery eyes glowed sombrely. Almost lazily she pulled her sword from its sheath and swished it round, back-handed, towards the creature's neck. The Helghast was momentarily startled by the speed of her reactions, but ducked away just in time. It stumbled backwards down a couple of steps, drawing its own sword as it threw its torch away into the darkness. The light vanished. The Helghast can see in the dark, thought Qinefer, and I can't. Pretty shrewd for a spawn, pretty shrewd. She raised her sword as if it were an axe and advanced a few steps, swinging the weapon down in a swift arc. There was a scream as the blade cut into flesh. A mist of ichor sprayed her eyes, so that they stung as if someone had thrown acid into them. She forced herself to ignore the pain. She pulled back her sword and struck out again into the darkness, twisting the blade as she drove it forwards. There was another shrill scream. And then agony as the tip of the spawn's sword slashed across the top of her shin. Rage swiftly replaced her pain. The bloodlust was in her. She didn't recognize her own shriek of fury as she advanced down the stairs into the blankness, sweeping her sword viciously from one side to the other, shouting words that had no meanings to her. Again and again she felt her blade bite into spawn-flesh; again and again she heard the Helghast scream its agony to its Archlord of all Archlords – the God of Darkness himself. Naar. And then there was a rapidly diminishing streak of light in her eyes and she was alone. She tested ahead of her with her sword, but there was nothing – only the blackness.

The Birthplace // 199 Tottering, she returned her sword to its scabbard. The pain in her shin was like a slow fire, and she could feel the blood running down her leg. She took a tentative step downwards, and then another, expecting at any moment to trip over the body of the Helghast – still alive, still waiting for her. Then she remembered the shrinking light. The Helghast was dead. A long time ago she'd killed a Helghast on the banks of a stream, and she'd seen the creature disappear as if it had never been there. A long time ago she'd killed a Helghast on the banks of a stream . . . # The sign outside the shop was painted in faded red on faded brown: Bir Dar Masoun HERB-MISTRESS Lone Wolf pushed aside the curtain of many-coloured beads hanging in the doorway, listening to their rattling as they ran across the back of his hand and arm, and peered into the dim coolness of the shop. It had been easy enough to find, thanks to the directions that Akra had given to him. No one had paid any special attention to him as he'd pushed his way along the streets from the public baths towards the Saadi-tas-Ouda. There he'd had yet another revolting glimpse at how the Vassagonian regime treated those it regarded as its enemies. The square was covered with jet-black flagstones, in the centre of each of which was implanted a long, vertical iron spike, so that from a distance the place might have looked like the back of some monstrous iron porcupine. Closer to, however, the grisly truth became apparent. Impaled on the top of each of the spikes was a human head. Some had been there for a long time, so that the elements and the attentions of carrion-eating birds had reduced them to little more than flayed skulls, air-blackened leathery strips of flesh still adhering in places to the brown bone; others were much more recent, with slowly congealing blood puddled on the black marble at the base of the spikes. Among these Lone Wolf had discovered the heads of Allani and the crew of the Divine Dawn – even the galley slaves hadn't been spared this final public ignominy. Seeing the head of Allani hadn't affected him much, despite the grotesquery of the branded

The Birthplace // 200 word TRAITOR across the brow, because Lone Wolf knew from Akra that, whatever the magic that Banedon had performed, the piece of meat on display was nothing more than that – a piece of meat. But he could feel tears threatening the edges of his eyes as he saw the skipper's face, the mouth slack in lifelessness, and remembered the bawdy jokes that had spilled from those dead lips. And he felt raw fury when he looked at the array of slaves' heads. The poor wretches had had little enough to live for, yet somehow that very fact stressed the brutal injustice of their execution: their lives had been their solitary possession, the only thing left to them that they could rightly claim as exclusively their own, and it had been ruthlessly taken away from them simply because of their involuntary association with those whom the Zakhan decreed to be traitors. Lone Wolf had been glad to leave the Saadi-tas-Ouda and find the narrow street in which stood Bir Das Masoun's small shop, with its dusty many-faceted windows and its smell of stale spices. He looked around him. Near the back of the shop there was a dark wooden counter, sagging at the centre with age; behind it was the dim rectangle of a door. Everywhere else the walls were covered from floor to ceiling with glassed-in shelves laden with bottles and boxes of every conceivable shape and size. In front of the counter were three or four open sacks containing what Lone Wolf assumed to be herbs that were in constant demand – purgatives and general health-maintainers. Only the counter and the floor were free of grey dust, which in some places had drifted up like snow to form smoothed miniature landscapes. One moment he was alone; the next there was a woman standing in the gloom behind the counter, watching him. She was of that indeterminate age that is seen as old by the young and youthful by the aged, and had a profusion of red, crinkled hair, bound up with hoops of jadin into a teetering cylinder on top of her head. Even in this poor light he could see the piercing green of her eyes, the colour highlighted by cosmetic rings around the bones circles of the sockets. Without these decorations and the cake of pale facial make-up that made her face a damp clay mask she might have been beautiful; as it was, she looked soulless, as if behind the protection one would find not a human being but a succession of carefully studied poses. Her voice was soft and clear.

The Birthplace // 201 "It's rare for us to see a northlander here, but you are very welcome to my shop. How may I serve you?" "Greetings. Akra sent me. I . . ." Without further explanation he pulled the sleeve of his jellabah up to reveal his limp, cold arm; the skin was now so pale that it seemed to have a bluish tinge. "Bring the arm to me," she said without any expression except perhaps a certain clinical, professional interest. Holding the limb with a careful gentleness, he laid it on the warm wood of the counter-top, and she looked at it without touching it. "Limbdeath," she diagnosed, just as unconcernedly as she might have said "warts" or "you shouldn't bite your fingernails". She added: "It's not very often people bring me cases of limbdeath – just the occasional sewage worker who doesn't realize he can get the treatment free from his masters. In the old days it was incurable; the only thing that could be done was to have the arm off. Nowadays it's easier, of course." "Then you do indeed have a herb that will cure me?" he said eagerly. "The cure's elementary. An infusion of oede, preferably followed by a couple of days' rest – although the sewage workers' masters usually don't allow the latter. If there's enough of the oede you can simply rub it against your flesh; the juices can percolate through your skin and tissues in a sufficient concentration to kill the microbes. Of course, there never is enough of it." She looked bored, as if she were a teacher telling children something for the hundredth time. "Then I'd like to purchase some of this . . . What did you call it? Oede?" He pulled his pouch from his pocket; the coins in it clonked heavily together. "You can't. I don't have any." "You're out of stock?" His brows came together vexedly. "Is there another shop that might be able to sell me some?" "Not in this city, nor even in this country. Oede's a very rare plant – it's found only in a few of the more remote regions of Kalte, and little of it finds its way to Vassagonia. What does is immediately bought up for the use of the Imperial Apothecary so that the labourers in the Baga-darooz can be treated. I can't recall a case of limbdeath among the general population, but I suppose anyone unlucky enough to be infected could go to the palace and beg there for some oede."

The Birthplace // 202 She smiled for the first time, and Lone Wolf was surprised to see the sympathy for him in that smile. "Of course, in these troubled days, and with you being so obviously a Sommlending, that option's obviously not open to you – trebly so if you're a friend of Akra's. Well, you could try, I suppose . . . but my guess is that you'd pay with your head for your audacity." Lone Wolf's thoughts raced. To venture into the lion's den . . . In the normal way she'd have been quite right: it would have been unthinkable. But circumstances weren't normal. Maouk and the Sharnazim wanted to capture him, alive or dead, very badly indeed, despite the contract of cooperation that had been drawn up between their two countries. Unless there was political in-fighting going on about which he knew nothing, it had to be assumed that the Zakhan was in agreement with this violation of the truce – more, that he himself had personally ordered, and therefore gave nothing for the displeasure of Ulnar, which in terms of international diplomacy was stupid to the point of inexplicability. If Lone Wolf were to find out why Kimah was behaving in such a rash, baffling way, he could do worse than to try to sneak into the palace and do some spying. "Does the Imperial Apothecary work from the Zakhan's palace?" he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Yes. He and his assistants have a dispensary there." "Whereabouts? How can I get there? Is it well guarded?" She grinned joylessly at his impetuousness and held up a hand as if to stave it off. "Forget it. Resign yourself to losing your arm. There's many a sawbones in these streets who'll take the limb off for you and leave you with a clean stump. Don't let them charge you more than five gold crowns – anyone who tries to is out to fleece an ignorant foreigner. That's the best you can hope for. Resign yourself to it – don't pay any attention to your wild fancies of keeping your body whole." His shoulders slumped. He stood there like a woebegone child. "If you say so," he said. "Can you give me the name of a surgeon who might perform the operation for me?" "Surely," she said, drawing a sheet of paper and a stick of lead towards her. "What's it like, the dispensary?" he said. "Have you been there?" Without looking up from her painstaking scrawl, she nodded. "You can't let go of your dreams, can you? Well, I suppose

The Birthplace // 203 it's natural – everyone always likes to pretend to themselves that there's still a hope. Myself, I've been there only once, and that was a long time ago so I don't remember any of the details. It's somewhere near the Vizu-diar – a sort of museum of loot the zakhans have `acquired' over the centuries. There are some quite intriguing artefacts on display there, incidentally . . ." "The dispensary," he prodded. "As I was saying, it's close by the Vizu-diar, which means you'd have to get past the guards at the north gate – about as easy as treating a kwaraz with piles, although they do say that some of the sentries are not averse to having their palms greased. I can't remember much else. You could always just ask a . . . ah. I forget." She passed him the piece of paper and he saw that she'd written out a name and address. He pretended to read it; she refused the coin which he offered her. "And you have nothing else that can help me?" he said, just as he was about to go. "You still hope to avoid the surgeon's blade? Well, if you're so determined . . . It's a fool who tries to shield a fool from his folly. I do have a couple of tinctures that will at least ameliorate the pain, either of the surgery or, if you insist on being so stupid, of your last hours before the infection clogs your heart." She brought out a couple of plain glass bottles from underneath the counter. He read their neatly printed labels and looked disappointed: he'd already massaged his flesh with larnuma oil, and laumspur would dull his pain no more effectively than could his own unaided Kai abilities. "Are those the only ones?" "Hmmm. You could try some Rendalim's Elixir, but it's very expensive and frankly I don't think it's as good as they claim it is." She crossed the room and, stretching up on tiptoe, retrieved a small wooden phial with a profusion of flamboyantly swirled but unintelligible symbols burnt into it. "I'd have to charge you seven crowns for this," she said, looking at the object in her hand resentfully, "and there's only half as much in the phial as you'd expect from looking at it." "But it works?" It was Ulnar's money that he was spending, so had no concern about the expense. If there was a chance the stuff could help curb the agony he knew was characteristic of the finally stages of limbdeath, it didn't matter how much it cost.

