Chapter four

Neman Forest

 

Celia was sitting on a bench at the edge of the endless woods. Around her there was as a carpet of flowering wood anemones and the oaks above her head cast a light green shadow. She had a small table in front of her and she was playing patience, the cards slowly accumulating.

Bronwyn approached from the main council buildings. She walked slowly across the lawn and down to where Celia was sitting. She was very concerned; Celia had been staying with them for some time. She had needed time to recover physically, but now she was strong and well, but she still lingered on, saying little and seeming unusually fragile. Bronwyn was not only worried about Celia’s state of mind – she also knew that unless Celia showed some improvement soon, her sister would want to get involved, and that she would take a direct approach. Bronwyn had seen Gwyneth do that many times before and it was not at all pleasant to watch.

Celia didn’t look up until Bronwyn was directly in front of her.  She smiled and began to gather up the cards.

‘Did you win?’ asked Bronwyn

Celia began shuffling the cards absentmindedly.

‘I didn’t get to the end’ she said

To Bronwyn she still looked pale and rather sad.

‘Can I sit with you for a while?’

Celia nodded and smiled.

‘Of course…’

Celia put the cards down on the table and moved up to allow Bronwyn to sit comfortably beside her.

‘Will you join us for breakfast, or shall I get something brought out to you?’

Celia shrugged.

‘It’s a lovely day – I think I’ll just stay out here…If you don’t mind…’

‘Of course I don’t – although I would love to have your company’

‘Maybe tomorrow…’

This wasn’t the first time that they had had this conversation. Bronwyn sighed softly and wondered whether, once again, she might be wasting her time. However, Celia was one of her closest friends and one of the most skilful and admired council members.

‘How are you feeling today?’

‘I’m fine, Bron, really I am – I’m still feeling a bit weak…’

Bronwyn nodded, but she couldn’t bring herself to believe that that was true. She would have to try to dig out the truth again. Her voice was soft.

‘You still haven’t said exactly what happened …’

Celia looked away into the deep green centre of the wood.  Her heart wouldn’t admit the truth, because it was too painful to face, too difficult to face the fear and hatred that her enemy had ignited inside her.

‘He damaged me’ she responded after a long pause, ‘and it will take some time to heal’

Bronwyn waited until her friend turned back to look at her. She scanned her face, trying to make sense of what she meant.

‘But you seem well now – you seem healed’

Celia’s eyes misted briefly but then she shook herself.  Bronwyn was quite shocked – this wasn’t like her at all.

‘I don’t think that I can do something like that again, Bron’

Bronwyn was now even more shocked – Celia was about the most undaunted person she had ever met.

‘But you were fabulous! Everyone says so… you defeated him fair and square…’

‘Not really – I was lucky’

Bronwyn was utterly bemused.

‘You can’t defeat an enemy like him with luck…’

‘He was overconfident’ said Celia, her voice trailing off, ‘that’s all it was…’

She looked down on the ground as if searching for a lost pin. She didn’t seem to want to look Bronwyn directly in the eye.

‘I don’t think that I believe that, Celia – you’re the last person qualified to comment on your achievements’

Celia shrugged. She looked uncomfortable, and so Bronwyn decided to change the subject.

‘How’s Owen?’ she asked, thinking that this, at least, was an uncontroversial subject.

Celia looked up, with deep concern on her face.

‘What do you mean?’

Bronwyn smiled to reassure her.

‘Umm, nothing, at all – I was just wondering what he had been up to’

Celia jumped at her.

‘Have you heard that something might be wrong?’

‘No – not at all. Anyway, you’d be the first to know if Owen was in trouble, I’m sure’

Celia’s look sharpened into suspicion.

‘Why on earth do you say that?’

Bronwyn gulped. How had she got to this? And why was she getting such an odd response? She carried on as best she could.

‘Because you’re his best friend, of course…’

‘What makes you think that?’ Celia snapped, ‘don’t go around saying that! He’s just a colleague’

Bronwyn’s heart skipped a beat. How could that be? It had been an open secret that Owen and Celia had had a thing about each other for ages now. They must have fallen out, but this seemed inconceivable; they were about the most harmonious pair she had ever met. Why was Celia saying these things?

‘What’s happened? How did you two…?’

Bronwyn stopped. Celia’s eyes were welling up and she was shaking her head, imploring her to say nothing more. Bronwyn felt her friend’s sorrow seeping over her, as if it was some horrible, dispiriting disease. She put her hand up to her face, stood up and turned to hide her own inexplicable tears.

‘I must go to breakfast’ she muttered, and then she walked rapidly back to the safety of the buildings.