The Birthplace // 204 "Yes," she replied. "As I say, it's not the miracle cure-all the street-traders profess it to be, but it's quite effective." He counted out the money and gave it to her, then unstoppered the phial and downed its contents in a single gulp. The liquid tasted like rotten meat that somebody had tried to make more palatable by adding vast quantities of treacle; he was glad he hadn't taken a look at it first. "That's about a week's supply you've just swallowed," she said wryly, accepting the empty bottle from him and tossing it into a bin in the corner. "More than your requirements . . . by about six and a half days' worth, I should judge." "I do not share your pessimism," he said courteously. She smiled again. "I wish you luck." After the chains of beads in the doorway had stopped their dancing and rattling, she waited a few moments longer and then turned to call out softly into the darkness of the room at the rear. "Akra! He's gone." "I heard," said the little man, emerging into the main part of the shop. "You've done well, Bir Dar." He put a purse down on the counter. "Here's a reward for you, in addition to the seven crowns Lone Wolf gave you. I can only wish that Maouk himself had been here to see how you dealt with the barbarian." He chuckled. "From the moment Lone Wolf came in here he was destined for the Grand Palace. I've never seen anyone sell such a crazy scheme quite so effectively. As for the potion . . . It does work, doesn't it?" "Assuredly – although not as immediately as oede. Whatever he does now, the limbdeath should ease out of his system; by tomorrow his arm'll be as good as new. By then, of course, he may have more immediate problems on his mind . . ." She removed her wig and put it down on the counter, the hoops of jadin rattling against the wood. "I'm glad your master is pleased with me, Akra," she said, turning to face him. The mask of thick cosmetic was dissolving into a thin white vapour that was sucked away from her head by the currents of air from the door. "In contrast, however, my masters are very displeased with you." Akra looked appalled. "I have served them well, have I not?" he said breathily. "The Sommlending has been located and is now on his way to the palace, totally unsuspecting. The spotty youth is already there. We

The Birthplace // 205 have Allani. By now the Zakhan's men must have moved to slay the witch at the oasis. All is going according to plan . . ." "No." Fiery embers in dark eye-sockets. "No, things are not going according to plan. Yes, we have Allani – but that's about all. You underestimated the `spotty youth', as you call him: he's a powerful second-level magician, far more powerful than you told us, and at the moment he's causing havoc in the Zakhan's piffling torture complex. The witch was gone by the time those bumbling Sharnazim reached the oasis – as if she'd been warned in advance of their arrival. I think that you've underestimated her, too. The Kai Lord dodged the trap we'd laid for him in that infernal inn – the Singing Crescent – and so we had to waste valuable hours relocating him. He, too, is far more able than you'd led us to believe; while I was here I could feel his latent power. In short, Akra, you've underestimated just about everybody – with the shoutingly obvious exception of yourself." "I . . . I . . ." said Akra, glancing around for some means of escape. Then the steel-hard fingers wrapped themselves around his throat and began relentlessly to tighten. # There's a round metal hatch-cover in the centre of the passage down which she's been walking, her steps more confident now. For the last hundred yards or so there have been no torches to light her way, but the darkness hasn't impeded her progress at all – indeed, she's found it rather restful to her eyes, as if she were washing them in some cool lotion. She no longer has any real sense of herself, however: she feels almost like a watcher, a passive observer of the things that her body is doing and the thoughts that her brain is thinking. She's in no way concerned about this: it all seems perfectly natural to her, as if things had always been like this. She squats down by the hatch-cover and digs her fingertips in under its cold rim. It rises on its hinges much more easily than she expected – either the metal is lighter than it appears or her body is no longer fully registering the effort she requires to exert in order to perform actions such as this. In another time the puzzle might have interested her, but at the moment, as with everything else, she just accepts it. Through the circular opening she can see even blacker blackness, but her eyes are able without conscious effort to perceive the first curve of what she knows to be a long flight of metal stairs.

The Birthplace // 206 There is an incredible stillness all around her. Without having to check, she knows that she is completely alone, unobserved. The cover hammers back onto the stone of the floor. The echoes of the noise die away into the distance. The cold coming up from the ground has a distinctive smell which she can't identify. However, she recognizes it from the last time that she was here, and so greets it as if it were a friend, its alienness seeming almost a mark of familiarity. She sits at the edge of the hatch, her legs hanging down into the gulf. She puts one hand flat on the floor on each side of her bottom and slowly lifts herself upwards and outwards, then lowers herself until her feet touch the first step. # Lone Wolf seemed to have gone only about ten yards from the herbarian's shop when he discovered that he was completely lost. He stood at the intersection between two equally crooked alleys and looked about him in bafflement; he had had no trouble at all finding the shop, and the streets of the Mikarum around him had then seemed few and well ordered, but now he was in the centre of a warren of cross-cutting alleys, with hardly a straight line to be seen anywhere. His Kai sense of orientation was telling him nothing, as if it were as mystified as he was himself. This smacks of magic, he thought suspiciously for a second; then, smiling at himself, he added: More likely, all it smacks of is the confusion of a stranger in a strange part of a foreign city. The first passer-by he asked either was deaf or didn't have the time to spend listening to Lone Wolf's accented Vassagonian. The second took one look at him, paled as if he were a leper, and scuttled away speedily. The third was an elderly woman who not only told him the way but breezily accompanied him until he was in sight of the grandiose Tomb of the Princesses, the Horm-tas-Lallaim. Thanking her, he headed towards it. The Horm-tas-Lallaim, he recalled, lay to the palace's eastern side. Following the line of the palace wall as best he could at a distance of a couple of blocks, checking at every intersection to make sure that he hadn't strayed too far off course, he was soon within sight of the north gate. This was made of solid wood banded with iron strapwork; it was obviously made, if not to be impervious to the assaults of a battering-ram, at least to look as if it might be, so that potential attackers would be deterred. Vassagonian history

The Birthplace // 207 had not be tranquil over the centuries; presumably one or other of the zakhans had decided that it would be sensible to take precautions against the maraudings of any Barrakeeshian mob that might be aroused. There were only two sentinels on attendance at the gate, and Lone Wolf frowned. Bir Dar Masoun had warned him that this gate was customarily very heavily guarded. One would have expected the guard to be doubled, if anything, during this period of political turbulence. Might it be that the surrounding buildings contained snipers? He walked backwards and forwards nonchalantly near the gate a couple of times, but could see no signs of any life in the houses opposite. This in itself was peculiar, and he felt the short hairs at the back of his neck prickle. Then he shrugged. Perhaps the fey woman had simple been exaggerating, or perhaps insurrection had been in the air at the time she had come to the Vizu-diar. Whatever the truth of the matter, gaining ingress to the palace grounds looked as if it were going to be easier than he had anticipated. He rested his hand on the pommel of the Sommerswerd, and felt their soul-stuffs fuse to form his gestalt-self. Drawing on its enhanced Kai abilities, he let his body become inconspicuous; the effect of this self-camouflaging was not to make him invisible – no Kai power could do that – but simply to ensure that people were very reluctant to look in his direction. Their reaction was quite subconscious, and they had no knowledge that their minds were being manipulated in this way. The danger of using the technique was that it encouraged cockiness: just because it was extremely unlikely that someone would look at you didn't mean that it could be taken absolutely for granted that no one ever would; moreover, as soon as one person had raised the alarm, others could see you quite clearly as well: alerted to your presence, their conscious minds overruled the commands from their subconscious. The sensation that no one at all was looking at him, even casually or glancingly, was almost as eerie as if every eye had been focused on him, and he shuddered. He waited for about half an hour before an opportunity presented itself. A rider on horseback clattered up to the gate and paused to speak with the sentries. Lone Wolf was just near enough to hear that they were talking about some minor rebellion that had started

The Birthplace // 208 among the prisoners – presumably a number of the guards who would normally have been doing duty here had been diverted to help suppress the outbreak. Then the rider pulled from his saddlebag a long, imposing scroll of parchment and passed it to one of the guards, who unrolled it reverently and began to read. The other opened the gate and respectfully bowed the horseman through. Lone Wolf followed, almost immediately after the trotting hoofs. The guard's gaze swept blankly across him without any hesitation, and the gate swung ponderously to behind him. The rider galloped away along a curving drive, leaving Lone Wolf alone to survey the gardens in which he found himself. If it hadn't been for the presence of the gravelled drive, and for the towering walls and spires of the palace in the distance, Lone Wolf could have imagined himself to be in an unexplored stretch of jungle. Exotic plants surrounded him on every side; even at this season many of them were in flower, displaying a dazzling selection of colours and baroque colour combinations. The bulbous, stumpy boles of succulents were often set so closely together that it seemed almost as if they had been deliberately planted to create a fleshy palisade. The drive itself meandered lackadaisically across a generous, well trimmed lawn of a luxuriant grassy plant whose blades were shaded the subtle violet-purple of heather seen on a distant hillside. Here and there across the lawn were scattered small fountains – some to water the turf, some for drinking and some purely for decoration – and right at its centre was a splendid construction, an architect's dream-figment translated into coral-pink marble, which sent water spraying fifty or more feet into the air. He plucked a date-plum from a low tree and sucked greedily at its sweet tartness. The flesh had a heady, aromatic flavour he wasn't accustomed to. He looked at his bite-mark sceptically for a few seconds, realizing how foolish he'd been, but soon enough his Kai awareness told him that no poison had entered his system. He finished the fruit and helped himself to several others, thinking wryly that his petty theft from the palace gardens was probably a capital offence in this barbaric nation. In the expanse of wall facing him Lone Wolf could see only two entrances, neither of them guarded. One was smaller and shabbier than the other, and after watching the toings and froings from it for a while he concluded that it probably led to the kitchen quarters. He could risk trying to get in that way if desperate, he