Celia stopped weeping almost immediately, pulling herself together with a considerable effort.   She got up and walked into the woods. They were full of the buzz of spring, and the green of new growth, but it felt as cold to her as if it were December. A deer darted out of the undergrowth, stood twitching uncertainly for a second, and then ran back the way she had come. Celia hardly noticed; her mind went churning on.   

She wandered on, deep in thought, turning over in her mind, for the umpteenth time, her confrontation with the evil witch, Kratos; a victory that she wished had never happened.  Now she had to live with the consequences of her actions, and it had taken a long time to decide what she should do.    

However, now she had a plan and she had every intention of sticking to it, at whatever personal cost. She would have to change her entire life, and that would be unbearable, but it had to be done. She wasn’t quite ready yet, but when she had gained enough courage she knew what she must do. She would retire somewhere where no-one could reach her, do no more magic, and resign from the coven. Only in that way could she protect the dearest thing in her life, by ensuring that she never saw him again. Then, she hoped, no-one would trace the thread of her feelings back to him. She would sacrifice her love for his life. Of course that would also sacrifice his love for her, but that hadn’t occurred to her yet.     

Chapter five

Gorodnikov

 

Viola slept deeply but yet she still dreamed.

She was standing on a hill above a hollow grassy bowl, which filled the space in front of her, like the performing area of a huge amphitheatre which stretched out almost as far as she could see.  The grass seemed to shimmer as she watched it, as if a uniform breeze were blowing through the stalks. She felt compelled to look inside the bowl and concentrate only on the empty grass. Nothing else could distract her.

Without any warning trees began to grow, preternaturally fast, out of the grassy ground. They were apple trees at first, growing straight out of the dry earth. Then there were orange trees, and then birches and then tulip trees. They appeared in clusters, in no obvious pattern, and they all grew to their full height and then blossomed. The smell was intoxicating – it filled her up until she felt overwhelmed. She could not help but breathe it in.   

The patterns that the trees made were in the form of lines and curves, forming two large enclosed areas of differing shapes. They looked very familiar, but what they showed was for ever nudging into her mind and straining to flower into clarity. But it never did, like the name of an acquaintance that you can’t quite recall, even when she is standing right next to you.   

Then suddenly, as if from nowhere, there were green serpents, wriggling up out of the turf in different parts of the bowl, turning their giant heads and tasting the air through their forked tongues. They were massive, wide and bulky, and were all apparently identical. They waited for just a moment and then new trees began to grow around them; nine copses that hide the nine snakes from view. Somehow she knew what species each tree belonged to, even though she had almost no knowledge of the names of plants. Everything seemed complete:  fruits began to form on the trees, birds sang from the canopies, insects called from every bough.  Viola watched transfixed, but she had no idea what any of it signified, if it indeed it signified anything.  

A whirlwind appeared in the centre of the bowl, swirling the air around it viciously and withering the grass as it swept along. Dust flew up into the air, and the sky above darkened but there were no clouds. The air began to smell of smoke.

The whirlwind came upon the copses, one by one, and one by one the hidden snakes came out to combat its power. Each time there was a brief struggle, but the snakes could only delay the end for a little while. One by one they were slain. Every time that a snake was killed the copse began to burn, the trees crackling like discarded paper.  The grass around every copse also began to smoulder and then the trees that defined the boundaries of the two areas began to turn brown. This was the brown of death not of autumn.  And there would be no renewing spring.

Eventually the fire spread and consumed everything. Once it had stopped there was a great roaring and the bottom of the bowl fell away. At first Viola thought it had collapsed into a lake or an ocean. But then she saw, coming out from the bland surface below, strange blue clouds that fed on themselves, like rats biting their own tails. She knew exactly where that was.   

Viola felt a presence beside her. She looked up from her bewilderment - it was Ophia. Once again she was in her southern elf form: dark and small and grave. She nodded solemnly in greeting. Viola turned towards her.  

‘What was the meaning of that, my Lady’ she said, in perfect archaic elven  

Ophia smiled, but she looked somewhat bemused.

‘I have no rank in your world, and I have no desire that you should call me that. It is not a suitable title at all’

Viola could think of nothing to say; her dream state seemed to make everything so very fuzzy. 

‘Did you see it all?’ asked the god

Viola nodded, her face screwed up with concentration.

‘I did, but I could make nothing of it’

‘Good – it is not yet meant to be clear. Clear knowledge can be dangerous, so I have given you hidden knowledge, which at times can be more useful. Clarity will come when it is required’

‘When will that be?’

‘When you know what needs to be done…’

‘Why can you not tell me now?’

‘Because our enemies want to know it as much as you do’

Ophia looked puzzled. Her pale green eyes darkened a little.

 ‘It will be a race, I suppose’ she said gently, ‘but you will just have to be faster’

 Fear gripped Viola, even in her vague dream reverie.

‘How can I do anything on my own?’

Ophia laughed softly.

‘You can’t, foolish elf – but you know that already, don’t you… look to your companions, past and future…’

Viola head buzzed, she heard the harsh cry of a seagull in the real world – the dream was about to end. She struggled to find the right questions in the time that remained.

‘Why can’t you help me directly?’ she asked, feeling the pull of the real world very strongly.

Ophia’s eyes, as green as a forest, shimmered slightly, as if she were finding it hard to see.

‘I have left and gone on into darkness’ she said, ‘I no longer have a part in… your reality’

Once again Viola understood none of this, but nonetheless she knew that right now she had assumed a great responsibility, and she had no idea why.

‘Why do you trust me with this knowledge?’ she asked, ‘how do you know that I will ever know what it means? Or even if I do that I will use it wisely?’

Ophia smiled and touched her hand

‘Because it is you, my dear, and… who else could I possibly trust?’

She bent over and kissed Viola softly on the top of her head. Then she was gone. Everything else disappeared along with her and collapsed back into the formless black. It was time to stop sleeping and to go and act.

 

 

***

Viola woke with a start. She had to write all of this down. She jumped out of bed so fast that she banged her head on the edge of the rather pretentious four-poster bed that Arbutus had kindly provided for her. She pulled on a dressing gown and ran into the sitting room that she shared with her friends.

Kath was in an armchair making notes in a large notebook. She had started working again.

She looked up, rather sourly.

‘What is it now, Vee?’ she asked in Ethian.

‘I had another of my dreams’ Viola replied, in her own tongue.

Kath rolled her eyes and didn’t try to disguise her impatience. She really wasn’t in the mood to talk in the imperial language.

‘Whatever it is, I’m still going home…’ she said, in Ethian

Viola’s eyes darted round the room, startled.

‘No – I need your help’ she said, shifting back to barbarian’s speech

Kath waited a beat.

‘Really? Why haven’t you mentioned that before? I didn’t realise that you wanted help…’

Viola ignored this; perhaps she didn’t even really hear it.

‘About this I mean…’

‘Ah right – so – was it another Quiena dream?’

‘Yes – it was really odd – I couldn’t make any sense of it’

Kath sighed and gestured for Viola to sit down in the chair next to hers.

‘I know I’m going to regret this, Vee, but you better tell me all about it…’

 

‘That’s the worst recounting of a prophetic dream that I ever heard’ muttered Kath, ten minutes later.

Viola looked shamefaced – she’d tried to remember what had happened but the dream had faded even faster than usual. Kath had tried to write everything down in her notebook, but it had been hard work.

‘What have you got?’ asked Viola, hopefully.

Kath read her notes back very slowly.

‘Trees, snakes, Quiena, a big fire, something about the outer void…  Quiena kissed you?’

 Viola hurried to explain this.

‘On the top of my head – on my hair… it was an affectionate kiss, nothing romantic…’

‘That’s a shame’ said Kath, ‘it might be useful to know a god who has a crush on you’

Viola wrinkled her face in embarrassment.

‘It wasn’t like that at all’

Kath glowered at her.

‘I was just teasing…’

Viola shook her head. It seemed to dislodge some cobwebs in her muddled brain.

‘It was more like someone showing affection to a child, to be honest’

Kath had a thought, a very brief extraordinary one, which she immediately dismissed as totally ridiculous.

‘Well, to the gods we must all seem like children…’ she said, going off on another tack

Viola nodded

‘But she clearly likes you well enough…’

Viola shook her head.  She sat in silence, lost in the memory of her rapidly fading dream. Eventually she came to a decision.

‘We need to save the serpents’ she said

‘What?’ spluttered Kath

‘I don’t know why, but I think they are really important. But I have no idea how to even start’

Kath shook her head.

‘No, no, Vee, don’t do this to me again. Don’t suck me into another stupid and dangerous thing…’

Viola’s eyes were as wide and as imploring as Kath had ever seen.

‘But I think the fate of the world may be in the balance’ she said

‘But that’s what you always say!’ groaned Kath

‘Don’t blame me…’ said Viola plaintively, ‘blame my dreams… blame Ophia’

Kath nodded

‘I’ll give her a piece of my mind the next time that I bump into her’

Viola looked puzzled for a second and then grinned.

‘Me too…’

Kath rather theatrically blew air out of her mouth in a huge sigh.

‘Let’s try again, then. Are sure you remember nothing more about the dream?’