The Birthplace // 209 mused, and it was convenient to know that it was there in case he was discovered inside the palace and had to seek the nearest avenue of escape, but that was about the extent of its usefulness: the menial workers in the palace were slaves, and would be under the constant supervision of martinets armed with whips. If Bir Dar Masoun had been correct in her recollection, the other entrance must lead to the Vizu-diar. Crossing the lawn to reach it was out of the question: even if he used his powers to deflect attention from himself, as he had at the gate, it would be vanishingly unlikely that a lone figure moving against that vast purplish backdrop would remain completely unnoticed for long enough. The mental technique was good in crowds but of little use in circumstances like these. Accordingly, he worked his way cautiously around the perimeter of the lawn, moving through the vegetation with as little noise as possible in case there were gardeners working among the plants. However, his caution proved unnecessary: after about half an hour, without encountering another human being, he was standing in shoulder-high shrubbery in a place where the planted area reached within only a few yards of the north wall. He crossed the intervening distance in a flash, pressing his back against the wall and looking alertly to either side. Still there was no one in sight. As swiftly as he could, adjusting his balance to compensate for his paralyzed arm, he dashed along in the shadowy lee of the wall until he reached the larger of the two entrances he'd spotted. It was locked. He looked at the metal door in frustration. He'd been totally convinced – quite illogically, in view of the fact that it wasn't guarded – that it would be open to his touch. Breathing heavily from his sprint, he pressed himself into the doorway's recess, and once again looked around to make sure there was no one who could see him. Chance or instinct, or a combination of both, impelled him to glance upwards. What he hadn't noticed from the distance was that there was a transom over the door. This was latched open, and its lower lip was only a few tantalizing inches above his outstretched fingers. Thinking swiftly, he shrugged off his jellabah – now he really hoped that no one came in view, because his near-nakedness would be hard to explain. He flicked the garment overhead so that it looped over the latch's horizontal bar; then he took the two ends of

The Birthplace // 210 the garment and pulled down on them as hard as he could. The fabric groaned as a few of its fibres snapped, but he guessed that it was strong enough to take the full force of his weight. Climbing it with the use of only one arm wasn't easy. He braced his feet against the base of the door and clutched the jellabah as tightly as he could. He then walked a couple of paces up the vertical metal, taking his weight with his one good arm. Again the garment groaned alarmingly, but it seemed to be holding. Now came the tricky part. He let go of the fabric and clawed his hand upwards as quickly as he could, grasping at the suddenly slack cloth. Just before his equilibrium was lost completely and he thundered to the ground, he got a firm grip and once again tensed his body so that it was braced between the door and the tautly stretched cloth. The second time he performed this manoeuvre he found it even more difficult, for the top fold of the garment over the bar was necessarily close to the plane of the door; he ended up braced in a sort of horizontal crouch, and for a few moments was too terrified of falling to move a muscle. Then, his heart in his mouth, he inched his feet up the door's flat metal until he was able to throw them in through the transom. Luckily, although there were nails around three sides of the gap, the lower edge was unguarded. He was able to ease himself forwards until the backs of his thighs were resting on the sill; then his buttocks followed; and finally his body's centre of gravity was within the palace. He plumped downwards to hang on the inside of the door, his face towards it. He had no idea of what might be behind him, and felt more vulnerable than at any stage during the preceding minutes. Dropping to the floor, he spun round, his hand snaking towards the Sommerswerd. The large room in which he found himself was empty and smelled of fustiness, as if no one had been there for a very long time. No wonder it hadn't been deemed necessary to put sentries on the door; it must have been months if not years since it had been last unlocked for use. On principle, Lone Wolf drew back the door's ponderous bolts. The ornately chased lock was another matter: without a key there was nothing he could do to open it. Still, he'd made at least some tiny contribution towards weakening the palace's defences. He pulled the jellabah down from the transom and donned it as rapidly as he could.

The Birthplace // 211 The Vizi-diar, even though it was spacious, managed to seem stuffy. At first there appeared to be very few items on display, but soon he realized that this was because everything had been laid out with the wall against which he stood being regarded as the rear, so that he was looking at the backs of some of the display cases. As he advanced into the room, more and more of the exhibits came into his field of view. Most of them were fairly dreary, just shelf after shelf of dusty medals with faded ribbons – it was clear that the ruling families of Vassagonia had been as generous in awarding themselves medals as were most other imperial lineages – but his eye was caught by a large display of weaponry which had presumably been captured from nations with whom the Vassagonians had waged war. He moved closer to look at the devices in more detail, and his eyebrows rose: clearly some of the more unorthodox weapons had been designed for use by creatures that were not only non-human but not even humanoid in form. There was, for example, a nightmarish travesty of a crossbow that had clearly been made to be operated by a being with six manipulative appendages – "hands" would have been a singularly inappropriate word – rather than the human complement of two. This was something of a conundrum: so far as he knew, the only Magnamund cultures sufficiently technologically advanced to produce such artefacts were, if not human, then at least approximately humanoid. He shrugged the puzzle away. Later, perhaps, he would have the leisure to think about it: right now he had more important things to do. He moved from one display case to the next, becoming progressively more cautious as he approached the hall's main entrance, a great rectangular doorway that seemed to have been built to the wrong scale for the rest of the room. He noticed that around the walls there were rows of stuffed and mounted heads. Most were of desert reptiles – hunting trophies, no doubt – and he was nauseated to see that in some instances the quarry had been human. He looked along the lines of heads more carefully for a minute or two, but could see none that stood out as having belonged to one of the weapon-makers. As he came to the huge entrance portal he heard a buzz of distant conversation; he was reminded of the sound of the debates in the forum at the public baths. Peering around the chiselled marble corner he could see to his left nothing but a bolted and chained door. Off to his right stretched a broad corridor with, at its

The Birthplace // 212 end, dwarfed by distance, a hall much larger even than the Vizu-diar, where soldiers and ostentatiously garbed courtiers were parading to and fro. He couldn't see any sign that news of the insurrection of the prisoners beneath had reached these people: all seemed perfectly calm – indeed, there was a certain aura of boredom about the scene, as if the courtiers, in particular, were exhibiting themselves because it was expected of them, rather than because they wished to display their personal magnificence. He pulled his head back inside the doorway and his face became creased with nagging doubt and worry. Ever since he'd come within sight of the Grand Palace he'd been able to move around without any human interference. The only impediment to his progress had been the locked and bolted door into the Vizu-diar, but even then there had been the transom window carelessly left open. Now he had the sense of the soldiers and courtiers in that distant hall seeming like ham repertory actors, going through the lines of a tedious play by rote. He felt in a curious way as if he himself were just such a player – a puppet, even. Everything was seeming just a little too easy, a little too perfectly arranged for his convenience. Hmmm. Traps can be very effective, but usually they depend for their effectiveness on their intended victim having no conception that a trap has been set. Conversely, if I base my actions on the belief that someone has set a trap for me, but it proves that I've just been exceptionally lucky so far, I may find myself committing outrageous blunders. He reached for the Sommerswerd and waited impatiently while his Kai gestalt wove itself into existence. He was reluctant to rely upon it in situations like this one because it tended to make its decisions on the basis of long-term good rather than short-term survival: Lone Wolf had no wish to find himself being barbecued half to death or partially flayed alive simply because the gestalt believed that his temporary suffering was possibly a prerequisite to some amorphous benefit in the future. Small consolation that would be, as he nursed his wounds. However, right now he couldn't think of anything else he could do. It was almost certainly beyond his unaided wits to react to every contingency in such a way as to benefit whichever of two simultaneous and contradictory assumptions – that a trap had been set, or it hadn't – might be correct. The gestalt, however, would almost certainly be capable of such multi-level thinking. He hoped so. There was a colonnade of abstract sculptures along the side of the corridor and he was able to use these for cover as he scuttled

The Birthplace // 213 from one to the next in the direction of the brightly lit hall. There seemed to be no one at all in the corridor, and this seemed to confirm to him – and to the gestalt – that there was indeed something wrong with the whole set-up, for the corridor wasn't merely some anonymous passageway, designed merely to permit access from one place to the next. Instead, it was a place of display. The sculptures were on show for people to admire. There were paintings on the walls. Even the marble slabs of the walls themselves were inlaid with designs traced in pearls and slivers of beaten gold. So why was there nobody here to revel in all this ostentation? Again, all he could do was follow the gestalt's direction: keep going for the moment, and see what happens. Some counsellor! Frighteningly close to the entrance to the hall he found the mouth of a constricted-seeming stairway, and he sneaked warily up it, pausing at each landing to listen for footsteps from either above or below. Still there wasn't a sound. Still he had that uncomfortable feeling of being guided. At last he found himself stepping out into another corridor, much less broad and grandiosely embellished than the one he had left. He felt much easier here; the comparative simplicity of his surroundings and the flood of sunlight from a series of tall, narrow windows combined to give the area a humanity that was lacking from the lavishness of the decor downstairs. There were only two doors that he could see. On one there was a carving of an open book and some writing that he was too far away to decipher; presumably it said something like "imperial library". The other door was of much more interest: the carving nailed to it showed a stylized pestle and mortar. Still there seemed to be no one in the vicinity. He scurried along the corridor, moving quietly but without taking too many precautions, and turned the handle of the door leading to, he hoped, the imperial dispensary. It was unlocked. It shouldn't have been – not if it contained drugs that were as precious as Bir Dar Masoun had claimed. Again he had the sensation that he was acting in a stage-play whose script he'd never seen. As he slipped into the gloomy interior he heard an angry, spitting hiss. #