Viola thought very hard for a second and then took the notebook from the table. She picked up Kath’s pencil and began to write, slowly but without hesitation. When she had finished Kath took the notebook from her and read it out aloud.

‘Oak, mahogany, date palm, alder, magnolia, walnut, redwood, teak, hemlock’

She put the notebook back down on the table and looked up enquiringly at the elf.

‘What on earth does that mean?’

 ‘I thought you might know’

Kath smarted slightly

‘Since when did I know anything about trees?’

Viola looked very downcast.

‘We need Marthian here…’

‘Yes, very true… but hard to arrange’

They sat in silence for a little while, with Kath wishing that this whole odd thing would just somehow go away. Then Viola smiled unexpectedly.

‘Marthian isn’t the only one who knows about trees, of course…’

Kath shrugged. She really had absolutely no interest in arboriculture.

‘Who do you have in mind?’

‘Mr Hardacre’

‘Laurence? Really? Why would he know anything about trees?’ asked Kath, genuinely bemused.

Viola, who had worked for Marthian for a long time, was used to gardening and plants being exceptionally common topics of conversation. That Kath might not have noticed an equal enthusiasm in Hardacre was astonishing to her.  She stared her impatiently.

‘Maybe you should just go on off to Eth, after all…’ she muttered, almost under her breath

‘You should write to him then’ said Kath, feeling abashed, and trying to be a bit more helpful, ‘do we have any mail paper?’

‘No’ replied Viola, ‘but I know that there are some old mages living in the elven part of the town. They’re sure to have some paper’

Kath was astonished at the insouciance of this remark.

‘That’ll cost twenty elfrounds a sheet at the very least’ she said, wide eyed.

‘I have a budget…’ explained Viola, equally breezily, staring round at her empty office, ‘and I’m not doing much with it at the moment

‘Right…’ said Kath, unconvinced, ‘and this would be a good use of the money, would it?’

Viola nodded. Her smile was unusually steely. She did, however, lower her voice considerably, even though she was the only Imperial subject in the room.

‘Of course it would be.  It seems appropriate that the Emperor should pay; considering the mess he’s made. I’d say that it’s the least he can do’

Chapter six

The Tattered Dragon

Five minutes into the talk Hardacre realised that he had understood almost nothing that Macrocephalos had said.  His exposition was in a strange amalgam of languages – mostly Ethian, but with large dollops of Archaic Elven, Rhylic and Visneorian.  It seemed designed to appeal to the most sophisticated of audiences.  Perhaps this was the only sort of lecture that the old scholar knew how to give.

What was all of this about? He took a surreptitious look at the other members of the audience, expecting to see a lot of emptying seats.  Well, there were a few people who had clearly left, but most of the audience were still in their positions. However, they seemed to be paying no attention to the talk at all. Instead they all seemed very tense, looking around as if for a signal of some kind. Hardacre smiled inwardly – this might well be some sort of trap, but if it is was it really wasn’t looking like a very effective one. He assumed that the intention was to lure Mr Ismay here, but the chance of achieving that seemed exceptionally low.  One thing was certain – this wasn’t the CRS.  However, there were definitely CRS people here, skulking at the edges of the room.  What was going on?

He briefly considered teleporting home, but he realised that this would achieve nothing. He had to hang on, at least for the time being. He wondered whether either the CRS or these other people knew that he was here? Who were the Radical Numerologists anyway?  It rang a vague bell, but he seemed to remember more as a joke than anything else. Wasn’t this the group that Owen had once described as ‘a bit bonkers’? He now wished that he’d paid a bit more attention to the obscure politics of western nationalism. He was fairly certain, however, that the Numerologists were not a group that were directly connected to the CRS.

Macrocephalos finally managed to say something entirely in one language, but it wasn’t very helpful.

‘The shape of primes is vital here, as are their colours and their flavours. As we climb among them, we see that they are the fabric from which the sea and the stones are woven. It is at the primes that all attacks might be directed, if any such attack, which would be utterly unwise, were it to be contemplated’

‘But which primes are the strongest, and which may have been used by the architects, or should we call them eschatologists, or ontologists , or perhaps even, if I might permit myself a small academic joke,  mere engineers? Of course, words always fail in a barbarous tongue, so you will forgive me, perhaps, for lapsing back into my own as I lay out my axioms’

He continued in archaic elven.

‘We come, therefore, to the vexed questions of primes. Let us start by putting aside beh, deh, ge, eh, ze, and ia, as these are asthenic primes, with power only to anchor unsophisticated and anaemic things. Let us also exclude the higher, immalleable primes, those above and including nug, which not even the Uchbenoi have power to use. This leaves us with the Enneic Numerals:  Ig, iz, ith, kyg, kith, lah, lith, mah, and myg. These are the tectononomes for Skiophos and none now residing in the tetrageos know how they might be employed. And if they did, they should not, one must almost certainly say, be encouraged to use them. All we can say is that that was how Skiphos was constructed, and , unfortunately, therefore might well  be the mechanism by which it might be dismantled, prime by prime. So, any defence against that eventuality must start with safeguarding the enneics…  ’       

Hardacre struggled to write some of this down. He was reasonably fluent in archaic eleven, but he had never heard this sort of thing before.  It seemed like a sort of counting scheme, but nothing like they used at Kinspit, where they had, quite reasonably, switched to using Algharian numerals. What was clear was that if Macrocephalos was really talking about numbers then these also had names and powers.

The elf scholar’s presentation became ever more abstruse as he wandered deeper and deeper into his numerological labyrinth. Hardacre’s attempts to write down anything became more and more desultory and he began to wonder increasingly whether this had been a waste of time. It would have been better for Mr Ismay to be here, but, of course, completely out of the question.

Hardacre saw the beginnings of a struggle out of the corner of his eye. One of the shadowy figures at the periphery of the room was attempting to move into the centre.  A sudden spark of white light erupted among the people who were attempting to restrain her. They fell and back and she strode, now unhindered, into everyone’s view. She was short and pale, with cropped dyed black hair, and every knot in her body seemed to prickle with anger. A hundred heads turned towards her all at once.

Hardacre knew exactly who this was. This was Vala ferch Llyr – Beas’s number one assassin.  She came with a formidable reputation.   

‘Time to stop this charade’ she said in Rhylic, ‘you know that he is ours’

Macrocephalos looked up, mildly displeased at being interrupted. He nodded politely at the pale woman in reluctant recognition. Meanwhile, the sandy-haired man who had introduced him jumped up and interposed himself between the scholar and the sudden threat. He looked terrified, but steadfast. His voice wavered.    

‘No – he is with us now. He wants to stay with us! You have no right to claim him’

He took two very hesitant steps towards the assassin.

‘Chymyla’  he shouted, and breathed in.

Vala sniggered and cried out ‘ Brydia!’ in the split second before he had time to exhale.

The sandy-haired man ignited and burned in a white flame from head to toe. He flared and screamed, very briefly, but then turned to ash.  

Vala flicked her head at Macrocephalus, dismissively.

 ‘Barlys’

The scholar froze in place, as if someone had switched off a clockwork toy.  

The woman twirled on the spot, searching the faces of the audience.

‘Anyone else?’ she dared them. The sound of the room emptying was deafening, like a classroom on the last day of term. Toppled chairs were scattered everywhere.

Hardacre stood up, and swallowed hard.  

‘Well…’ he said, ‘actually… yes’

He knew he couldn’t just let Vala abduct Macrocephalos, even though he had no idea at all what he would do next beyond surviving for a little longer. He ducked down, whispering ‘gwrthladd’

‘Brydia!’ came the cry again. 

Hardacre felt the blistering fire spell envelope him, but the fire did not catch, as his defensive spell absorbed all but the smallest amount of its energy. The skin on his face only blistered slightly, but his disguise melted away completely.  

‘You!’ shouted Vala, gleefully.

Hardacre declined to respond. This wasn’t good at all. Vala was incredibly strong and utterly ruthless. He had no doubt that she would keep trying to kill him for as long as it took.  Sadly, though, the old elf was still in danger.    

‘What an excellent and unexpected opportunity’ snarled Vala, taking two steps towards him.  She pulled out a short sword – she tended to like to finish off her biggest prey in visceral, conventional ways.  

Hardacre ducked to the left and ran towards the immobilised Macrocephalos.  At the very least he could free the scholar and give him a chance to escape.  After that, things might get a bit more difficult.

Vala jumped forward and slashed at Hardacre’s back – she was astonishingly quick and agile. The blow would have crushed Hardacre’s shoulder, but it never arrived.

Vala disappeared. An absurdly thin red headed woman, who looked as if the breeze could pluck her up into the trees, was standing beyond where Vala had been. She smiled vaguely.     

‘I’ve sent her home’ explained the woman, ‘I think that she was going to hurt you’

‘Who are you?’ asked Hardacre, astonished.

‘I am Braith…’ she said, very quietly, looking rather dreamily at the ashes where the sandy-haired man had died. ‘…and I am now, I believe, the Archon of our order’

Hardacre had no idea who this strange slip of a woman was, but she had an extraordinary physical presence. She seemed to look right through him, as if she had observed everything within him in a split second and was now analysing the space beyond. And more than this, she seemed familiar in a way that was both disturbing, and yet strangely comforting.