The Birthplace // 214

The helical staircase is behind her now, the chiming of her feet on the metal rungs all but forgotten. She has walked along a natural fissure in the rock under Barrakeesh, smelling the dampness of the clayey walls as well as another, more acrid smell, which she attributes to the passage through here of countless of the Darklords' inhuman minions. She has the sense that she has now penetrated further towards the Birthplace than any Vassagonian has ever done. The Birthplace. Penetration. She's aware of the symbolism, of course, but also that it's a false symbolism. There cannot be anything less reminiscent of the gelatinous warmth of the womb – of her own womb – than the chilly unyieldingness of the air around her, and there cannot be anything less like the act of love than the slow narrowing of the remaining gulf that separates her from the Birthplace. Both of them seem to resent bitterly the fact that they are being inexorably drawn together: she is moving forward reluctantly against the almost tangible cloud of the Birthplace's own reluctance to receive her. Yet, at the same time, both of them recognize the inevitability, the necessity, of their union. Another step forwards, and another. Her legs seem to have minds of their own, taking her forward. Her own mind still seems oddly distanced from everything that she's doing. She notices without anything other than casual interest that the floor beneath her feet is no longer rock and earth: instead it is solid and yet insubstantial, it bears her weight yet she knows that a feather would fall through it without deviating in its floating descent. The walls to either side of her have slowly transmuted to become patterns of colours and swirling numerals: they are confining her within limits that are tangible yet nevertheless composed of concepts rather than physical substances. It is as if reality has been encoded by a mathematician so that all the irrelevances have been excised; yet there is an identity between the physical and the conceptual, so that the two versions of reality, although superficially so different, are in fact indistinguishable and, therefore, one. Equally, both are illusions. Her senses accept this. To be sure, these senses are no longer the ones upon which her body has relied since birth. There is no light, and what she "sees" is not perceived through the medium of her eyes; instead, her brain is taking the sensory information it receives and reinterpreting it to produce representations of the type of perception to which it is accustomed. It is content to accept this falsification, this illusion. Another few paces. That is what her brain is telling her that her legs have just taken, but she has no way of knowing how closely this represents the physical reality: it is possible that she has not moved at all, that somewhere, hundreds of miles away, she's curled up motionlessly, lost to the world in unconsciousness. (Is she a woman dreaming of being a butterfly, or a butterfly dreaming of being a

The Birthplace // 215 woman?) All she can know of what is happening is what her brain tells her, but there are some things her brain is too frightened to tell her . . . Now it is telling her that she is at the centre of a vast and precisely spherical hall, its curved wall, which is also its ceiling and floor, is opalescent with distance. Directly ahead of her there is an oval of a different creamy grey. Its edges are undefined, so that its size seems limited unless she tries to locate the limits; then she realizes that its extent is transfinite. Her brain tells her that this is a screen and, unable to cope with the duality of scale, adds a gilt frame with intricate curls and scrollings. The creamy grey alters subtly, now, so that she is looking into the faceless face of a silvered mirror. She sees no reflection of herself. Yet she knows that, just as there is a Qinefer outside the mirror, there is also a Qinefer inside it. She is, somehow, in the presence of her own reflection. She is her own reflection, as well as being herself. And the personality of her reflection is speaking to her from the mirror, the voice it uses carefully coloured with all the inflections that it knows will act most seductively upon her. No! That's not my reflection at all! It's the reflection of the other Qinefer! I refuse your voice! But which is the real Qinefer, and which is the other? The colours have touched her, and the colours have stuck. # He slammed the door behind him and looked around the room, trying to find the source of that hiss. What he saw appeared less like a dispensary than like some parody of an alchemist's laboratory. On long, massive stained workbenches were metal stands supporting rounded glass retorts over dishes of flame. Bubbling liquids of various gaudy hues rumbled backwards and forwards along a maze of tubes and funnels that linked each retort with its fellows in some haphazard, indecipherable way. Cakes of friable compounds and colloids lay scattered willy-nilly among the stands, most of them partly ground away. Ten large copper urns hung by ancient chains from the soot-blackened ceiling, their bases only inches from the floor; the grimy light from the room's single window touched the surfaces of the powders heaped in the urns, and Lone Wolf could see a rainbow of iridescence as the tiny crystal grains refracted the light in a million different directions. The air was oppressively hot and stank of ozone and chemical reactions. Along the far wall were shelves warped under the weight of countless jars and bottles filled, Lone Wolf assumed, with the herbs and powders the apothecary

The Birthplace // 216 required for his arts. At one end of that wall was a heavily shielded door, which looked as if it might lead into a strongroom – that was probably where the most valuable of all the medicaments were kept. He couldn't see any animal that might have hissed at him, and for a few seconds guessed that the sound must have been made by a leak in the piping or in one of the retorts. Then he heard it again, and froze. From under one of the workbenches stalked a creature that had the appearance of a feral cat but the size of a lynx. Its legs bent, its body close to the ground, it crept with a horrible silence towards him, its claws unsheathed, its eyes, fastened upon his face, seeming to glow in the gloom with a vivid green luminescence. An elix. He'd fought elixes in the wild before – indeed, some of the braver nobles at King Ulnar's court occasionally organized hunts for the large, semi-arboreal wildcats, claiming that it was necessary to cull the population of these predators. Whether or not that was the case, the practice had the side-effect of culling the population of nobles. Lone Wolf, who found the idea of systematized hunting anathema, had gone on one such excursion and found himself siding with the elix. He'd never known of an elix being trained before – indeed, the very possibility that it might be feasible had never crossed his mind. "Hello there," he said in the stupid way human beings have of addressing domesticated animals. The elix sprang. He turned away, ducking, as its body shot towards him, the mouth wide open to show its knife-like teeth, its sabre-claws slashing at the air. He felt part of the back of his jellabah being torn away, and a sting as a wayward claw sliced thinly across his shoulderblade. The elix landed in a crash of glassware and almost immediately regained its balance. It seemed unconcerned by the flames from one of the dishes licking at its spangled marmalade fur. The Sommerswerd was in Lone Wolf's hand, but he had no memory of having drawn it from its scabbard. The tip of the glowing blade toyed with the air. The elix's eyes focused on the moving point of light.

The Birthplace // 217 He moved into a more stable posture and instantly the elix was watching him. It hissed again, its muscles tensing for another strike. The apothecary had no need to lock the door of his laboratory. He had left his guardian in place. Lone Wolf could see that the beast was wearing a gold collar, from which a key swung. It would need a brave warrior to try to remove that key from the elix's neck – a brave warrior or a fool. Again the spitting mass of viciousness was in the air, speeding towards him at an inconceivable velocity. Reactively he raised the Sommerswerd, but only enough to wound the flying creature along one flank. The elix's blood was dripping to the floor, and its face was a tapestry of pain and hatred, yet its body moved efficiently and with fluid speed as, once again, it found its footing perfectly and turned towards him. The wound had clearly infuriated it yet further. He chopped at the air with his sword. The elix made no move. His breathing was heavy and broken in his ears. A flick of its tail and the elix was springing towards him again. He threw himself flat on his back on the floor and stabbed upwards with the golden blade. Broken glass seared his scalp. The elix tried to change its course mid-flight, jerking its muscles so that its body became a bow-taut curve, its limbs altering their relative configuration. It was unsuccessful. Lone Wolf felt metal strike into flesh. He clung on to the Sommerswerd's hilt grimly as the impetus of the elix's body threatened to rend the bones at his elbow asunder. Blood and jets of saliva spattered down onto his upturned face. The elix began to sing a single high-pitched note of agony as it struggled to free itself from its impalement, but all that its efforts succeeded in doing was to embed the blade more deeply, so that its body began to descend, in fits and starts, towards Lone Wolf. The Sommerswerd seemed to be trying to tear itself out of his grasp. He turned sideways, so that the blade became parallel with the floor. The mortally wounded elix succeeded in struggling its body clear of the metal, but it was capable of little else. The sound it

The Birthplace // 218 produced from its tightly drawn lips was a weak travesty of a snarl, cut off by the emergence of a sudden stream of bright blood from its mouth. It tried to get to its feet, but failed. Its irate eyes were slowly glazing over, becoming opaque, its fury frozen in marbles of jadin. Then it sighed in a curiously human way and all its muscles slumped. Lone Wolf leapt to his feet as nimbly as he could and backed away rapidly from the prone beast. His heart thumping against his ribcage, he watched it alertly for several minutes before being able to convince himself that the elix was really dead. He wiped the blade on the side of his already blood-stained jellabah before returning it to its sheath. He was so short of breath from his exertions that he could hardly breathe. Cautiously he moved forwards towards the elix and, with his leg extended in front of him, flipped the animal's head over with his foot. There was no reaction at all, no slightest sign of life in those cold eyes. He felt no triumph in his conquest, only a sort of respectful loneliness. He wished he could think of some appropriate way of saluting the dead beast. It had been doing its duty, and had proved itself a worthy adversary. He stroked the blood-clogged fur of its forehead as he bent to wrench the key from its chain. Using it, he found that he was able both to lock the door through which he had entered and unlock the door that led, as he had guessed, into a small, stuffy strongroom filled with crates and bulging sacks. He dragged the elix's body into the strongroom and tried to clear up the worst of the shambles that the two of them had created during their struggle; he soon realized that the task was futile and gave it up, leaving the floor littered with shards of glass and smears and thin rivulets of the elix's blood. Before relocking the door to the strongroom he glanced in once more at the body of the elix. He noticed that, beyond the stores that covered much of the floor, there was a small door set into the rear of the little room. On impulse, he clambered over the obstructions and tried what he was beginning to hope was a master-key to the whole area. Sure enough, the lock turned, and he found himself looking at a dimly lit, crooked staircase leading upwards.

The Birthplace // 219 He pursed his lips and thanked Ishir for having given him the impulse. It was good to know that there was a secondary escape route should he be unable to leave via the corridor. Finding the apothecary's supply of oede was no easy task. At first he was careless in his search, throwing any bottles whose contents were useless to him to the floor. He'd been doing this for some little while when, as one of them shattered, some of the herbs that it had contained flew towards one of the fire-dishes. The result was a momentary flame like a sheet of lightning stretching as high as the ceiling. Thereafter he was more respectful of the materials he was handling. At last, on one of the upper shelves, he located a small paper box, about six inches square, on which the word "oede" had been written in the apothecary's crabby writing. Oede proved to be the colour of fools' gold. Heavier than it looked, it lay in flakes that felt clammy to the fingers. He pulled a palmful out of the box and squeezed it between his fingers, feeling its oiliness as it crumbled. Eagerly he rubbed some on his left forearm, and it seemed that within seconds there was, in place of the total numbness, a cossetting sensation creeping down deeply through his flesh, spreading its pseudopods of warmth into his muscles and bones; it brought with it a pins-and-needles sensation which he welcomed – even extreme pain would have been preferable to the terrible deadness the paralysis had induced. Breathing deeply with relief, he turned his attentions to the rest of his arm, and soon the entire limb was stinging hotly. He moved his hand, watching with a sort of childlike fascination as the fingers flexed, half-expecting them to seize up or fracture. His arm still didn't feel totally his own, and it would be weak for a while as a result of its period of immobility, but its rapid recovery began to fill him with a new optimism. There was the sound of footsteps in the corridor outside, and someone rattled the handle of the door. Whoever it was didn't seem unduly concerned to find it locked – the footsteps receded without any haste – but Lone Wolf realized that it would probably be foolhardy of him to leave the wreckage of the laboratory that way. Pocketing the box and its precious oede, he stepped nimbly through the door of the strongroom, locking it behind him. In pitch blackness, he climbed over the obstructions, jarring his shin against the corner of one of the crates with sufficient force to bring a string

The Birthplace // 220 of expletives from his lips, and with some difficulty found the smaller rear door. (Behind him in the laboratory, the shards of glass reunited, and the elix's blood soaked rapidly into the wooden floor. The now-whole reorts floated in stately fashion back to their alloted places on the workbenches. He saw none of this, of course, and wouldn't have understood it if he had.) The stairway was steep, and his breath was once again coming in short, painful bursts by the time he reached the top. At first this seemed to be a dead end, but when he looked more closely at what he'd assumed to be a blank wall he discovered that it was in fact a painstakingly disguised door. His master-key operated smoothly, triggering off some mechanism within the wall so that, with a slightly laboured whir, the door hinged itself open as if beckoning him courteously to pass through. Smiling, he did so, and found himself in wonderland. The smile faded abruptly when he heard the door whir firmly shut again. He spun round just as it was settling into place, and saw to his dismay that on this side there was no keyhole. He looked at the golden key in his hand as if it had betrayed him, then stuffed it into his pocket. Lone Wolf was never afterwards able to describe the quality of the light that filtered through the enchanted land that he'd entered. He knew that these were merely rooms – that they had walls of stone erected prosaically by sweating artisans, and that their decorations had been woven or painted or otherwise contrived by human hands working with natural materials – but this knowledge did nothing to erode his mind's conviction that he had strayed into a magical kingdom. The chamber he was in was floored with glistening tiles through which wound silvery streams of wrought platinum; here and there the tiles were covered by rugs woven in soft fabrics and furs. Curtains and drapes wafted lightly from the tiny breeze he created as he moved; their colours were of such a subtlety that the seemed to shine with some cool light of their own. In the centre of the room was a fountain sculpted out of turquoise-pink coral; it showed a cluster of a dozen or more air-light butterflies fluttering around a forest pool. All along one wall were sculptures cast in solid gold; their beauty was such that Lone Wolf's gasp of wonder was inspired not by the value of the metal but by the exquisite artistry with which it had been shaped to reveal not only the grace of form but also the loveliness and the sheen of the metal itself. The

The Birthplace // 221 ceiling was a painting of the sky, with clouds of birds wheeling high up among the lacy clouds; through one of the clouds peered the face of an itikar, its stern, haughty demeanour rendering the image something that transcended the bird's animality. Flutes of crystal tinkled as he passed beneath the elaborate, tiered chandeliers that ran down the room's centre; these chandeliers were miniature cities in glittering crystal, their architecture the stuff of dreams. The furnishings were upholstered in cloths that gleamed radiance from the wildly flamboyant, infinitely repeating patterns that had been woven into them. Everywhere Lone Wolf allowed his gaze to stray there was some new miracle waiting for him to discover – the graceful, balletic turn of a chair-arm, a miniature painting of a desert scene so poignant in its solitude that it seemed to stretch away into eternity, a sculpture of a bull-headed goat playing the viol and dancing satanically with such brio that it was hard to persuade oneself that it wasn't moving . . . For a dangerously long time he just stood there gaping, his mouth wide open in an expression of exaggerated wonder. At last he pulled himself to his senses – a whole army of Sharnazim could have crept up on him without his noticing – and made a beeline for a distant door. It, too, was magnificent and fairytale – it was constructed out of amethyst with filigrees of garnet – but he hardly noticed as he slipped through it. After passing through several more chambers of similar splendour – by now he was steadfastly refusing to let himself be distracted by treasures beyond imagining – he at last found himself on a narrow wrought-iron balcony encircling a huge cavernous enclosure which seemed to extend the full height of the palace. It was filled with exotic trees that reached yearningly up from the remotely distant ground towards a gigantic hemispherical cupola, whose panes were stained in muted colours that seemed somehow to strengthen the light of the Sun shining through them. The resins of the trees mixed their heady odours with the sweet sappy tangs of the leaves to create an aloof, cool, musky perfume. As he walked swiftly around the long balcony his eye was caught by a familiar sight: the foliage of a Sommlending oak. I'm a long way from home . . . Then he was in another network of grand corridors, off which he could see smaller branches and side-rooms. Still there was nobody in sight, and he hardly needed his gestalt to tell him that, as he had suspected, he was a puppet in somebody else's play. There should have been guards here, for clearly this entire

The Birthplace // 222 sequence of opulent chambers and grand corridors must be the apartments of the Vassagonian imperial family. Someone had arranged that his travels through the palace should continue as unimpeded as possible; at first they had taken care not to be to overt in their manipulation – as the bruises he'd sustained getting into the Vizu-diar amply testified – but now they were no longer bothering about subtlety. The question that he and his gestalt kept asking each other was: Who is the "someone"? As yet there had been nothing to suggest that the unseen agency meant Lone Wolf any ill will – if anything, the converse seemed to be true. This made finding an answer to that irritating question even more difficult. He could understand that his foes might have motives for setting a trap for him – although in his experience both the Vassagonians and the Darklords depended on more overt ways of thwarting their enemies (killing them being the preferred method) – but he could think of no ally who would have the power to clear such vast areas of the palace or, if indeed they did for some reason have the power, would have exercised it so clumsily and without having informed him in advance. A thought struck him. Perhaps he was being a little egocentric in his assumption that anyone, friend or enemy, had tampered with the customary practice of the palace for his benefit. Might there be some other, quite unconnected, reason for it all? Could it not be that he had been enormously lucky, arriving in the palace on just the right day when everything was topsy-turvy – perhaps because there was another, invited, guest being welcomed by the Zakhan? The gestalt shared these thoughts with him and, in its dusty way, confirmed that it was possible that he was correct. In the next room he entered he encountered Qinefer. # Mixing, mixing, all the colours mixing in a great whorl that is the blackness of the void as it was before Ishir brought Aon into existence. Each of the myriad colours sucks the hue from the next, and is in turn sucked empty. In the blackness lie all the colours, all perfectly nullifying each other, each waiting only for some imbalance to allow them to burst into existence. The colours have touched each other, and stuck to each other. The colours have touched Qinefer, and stuck to Qinefer, and she has become an indistinguishable part of the great engulfing blackness that is the void.

The Birthplace // 223 The void is in the soul of all things, but only as a part. The void is all that there is of the soul of Naar. The Darklords share the soul of Naar – share the void – as do the spawn that they have created. They can pass through the Birthplace and become imbued throughout every cell of their bodies without changing, because all of the void is alike. But mortals . . . with mortals it is another matter. The sac of different colours they call their soul is so tiny in comparison with the void that those colours can be taken and spun away into the blackness without changing it at all. And, in the place of the colours that they brought, the mortals take away with them a sac now filled with the void – filled with all the colours of blackness. And now Qinefer begins to realize what it was that happened to her when last she came to the Birthplace. She lost so many of her colours to the void, and the void rushed in to take their place in her soul. And the void has been sucking away more and more of her remaining colours, to blend them into its blackness, its Naarness, so that it is as if they never were. And she is here in the blackness of all the myriad colours once again, alone except for the other Qinefer, the Qinefer-soul that is made up of the void. No! I'm not alone! Floating in the grand cosmic annihilation of all identity, she reaches out the fingers of what is left of her soul and feels the touch of another. The reflection. The reflection of her that she sensed in the mirror that her brain created out of a parcel of sensory data that it couldn't interpret in any other rational way. And Qinefer cries out "ISHIR!", and the two syllables travel across the void, the disturbance of its passage generating eddies in the inchoate mixture of colours, so that here and there small pockets of reds and greens and yellows and a billiard other hues form, as if they were disincarnate souls. And around these pockets other colours coagulate out of the blackness-that-is-all-the-colours so that soon, like a life-giving mould or a cancer of health, patches of disparate colours are spreading out across the face of the void, annihilating its blackness. And the reflection, too, shouts "ISHIR!" at the blindness of the eternal void, and the shockwaves of this cry, too, begin to create form where there was no form, pull colours from the blackness. Through their touching fingertips now the soul-colours of Qinefer and her reflection are surging, rushing to join each other, to fuse so that there is . . . . . . a triumphant outburst of every colour, so that an infinity of brilliant sparks fly all through the cloud of the void, each crystallizing out further sparks along every point of its passage, and these new sparks catalyze yet further sparks until, where once there was only the infinite blackness there is

The Birthplace // 224 now a blinding blaze of every colour in the universe vying for individual attention, shouting to be seen, erupting in a billion flames so that it will be called into birth . . . And two of the pockets, two sacs that were part-full, have become a soul that is entirely full of the rioting colours . . . as well as a sac that contains nothing but the void into which it slowly dissolves away. And Ishir smiles as she sees Qinefer kneeling in the dust of a cave created when two tectonic strata of rock, in the infancy of the world, clashed together and drove each other up towards the surface, leaving beneath them a space that time has never troubled to fill. The Goddess is still smiling as Qinefer gets to her feet and dusts the earth from her ragged tunic before looking around her at the inside of a cave she has no recollection of having come to. For Qinefer is not disorientated. It may take her a little while to find her way through the shafts and crevices that will lead her to the sunlight, but her soul is found. The two chanted syllables of the name of her Goddess have brought form out of chaos, an infinite palette of colours from the void that was both confined within her and coextensive with the universe. She and her reflection . . . . . . united . . . . . . have . . . . . . become . . . . . . one. She's been touched by the colours but the colours are free. # "Qinefer! How in the name of Naar's foulness did you get here?" was the first thing he said, and even as the words spilled out he wondered why he hadn't hugged her first, the way he would normally have done. But she was different in some indefinable way, so that embracing her now would have been as intrusive as suddenly rushing up and embracing a complete stranger. His gestalt sensed her difference many times more intensely than he himself could, but even it was unable to pinpoint the change. "I knew you'd be passing by here," she said simply, holding his eyes with hers. She was covered in soil and grime from head to foot; there was dried blood on her clothing. "I wanted to speak with you." He shook his head, bewildered, becoming wrathful because of his bewilderment. "Here, in the middle of the Grand Palace of Barrakeesh, surrounded by Ishir knows how many swarms of murderous Sharnazim, caught in the midst of a trap that I know