Braith whispered something under her breath and Macrocephalos started forward. She hurried over to him, grabbed him by the arm and then closed her eyes.  The elf was still dazed and merely nodded, in clear relief.  Hardacre looked up at them. He knew exactly what Braith intended to do, but he had to try to talk to her before she did it.

‘Why did you take such an extraordinary risk?’ he asked, breathlessly.

Braith shook her head, rather sadly, opened her slate grey eyes and stared straight at him. Then she tugged at Macrocephalos’s arm, and they disappeared into the ether. 

Hardacre was left in a room filled with the smell of fire and the carcasses of strewn chairs. He sighed softly. All in all, he didn’t really feel that his field research had got off to a very good start.

  

Chapter seven

Around Gorodnikov

 

Dom had nothing to do. On his second day he had turned up for work and his employer had told him to ‘settle in and get your office sorted out’. That didn’t take very long   The Deputy Governor had given him a room from which he was almost certain the brooms had been removed only a few hours earlier – he could just about fit a desk and a chair into it. He sat there and waited, behind his desk facing the door.

No-one came. The minutes ticked by and he reached into his satchel and pulled out a massive book. It was a very well-thumbed copy of Intermediate Mage Studies, volume seven.  This was the next step in his studies, but he’d had very little time to read it recently. It was tough going, as it had been written by an elf for elves, but he was determined to master it, however long it took.

He read a few pages, slightly guiltily, and then put the book down on the table. He wondered if he was meant to go and do something more useful, but he couldn’t imagine what that might be.  His mind began to wander back to Amansk. As the days ticked over he missed Lily and Toby more and more, and he was finding it hard not to become too lonely in this, his home town, which now seemed almost foreign.  He still got occasional letters from both of the royal siblings, but he knew that neither of them were great correspondents.  He just wished that one of them, either one, were here to keep him company.

At twelve-thirty Lieutenant Potentilla turned up at his door. She was dressed in Visneorian military uniform, as always. She seemed eager to speak to him. Maybe she’d give him something to do.  

‘Are you busy?’ she asked

Dom looked up at her from his empty desk, slipping his book into the desk drawer in front of him as she spoke. She didn’t seem to notice.

‘Do I look very busy?’

Potentilla peered at the desk and round the room. She looked mildly confused.

‘I’d say “no”… I think’

She looked closely at him.

‘Why did you just ask me the same question that I asked you?’

Dom resisted sighing heavily, and waited.  He was a very patient person.

‘If you’re not busy then we could go to lunch’ she said, eventually.

Dom wondered whether this was a really good idea, but he really didn’t have anything else to do.

‘That would be great – thanks’ he said

He stood up and squeezed past his desk.

‘I think your desk may be a bit too big’ said Potentilla, thoughtfully.

Dom just nodded.  After a few seconds of manoeuvring he finally stood in front of her.

‘So where are we going?’ he asked

Potentilla looked even more bemused.

‘I thought you were from here…’ she said, wrinkling her nose,‘…aren’t you?’

Dom smiled gallantly. He was just beginning to pick up the nature of Potentilla’s special thought patterns.  

‘Yes of course I am…’

Potentilla smiled broadly – her instinctive enthusiasm returning to fill up her face.

‘Great – then you can lead on…’

 

***

 

Dom led the lieutenant to a nearby fish restaurant, Prawn in the Empire – Gorodnikov had the best seafood in the western continent, and this was one of the best restaurants along the city’s seafront.  They sat near the back of the establishment  – Dom ordered the sea bream and Potentilla the lobster; they both agreed on white wine.  Dom wondered what on earth they would talk about.

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Dom noticed that a few of the other diners were staring at them from behind their menus. They ordered, the beautifully-prepared food appeared and then Dom, rather reluctantly, began a conversation. 

‘So – where do you come from in the West, lieutenant?’

Potentilla spoke through a mouthful of lobster meat.

‘I come from Veralia on the desert fringes. It’s lovely there…’

‘People say that there are amazing skies there, don’t they? I’ve heard you can see for miles…’

Potentilla nodded.

‘Yes, and the sunsets are fantastic…’

‘I’m not sure I’d like it, though’ he said, holding out a freckled arm, ‘I’m a bit too pale’

Potentilla leant forward and took his hand. She pulled it towards her and then studied it intently.  Then she looked up to examine the rest of what she could see of him. This felt uncomfortable; there was an unmistakeable element of sexual appraisal in her widening eyes.  The elf was clearly working out whether she found this human attractive and it became obvious very rapidly that she did. Dom took a gulp of wine.