The Birthplace // 225 has been set but which I can't understand . . . You somehow reach me here and then, for purposes that I can't fathom, you just want to have a natter with me!" "Yes. It's important. Not just for me but also for you. Please won't you pause for just a few moments and listen to me? Please?" Despite the wheedling entreaty in her voice, her stance was conveying something closer to dispassionate interest, as if her feeling for him had gone yet she was, for the sake of what had been before, trying to save him one last time. Save me from what? he thought angrily. "Say what you have to say." His voice sounded harsher than he had meant it to, but the words were spoken now: there was no calling them back. She gave no reaction to his roughness. "All your life, Lone Wolf," she said, "you've been making choices. It's the same for all of us. Sometimes we find that the choices have been made for us, but a lot of the time we make them ourselves, basing them on our own knowledge and experience as well as our desires and aspirations. I'm not just talking about major things – you choose what you want for breakfast just as much as you choose what to do next to, oh, I don't know, thwart the Darklords' intentions, or something." "You're not giving me much choice at the moment," he observed drily. "We've got to keep moving – both of us. Not just stay here prattling. Come on. Follow me." He grabbed her by the arm but, without making any movement at all, she somehow shook him off. "All right, Lone Wolf," she said, "you've made your choice." She sighed, and this time he could detect genuine emotion in her sadness. "Go on. I can find my own way out of here." "Alone?" "Yes – alone. The guards and the Sharnazim won't come anywhere near me. I've achieved all that I came here to do, and now I know the pattern that will lead me out of the palace, out of Barrakeesh . . . out of Vassagonia, in due course. And out of your life." Lone Wolf snorted. "You'd better just come along with me," he said. "We can talk about all these things later." "No, we can't. Go on, I said. At every moment in time, each of us is at the centre of a maze, and we've got to make a whole string of different choices that'll lead us out of that maze. If

The Birthplace // 226 we're lucky. The thing is, there are plenty of different routes you can take to get out of the maze. Lone Wolf, you've chosen the route you want to take: I'm taking a different one. I'm following a different pattern, if you like. That's what it's all about. Patterns." "You're ditching me. You're dressing it up in lots of pretty words, but that's what you're really saying, isn't it?" She shrugged. "If anyone's doing the ditching, it's you, only you don't know it. Let's just say that circumstances are separating us. We've got different patterns to create." He took her hand and squeezed it tightly, staring into her eyes. "You're a fine chimera," he said. "Whoever created you did well. I can see you and hear you and touch you, and you still seem to be Qinefer. It's only when I listen to the mumbo-jumbo you're spouting that . . ." He shook his head wearily. "Qinefer's back in Sommerlund, where I left her. She'll be there when I return, as always. I don't know what you are, or who sent you, or why, but go and tell your master that your deceit – your play-acting – hasn't fooled me. I know Qinefer far too well for that. You're not like her at all." He turned and left her. She watched his back retreating towards yet another of the spectacular doors that the architects had devised for the Zakhan's personal chambers. There wasn't anything she could do to stop him: he'd chosen the particular pattern that he'd wanted to create with his life, the form which his actions would impose on the randomness of the void. Banedon and the other magicians of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star – they, too, created patterns by selecting from the infinitude of options available in the void; once the pattern had been created and established, its end result was called "magic" or "a spell". And she herself was only a pattern: a pattern who was also following a pattern, the one that she had created when she had been a part of the void. She was a pattern superimposed on a pattern. And sometimes these patterns overlapped, the routes of which they were composed crossing each other or even running side by side for long stretches. . . . And sometimes they didn't. She sighed again. As she'd told Lone Wolf, they were both, in every moment, at the centre of a pattern-maze out of which there were many routes. Some were better than others, but for

The Birthplace // 227 most of them qualitative judgments didn't have any real meaning: they were equally successful, just different. She wished his retreating back well. She hoped that Ishir would smile upon him, that any colours that touched him would not stick, but be free. Then she ambled away lazily, pausing occasionally to take a closer look at any of the Zakhan's art objects that particularly appealed to her eye, unconcernedly following the path that she knew would lead her, without interference, from the palace. # Lone Wolf had been more shaken by the encounter than he'd allowed himself to show. There had been an uncanny accuracy about the replica of Qinefer that the unknown trap-setter had created. He had felt as if he were rejecting the real Qinefer, abandoning her to whatever it was that fate might hold for her. Perhaps it would have been better to have killed the creature, whatever it was, or at least to have proved to his stubborn subconscious that that hadn't been Qinefer by proving that he was unable to kill it, that it was some unkillable spawn sent into Barrakeesh by the Darklords via the Birthplace. It was too late to go back now. It always was. He was on a broad balcony which seemed to be made out of one solid sheet of dark red marble, although he knew that that must be an artifice of the stonemason. Rugs in designs of earthy browns and faded pinks lay scattered in the light spilling from a stained-glass window opposite him. He could hear the sound of voices from below, and he tiptoed over to the railing that ran around one curved edge of the balcony. The wrought iron was cold and lumpy in his hands as he bent his head forward cautiously to spy on whatever was beneath. It would be a pleasure at last to see a real human being – even an enemy. But what he saw at the bottom of the wide, gracefully descending staircase gave him no pleasure. No pleasure at all.

The Birthplace // 228

Chapter Ten BANEDON / LONE WOLF / QINEFER

The first ale tasted pretty dreadful, so Banedon and Thog had another before leaving the North Star Tavern. "I'm glad you were the one who was paying," said Thog as they stood on the doorstep. He wiped his upper lip with the back of his hand. The flies buzzed crossly at the interruption. "Don't mention it," said Banedon. He was tired. Over the past twenty-fours or so he'd had to draw more on his magical reserves than he would ever have thought possible. Invoking the spell to make Thog and himself inconspicuous while they'd drunk the watery beer had involved more of an effort than it would normally have, but he didn't regret the expenditure of energy. The big man had gone through a lot with him, and deserved the reward. "What do we do next? Another inn? More beer?" "No, I think we get out of Barrakeesh as quickly as possible. It'd be good to be well on our way by the time night falls – I assume you'll be taking me up on my offer of a few nights at the oasis?" Thog looked embarrassed. "No. I've got other things to do." Banedon was surprised. Then he remembered that, when he'd first met Thog – could it have been only yesterday morning? – the big man had talked about having business to carry out in Barrakeesh. When Banedon had impulsively recruited his services, he hadn't spared a thought for Thog's other plans. Come to think of it, why had he co-opted Thog in the first place? It had all seemed so natural at the time . . . They were walking down one of Barrakeesh's broader streets, the Mikarum a warren of slightly menacing streets to their right, when Banedon asked the question. "Thog, have you been entirely honest with me?" "Honest? That's an odd question. All over fifty continents people talk with dumbstruck awe of the honesty of Thog the

The Birthplace // 229 Mighty as he flexes his thews doughtily in the service of virtue against the forces of moral turpitude. I've got more integrity in my little finger" – he waggled the sausage-like appendage – "than most people have got in their entire bodies, and those of their friends, too. Never a lie has been born into this world from my lips . . ." "I don't believe you." The big man stopped and seized Banedon by the shoulder; his other hand dropped to the shaft of his morningstar. "We've been through much together and become the staunchest of friends, you snivelling little acne-covered apology for a human being, but I'll give a demonstration of the coup de la vive force et l'incompréhension right here in the street if you say that again!" Banedon laughed and tickled Thog under his outthrust chin, as one might caress a cantankerous kitten. "I don't believe you!" he said lightly. "Come on, let's keep walking. The Sharnazim won't notice us if we act normally, but if we start fighting we're bound to attract their attention." "I'll see you to beyond the south gate," said Thog thickly. "After that, you're on your own. Even a hulk with the build and brain of an ox has a right to his secrets. I don't have to tell you anything I don't want to." "Thog," said Banedon easily as they were once more walking along together; the giant's wrath seemed to have vanished as abruptly as it had come. "Thog, you came out of nowhere in the desert and forced your friendship on me, even though I showed no particular sign of wanting it. You told me you had business in Barrakeesh. You had a horse then – but when I next saw you you'd got rid of it, and you've mentioned nothing about it since. When Akra said that he wanted me to do some work for him and I realized the dangers that might be entailed, and that it might be good to have someone else there to guard my back, who should suddenly turn up at our table? You, Thog. You. A caricature of a barbarian hero, complete with a portable armoury of weapons, a beer-paunch and a stupid grin. I was crazy to ask you to help me, but I found myself doing so – and it's only now that I've started to wonder why. Why did I do that, Thog?" Thog looked flustered. "Because I made you do so," he mumbled. "It was wrong of me. A bumbling oaf like you, all heaving muscles and the brain of an oyster, should have been killed a dozen times over, but somehow you kept coming through it all with that dimwitted leer plastered across your face. Think of the time when

The Birthplace // 230 the Sharnazim ambushed us in the dungeons! A bunch of half-starved, poorly armed convicts defeating a body of trained, vicious guards? Stranger things have happened, of course – people have triumphed against greater odds than that – but usually only under inspired leadership. You don't really fit the image of a tactical mastermind, you know, but that's what you must have been." "We were lucky," said Thog sourly. "They didn't expect us to be armed, and they didn't expect me to be attacking from behind them." "But they did!" said Banedon, punching his fist into his palm and glaring at Thog. "Of course they did! They'd watched us from the side-passages as we'd crept on ahead of the rest!" For a few moments Thog said nothing, just staring back at his slight companion with an expression of wild, primitive fury. "All right," he said eventually, his voice curiously waspish. "They hadn't expected me to be a practising second-level magician, either. Now belt up until we're out of this dump of a city. Then I'll tell you everything." "Everything?" "As near everything as I'm going to tell you." After that, despite Banedon's occasional remarks, Thog maintained an obdurate silence until they were at the south gate. There both he and Banedon persuaded the sentries that they were merely a couple of mongrel dogs straying out of the city; they left the guards scratching their heads and wondering how it was they'd never met such articulate dogs before. Besides, come to think of it, hadn't one of the mongrels been wearing a helmet? Oh, well, it would soon be the end of their duty . . . probably didn't matter . . . The two of them found a dune a couple of hundred yards from the city wall and sat down together in the sand beyond it, out of sight of the gate. "You didn't think I could let you go into Barrakeesh alone, do you, Banedon?" Thog said wearily, looking at his boat-like boots in the sand. "Besides, my lover was in danger." "Your lover?" said Banedon, incredulous. Immediately he tried to cover up. "I'm sorry, Thog. Of course there's no reason why you shouldn't . . . well, it's just that . . . I mean, I'd assumed you were a bit past the, um, `lovering' age. As it were. If you see what I mean . . ." "Yes, my lover. I knew he was due to arrive in Barrakeesh soon, and I wanted to do as much as I could to keep him safe."