 ‘Yes, you are really rather pale, aren’t you?’ said Potentilla, grinning, ‘I really like it’

Dom blushed. Potentilla smiled in warm appreciation. Unfortunately, much to Dom’s surprise it was a very attractive smile and it took him aback completely: he found himself wondering what it would be like to kiss her. Then he thought of Lily and felt ashamed. He really needed to change the subject.     

 ‘So – how did you end up in Gorodnikov with the Deputy Governor, lieutenant?’

Potentilla’s expression changed completely. She sat back and her eyes lit up with a completely different sort of excitement.

‘I’ve been on an amazing adventure’ she said. ‘I’ve crossed the great East Visneorian plain, I’ve been in the ruins of Melloreis, seen the inside of the Great Wall, lived in the most beautiful city in the world, and made some fantastic friends. I’ve had such a fabulous time!’

‘That’s a lot to take in!’ said Dom, ‘perhaps we can start with how you met Major Viola’

‘Vee?’ spluttered Potentilla

Dom looked blank. It took Potentilla some time to catch up.

‘Yes, Vee’ she explained, ‘that’s what Kath calls her’

‘And who is Kath, lieutenant?’

‘She’s from Eth City – she’s some sort of scholar. That’s why I was in Melloreis, because of Kath…’

Melloreis was a vague legend to Dom. He began to wonder if Potentilla was a fantasist, but he had no real way of knowing.  Could she really have been to all those places?

The conversation continued and he coaxed her through an hour of explanation, and received information that Viola would have been furious to find out that Potentilla had disclosed. Fortunately Dom was a discreet person and, in addition, the story was garbled enough for the complete truth to be fairly well hidden.  Despite himself, however, Dom was impressed – it seemed like these two Ortian elves were a fairly formidable force. Most disquietingly, it seemed that his new boss had killed at least two elves by swordplay. That was certainly worth knowing when you started a new job.

On top of all that, Dom found that he rather liked this mad elf. She was enthusiastic and vivacious, and she was the only person that had shown any real interest in him for several weeks. Also, she really was rather fine looking: she had high cheek bones, a trim figure, and that really rather lovely smile.

In the back of his mind, of course, he knew that this might very well all be false and some sort of trap, but he thought it unlikely. He’d never met anyone who seemed more open and honest. Maybe they could be allies, or, perhaps, even friends? Lily wouldn’t mind them being friends would she? After all, the elf was probably thirty times his age.

During the time they had been talking they had consumed a seafood main course, some soup, a large apple pie and some Gorodnikov elf-spirit (a local brandy).  This was mostly Potentilla’s idea. Dom was beginning to dread how much it would all cost.

Finally Potentilla remembered that Viola had a task for him that afternoon that she should have mentioned when she came to see him. She suggested that they might go back soon.

Dom rather reluctantly asked for the bill. He looked at it, gulped quietly, and then reached secretly inside his wallet. He didn’t have enough money to pay for both of them.  He looked up at Potentilla, worried.

‘Shall we split it? I’m afraid I wasn’t expecting to come out for lunch…’

The elf laughed. She pulled a wad of Visneorian bank notes out of her jacket pocket.

‘No need – the Emperor has given us pots of money!’

This was said so loudly that now everyone still left in the restaurant all looked over as if as one.

Dom’s heart sank but he felt like he couldn’t really argue. He would treat this is as an interesting business lunch, nothing more or less.  Maybe, this was the way that Ortians treated all their employees.

‘Thank you very much’ he said

‘No problem at all’ gushed Potentilla, ‘we can do this any time we want…’

For the first time it seemed that the elf hesitated slightly. She even lowered her voice.

‘We could come here for dinner one time, if you’d like…umm… well… I certainly would…’

Her voice became almost a whisper

‘With you, I mean…’

Dom felt a jolt in his stomach – he couldn’t decide if it was excitement or distress. All he can manage in response to her suggestion was a noncommittal smile. He wondered what he should do.

‘I really think that we should be getting back’ he said defensively, and led Potentilla out of the beautiful little restaurant.

Chapter eight

Ismay’s House, Kinspit

 

The next morning John heard Hardacre moving around at about eight o’clock. He hadn’t been consciously aware of Laurence’s return from Ponwy, but something had made him wake up early and hurry downstairs. He was worried – he’d assumed that his servant would stay in Eth overnight.

Hardacre was in the kitchen, preparing breakfast.  He looked up sharply when John entered. John’s heart sank – he knew exactly what that look meant

‘Have I set the clocks incorrectly, sir? I can think of no other explanation for your sudden appearance this early in the morning’

John frowned.  