The Birthplace // 231 "`He'? Allani? Then you're . . ." "No I'm not, as it happens. Look at me properly, Banedon. Not just with your eyes. Look at me!" Banedon looked. Thog's huge face seemed to ripple, like the surface of a pool of water at the touch of wind. The filthy beard and moustache, the scars and the puddingish nose, the great broad cheeks and the prognathous jaw, the squat forehead – all of them became transparent, so that through the distortions of the rippling water Banedon could see glistening black eyes, a finely crafted nose, a mouth whose lips were slightly prissy in their narrowness . . . "Jenara!" he exclaimed. "But, by the name of Ishir . . ." "I know," Thog said, holding up his meaty hand for silence, turning his face away. And it was Thog speaking: the vision of Jenara's face had gone, and the voice was heavy and seemingly slow-witted – although the words were still hers. "I know, Banedon. It was maybe foolish of me, but I couldn't just sit there in the villa, wondering what was happening to Allani, relying on whatever scraps of information you'd choose to relay to me. So I decided to become a lodger for a while." "You mean, you took over the mind of a barbarian, against his will? – or, at the very least, without his consent?" Banedon was astonished – astonished and disgusted. The second-level spell used to occupy another's body was not theoretically a very difficult one, but it was treated as a taboo by the magicians of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star. Even if the person gave their agreement, it was still regarded as a piece of magic to be used only when absolutely necessary. "Not without his consent, Banedon. Thog was perfectly willing to be used in this way – just as he has been all the other times. Why, you were there when he and I first met, Banedon!" "I'd never seen him – you – in my life before yesterday," said Banedon, but he was remembering that there had been a sense of vague recognition when he'd clapped eyes on the man. "You and I were in the bar of the North Star one time when a drunken barbarian threw a tankard of ale at us . . ." "That wasn't exactly unusual." "Well, yes, but on one occasion it was Thog. Of course, I didn't find out his name until later, when I intercepted him one night. He was trying to find a privy – one of his more time-consuming activities. I, um, cured his problem and then explained who I was and how he could be useful to me. I think he

The Birthplace // 232 understood about one word in three of the explanation, but when I offered, as part of the bargain, to help him in his conversations with the fairer sex . . ." Banedon nodded in understanding. Thog's own lyrically seductive approaches probably didn't run to sonnet length. After a while he said: "You were a great help to me, of course, but otherwise what did all this subterfuge achieve?" "The `subterfuge', as you call it, isn't over yet. But I've been making myself useful, here and there, when Thog's own thoughts didn't interfere too much with my own – and when I knew we weren't being eavesdropped on by the confounded Nadziranim. I located three of them in the palace, and there may be more. We'd probably have been able to transmute the mule's flesh into a simulacrum of Allani's corpse if I'd still been at the villa, but being there near you made it all much easier. And I've thrown the Sharnazim off Lone Wolf's trail for the while, by doing a little . . . housework." Jenara/Thog didn't expand upon this, and Banedon didn't ask. "Oh, I haven't been as idle as you might think. I've found out that the Book of the Magnakai is somewhere in Barrakeesh – and that Kimah knows this, but doesn't know where to look. And I've kept us well clear of Haakon . . ." "Haakon! The Archlord! He's here?" "Certainly. I sensed the information in the mind of that Helghast, `Maouk', before it died." "But . . ." "Lone Wolf will deal with the Archlord – I hope. He has the Sommerswerd. Neither you nor I could duel with Haakon." Thog's face creased into a grin. "Haakon's even mightier than Thog the Mighty, at whose name nations recoil and flee." "But . . . but why the deception?" Banedon gestured at the great brawny figure lazing in the sand. "I didn't want to be recognized. The Sharnazim have been suspicious of me ever since my husband died. More important than that, though, I didn't want Akra to know who I was. He's a traitor, a spy. Was – I felt his life being snuffed out earlier today. He had his uses, if only because he had to give the underground opposition to the Zakhan enough assistance not to be immediately discovered. "What I hadn't guessed – and here I did fail, which is why I still have unfinished business in Barrakeesh – was that Akra would so swiftly betray Allani to the Sharnazim. They haven't killed or maimed him yet – and they won't, if I can do anything about it."

The Birthplace // 233 Open-mouthed, Banedon stared at Thog. "Then what are we wasting time for? Let's get back into the city and . . . It's my turn to help you, surely?" "No." The word was absolutely final. Banedon knew at once that there was no point at all in any further argument. "You, my young friend, have an appointment to keep. With Qinefer. She'll be coming this way soon, and I want you to take her back with you to the villa. She'll need rest, and someone to look after her. Give her that, Banedon." Floundering a little in the sand, Thog got to his feet and towered over the magician. "Give Ishir your prayers for me, Banedon, as you love me, and look after Qinefer well, as you love her. You've got more love locked up in you than a man should rightly have, Banedon, and while no one ever says very much about it, we all rely on it." Thog looked as if he wished he hadn't spoken. "Now, I must be gone," he said crisply. "Qinefer will be here soon, as I told you. With luck it won't be too long before Allani and I can join you at the oasis. 'Til then . . ." Banedon didn't watch Thog leave. He was too busy studying the wrinkles that criss-crossed the palms of his hands and wound inscrutably around the bases of his thumbs. # The first thing that Lone Wolf saw was a raised platform carpeted with scarlet fur. Resting on the platform was a mahogany chair, the carvings on its legs and arms almost lavish enough for a king's throne. And the person sitting there, Lone Wolf knew, must be, if not a king, then a zakhan. The Zakhan Kimah was dressed from head to foot in a plain, unadorned robe of golden cloth, so rich in sheen that it seemed to have been woven from gossamer strands of the metal itself. In his right hand he held a black metal orb, as if it were an emblem of state. Even from this distance Lone Wolf could detect a chilling cruelty surrounding Kimah, almost as if it were an aura: his posture in his throne-like chair bespoke an utter ruthlessness. The menace of his voice was even more chilling. "The Kai bratling is in this very palace," he was saying. "Soon he shall be yours to do with as you wish."

The Birthplace // 234 "One day you will say `soon' too often," said the vast, bulky figure that Kimah was addressing. The voice was sepulchral and bubbling, and it struck terror into Lone Wolf's soul. Fragments of memories of the almost-forgotten time he had spent at Helgedad jangled in his mind, as if they had sharp jagged edges and were constantly colliding. This was the voice of a Darklord. Kimah confirmed his worst fears. "Haakon," the Zakhan said, "my men are already searching every corner of the palace. Soon they will be here with him, and you can see him for yourself." "And are you so sure that he isn't already here?" said Haakon. Lone Wolf jerked back instinctively into the shadows where the balcony's edge joined the wall. Haakon's great helm turned, and Lone Wolf could sense those hideous eyes scanning the place where he'd been standing only seconds before. But it seemed that the Darklord didn't really suspect his presence, for he soon turned back to Kimah. "We have given you the Orb of Death, as you requested, mortal," he snarled. "Now it is time for you to keep your part of the bargain." "You have indeed given me your . . . trinket, as you promised you would," said Kimah, looking at the ball of metal as if it were a gewgaw picked up on whim in the market-place. "I have little enough need of it now – now that I have already attained the ultimate power of life and death over my ever so adoring subjects. Even so, I concede that you have fulfilled your side of the contract. But you forget that my promise was to deliver Lone Wolf to you by sunset." Haakon gave vent to an incomprehensible shout of rage. "Sunset!" he said, once the echoes had died away. "That is barely an hour from now." "An hour can be a long time – and should certainly be long enough for my Sharnazim to lay hands on the impertinent stripling you so desire. Then, if I so deem it, I too will fulfil the contract between us, and our dealings together will be at an end." "If you `so deem it'!" growled the Darklord tauntingly. "What new prevarication of yours is this?" "Your servants are defiling the holiest shrine in all Magnamund," said Kimah, and now he was leaning forward intently, the lines of his body hard under the golden jellabah. "Why? You have no need of our worldly treasures – our jewels and

The Birthplace // 235 our precious metals. Why should you commit this sacrilege? Until you cease your pillage the Kai brat will remain concealed from you." "Come now, Kimah," said the Darklord, his voice still mocking. "What are a few dusty relics? Even should the Majhan's bones themselves be destroyed, no one will know – no one is ever permitted to enter the tomb. Only the initiates even know where it is! Your people will live on in blissful ignorance." "But I shall know," hissed the Zakhan. "Yes, and you shall know also why you care not a fig for the destruction of the relics! Somewhere in that hidden tomb there is the Book of the Magnakai. Should the Sommlending ever discover it, it will become a powerful weapon in their hands – more powerful even than the Sommerswerd, for it can alter a mortal's mind." That it can, said the voice of Lone Wolf's gestalt drily in his mind. Abandon all your other ideas, Lone Wolf. It is vital that we reach the Book of the Magnakai and rescue it from the clutches of the Darklords! With the Book of the Magnakai in your hands you'll be able to pass on Kai knowledge not just to a handful of friends and eager youngsters but to a host of young Sommlending. But Lone Wolf himself had already leapt to these conclusions. The writings of Sun Eagle, the first of all the Kai, had been lost to the world for some hundreds of years, and before their massacre many of the Kai Lords had privately resigned themselves to the acceptance that the Book of the Magnakai was gone forever. While they had been alive, they'd been able to transmit its lore by teaching it to the succeeding generations; but now that there was only Lone Wolf, a part-trained Kai at best, to carry the light . . . And the Darklords would destroy the book if ever they could find it! A deathly quiet filled the hall beneath him, the silence broken only by the liquid hissing, bubbling sound of Haakon's breathing. Lone Wolf remained utterly motionless, not wishing to risk making the slightest movement until the two rulers of Evil began to talk again, so that their voices would drown out any tiny noise he might inadvertently make. He turned as soon as Haakon spoke. "The Kai whelp will serve us well," the Darklord mused. Lone Wolf halted to listen carefully.

The Birthplace // 236 "He will betray his people to us willingly, once we have taken him to the Birthplace. It might even be better, when we find the Book of the Magnakai, to give it to him, for with its secrets in his hands he will be able even more completely to bring about the downfall of the Lastlands – yes, even of Ishir herself." That was enough for Lone Wolf. He crept to the back of the balcony, hearing the two voices – the one thin like a serrated blade, the other a caustic froth – continue their exchange. Haakon seemed to have accepted that he would have to wait an hour yet before Lone Wolf was within his grasp, and Kimah was clearly trying to flatter the Darklord into staying his impatience a while longer, if necessary. The door opened smoothly, and once again Lone Wolf blessed the key he had taken from the elix's neck. Silently, his thoughts racing, he eased himself through the gap and out into an extravagant passageway, with drapes of many colours festooned along its sides. "Is that a breath of air I feel?" came Haakon's suspicious voice. "It was nothing, Darklord." Kimah's quieter, conciliatory tones. "When Vassagonia joins you in your triumph . . ." Lone Wolf shut the door with painstaking care. No sooner had he done so than two soldiers appeared around the corner to his right. They were dressed in jet-black armour and in robes of scarlet, and the hideous death-masks that concealed their faces told him that they were Drakkarim. They saw him immediately, of course, but he hardly noticed that. The focus of his attention was the leathery war hound straining against the chain leash that one of the Drakkarim held. Its mouth was opened, and saliva was dribbling from its fangs. It eased back on its haunches, ready to spring. Lone Wolf drew the Sommerswerd. The Drakkar let go of the restraining leash. Even as the war hound leapt towards his throat, its snarls filling the corridor with sound, Lone Wolf's mind was filled with a single thought: The Book of the Magnakai! It was too late to go back now. It always was. He was locked into his own pattern. Forever?

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# "Hello, Banedon." He looked up. He could see her only as a dark shape against the setting Sun, but even so he could sense the changes in her. "Hello," he said. For a little while there was silence, and then Qinefer said: "I followed the pattern and it brought me here. Do you understand me?" "I'm beginning to understand," Banedon said. "The colours in me are free, now," she said, and to his surprise Banedon found that he knew exactly what she meant. "Will your pattern take you with me back to the oasis?" he said, knowing her answer even before she spoke. "Yes. Yes, for a little while." "Jenara asked me to allow you rest, to look after you." He smiled. It seemed such an inadequate thing to say. "You won't do that." This time Banedon was startled. "What makes you say that?" "Because I can see a little of your pattern, and it tells me that soon you'll be sailing in the sky, not tied to the ground in your villa." "The Skyrider? You know of her?" "No." Her voice sounded puzzled. "Is she a vessel, or what?" "Yes . . . yes, you could call her a vessel." He looked at the sand between his feet for a few moments. Then he said: "And what about you? Where will your pattern be leading you?" "After I've rested at the oasis for a few days, I'll be heading south. I don't know where, yet. The distance is too far away along the lines of my pattern for me to be certain." "You have to go?" "Yes," she said, feeling for the first time in a long while a rivulet of moisture running down the plane of her brow. Again that amicable silence. Perfect trust. "Shall we start?" she said at last. "It'll soon be night, and it's a long walk."

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APPENDIX The Birthplace is not a science-fiction novel – it is a pure fantasy in which many a buckle is swashed – but it does rely for a deal of its ideas and imagery on various scientific hypotheses. That this is so need not concern the reader, and certainly should not affect what I humbly hope has been your enjoyment of this book. This appendix is purely for those who'd like to know where certain elements of this novel came from. # The Other Qinefer Our brain is divided into two halves, the right and left hemispheres, and these are linked by a "bridge" called the corpus callosum, a large bundle of nerve fibres. Experiments on animals as well as on humans who for one reason or another have had their corpus callosum severed have demonstrated not only that the two hemispheres can and do function independently but also, and perhaps more significantly, that they each have a quite distinct range of mental abilities – almost as if there were two different "persons" living inside each of us. We can say, as a very broad generalization, that the left brain is the site of our intellectual activity and the right the hemisphere responsible for less precise, more "instinctual" patterns of thought. It has been suggested that, in the normal brain (i.e., one in which the corpus callosum hasn't been severed) the left hemisphere dominates our thinking to the extent that we very rarely "hear from" the right. Nonetheless, the right brain can on occasion, if sufficiently perturbed, get its message through: this may be the root of "hunches". Parapsychologists have made much of these discoveries and hypotheses, and using them have produced interesting models in an endeavour to explain such presumed phenomena as precognition, the poltergeist effect and, most notably in our context, "demonic" possession. What is happening in each case, they argue, is that the right brain is communicating its non-intellectual and nonverbal knowledge to the left with such vigour that the left responds. The phenomenon of "demonic" possession seems clearly to be related to that of split personality, the most celebrated cases of

The Birthplace // 240 which this century have probably been those of "Eve" (Christine Sizemore) and "Sybil". Here what is happening, it has been postulated, is that the "mind" present in the right brain has burst through with such force that it can, at least temporarily, swamp that of the left, which is forced to verbalize the right brain's thoughts. That the right brain's thoughts seem to be generally "darker" than those of the left is possibly a myth born from the fact that the right brain, in these and other far less dramatic incidents, seems to the left brain – the intellectual "us" – to be an invader. Without necessarily endorsing any of these speculations, I've obviously drawn upon them in my treatment of a Qinefer into whose mind has been planted a kernel of Naar, and of what she would have felt in such a situation. # The Spell Generated by Banedon and Jenara It has been said, perhaps a trifle grandiosely, that there have been only three important contributions to twentieth-century science: Relativity, quantum mechanics and Chaos. It would be impossible in a few paragraphs to give any sensible summary of Chaos – James Gleick's highly recommended Chaos (1987), a popular introduction to the subject, is by no means a short book, and yet even it has difficulty in describing exactly what scientists mean by use of the term. In our context, a "definition" doesn't matter, since I've borrowed from Chaos purely some imagery: that of a simple initial pattern being built up, apparently regularly, but, through random and seemingly negligible influences (the thoughts of Banedon and Jenara), "budding" as it grows until it produces an infinitely rich and complex pattern that bears apparently no relation to the original – and yet which is, fundamentally, in reality the same pattern. Something of these ideas can be imagined by consideration of what has recently become a popular summation of Chaos in the media: that a butterfly flapping its wings in California may be responsible for hurricanes all over Northern Europe. # Qinefer's Encounter with the Birthplace

The Birthplace // 241 Here the imagery I've borrowed is that of one – very plausible – model of the Big Bang. We're used to thinking of this as some titanic explosion that brought into being all of the matter and energy to be observed in our expanding Universe. However, this simplistic notion – while there is a lot of truth in it – begs a lot of questions, the most obvious of which is: where did all that matter and energy come from? We're all familiar with the term "antimatter": it refers to "stuff" which is to all intents and purposes exactly like the ordinary matter to which we're accustomed, but all of its properties are exactly opposite. Bring together a piece of antimatter with a piece of matter and you get a very loud bang indeed as the two of them annihilate each other immediately. The fact that this is so has led to the concept of "pair creation". Since a particle of matter and a particle of antimatter will mutually annihilate in this way, there is nothing in the mathematics underpinning our physics to suggest that pairs of matter and antimatter particles cannot spontaneously pop into existence "out of nowhere", instantly destroy each other, and disappear back into "nowhere" – "disappear without trace", as it were. But there ain't no such place as "nowhere", and so surely such particle pairs must have some sort of existence? (In the condition of being in "nowhere" they are called "virtual particles".) Moreover, in certain circumstances one of the particles may survive. One such circumstance is close to a black hole, where the huge gravity may whip away either the matter or the antimatter particle before the two have had a chance to destroy each other. To return to the Big Bang. We can imagine that initially there was a sea of virtual particles – a vast expanse of "nowhere". Often enough there would be pair creation but, as the two particles instantly vanished again, this made no difference. Then, for some unknown reason (who knows? – possibly related to Chaos?), there was an imbalance and a matter particle survived. Multiply this many times over and you find out why there seems to be so very little antimatter around: every time it came to a dust-up between matter and antimatter, matter had a better chance of winning the day, because there was increasingly more of it around. Finally, although almost all of the potential "stuff" of the Universe remained in the form of virtual particles, there was a leftover scum of matter – which we see as galaxies, stars, planets, people and so on.

The Birthplace // 242 That's a very brief and oversimplified explanation of the theory: interested readers will find the matter discussed with much more rigour in any number of excellent popular texts on cosmology. As you will see, however, I've borrowed the imagery of the "seeding" of the particle sea in order to show how Qinefer was able both to destroy the Birthplace and, in the process, to make herself whole again. To readers with a logical mind who ask how, in so doing, she did not also destroy Naar in his entirety, all I can plead is novelist's licence. # Qinefer's New Mode of Thought Obviously there is a heck of a lot of Taoistic philosophy involved here, and I won't dwell on it. The idea of patterns, though, perhaps requires a few words. The phenomenon of Brownian motion – popularly nicknamed "drunkard's walk" – is well known to most schoolchildren who have taken physics beyond elementary level. If we look at the progress of a particle of colloidal size (i.e., bigger than a molecule but too small to be seen by a conventional microscope; smoke particles, for example, are of colloidal size) we see that it seems to be totally haphazard. This is because the particle is sufficiently small for the random jostlings of the air molecules around it to affect its path. (More shades of Chaos!) Imagine that you've made a movie of such a colloidal particle as it goes from A to B. You can plot the precise path that it has followed: the particle has traced a very definite "pattern" in its progress, and it has very definitely got from A to B. Trouble is, you only know what that pattern is after the event; and there are trillions of other patterns it could have traced with the same overall effect of taking it from A to B. Now imagine that you knew in advance what particular pattern the particle was going to trace . . . This is the new mode of thought that has come to Qinefer through her encounter with the Birthplace and her experience of the "seeding" effect that her own consciousness has had upon the myriad possible routes traceable from point to point across the "surface" of the particle sea. It does not, of course, mean that she can predict the future: she can, however, anticipate patterns and

The Birthplace // 243 the constantly changing nature of future ones according to each new influence exerted upon her own. # As I say, these scientific notes are quite irrelevant to the story. I thought, however, that it was worth appending them for those readers who might find them of some interest, however trivial.