‘I was concerned about you’ he said, ‘that’s why I got up as soon as I woke’

Hardacre looked back at the eggs that he was poaching. John sighed to himself – he hadn’t seen Laurence in such a bad mood for a long time. The eggs, however, looked wonderful and John felt immediately hungry.  

‘I have left my report in your office, sir – perhaps you could read it before I serve the food? I believe that it contains some important information’

John nodded and retreated rapidly into his study. He hoped that the report would explain Laurence’s foul temper.

 

The report was short and to the point. It laid out what had happened: it described Macrocephalos’s lecture as far as Hardacre could remember it and then the interventions of Vala and Braith.  John read it through twice and then put it back on his desk. There were a lot of questions that needed answering.

Hardacre appeared, as if by magic. He hovered in the doorway with the breakfast tray, showing no sign of giving it to John quite yet.  John’ heart continued to sink.

‘Who on earth are the Radical Numerologists?’ he asked, wondering if he’d get a straight answer.

Hardacre’s face was set in impassivity.

‘I have no idea, sir. All I know is that the woman who claims to lead them, Braith, saved my life, and so I am very grateful to her. Everything else pales rather into insignificance’

 ‘Yes, of course… but nonetheless…’ continued John, ‘we will need to address the question, later’

‘Perhaps sir, but not at this moment, if you don’t mind…’

John tried another tack.

‘What about the lecture, Laurence? From your notes I can’t make much sense of what Macrocephalos said beyond that he has a thing about prime numbers. Did you have any ideas?’

Hardacre allowed himself a small moment of visible irritation.  He clearly didn’t feel that this was the most important part of what had happened.

‘I think that’s a question for finer minds than ours, sir. I suggest that you pass my report on to Dr Mannings or Dr Protheroe… or, perhaps, most appositely, Mr Buckwhistle…’

John bridled slightly at this remark, but he knew that it had been expressed by someone at the end of his tether.  It was time to swallow his pride.  

‘I’ll make sure that it is copied and sent to all the council members. Perhaps you could do a quick run round the most likely ones, have a poke around…’

His suggestion dropped dead from his lips. The look in Hardacre’s eyes had killed it.

‘I have something important to say, sir’

John could only nod and wait.  

‘As you will have seen’ said Hardacre, ‘things were rather difficult in Ponwy and that difficulty was not an isolated incident.’

John struggled to combine a look of seriousness and concern.  He had no intention of saying anything else for quite a while.

‘Overall, I am becoming concerned…’ said Hardacre, very slowly, ‘…about the nature of the tasks that the council has been assigning me. This concern is not personal, as I am happy to endure danger and hardship for our cause in which I believe so very strongly’

John nodded emphatically – he knew that all this was true.   

‘However, I am rather wondering sir, exactly what your domestic plans are for when you finally send me to my death, as it seems so likely that you will. I ask merely for forward planning purposes’

John felt guilt surging through him like an electric shock.  He had known for a long time that the council’s use of poor Laurence was not only dangerous but also grossly unfair, but events had always overtaken them.  He was so well organised, so resourceful.

 Hardacre waited a second, as if reading his master’s mind. He continued in a much softer voice.

‘About this time last year, President Ismay, you promised me a break from my diplomatic missions so that I could deal with some of the more pressing household tasks…’

This was very bad – Hardacre only used formal council titles when he was exceptionally vexed.

‘Do you remember that, sir?’

John nodded pathetically. 

 ‘…Since then I have been asked to assume an unusually burdensome set of diplomatic activities, travelling far and wide and undertaking very varied tasks. Consequently, and through no fault of mine, we have periodically been left here in this house with what can only be described as utter domestic chaos’

Hardacre paused for effect.  His face suggested the most severe possible consequences.

 ‘I have seen inside your wardrobe, sir – and at present there are at least three unstarched shirts hanging there. ’    

‘I know, I know…’ said John, hanging his head. He couldn’t help but laugh inside, however.

‘In addition, the gardener has taken it upon himself to undertake “independent” activities in the shrubberies. I can scarcely pass into the garden without fearing for my entire landscape plan’

John shook his head. He’d long ago learned that however petty and strange Hardacre’s obsessions might appear, they really had to be taken seriously. Also, there was a kernel of truth hidden here – John couldn’t afford to let his household standards slip – they were part of his status in Kinspit.

‘I’m so sorry, Laurence. I will have words with him’ 

 ‘Good’ said Hardacre, ‘but, in fact, that isn’t my main point’

‘I know’ said John, wearily.

Hardacre straightened to his full height. 

‘So… I am informing you that from this day forward and for an indefinite period, I will be undertaking no diplomatic activities outside the boundary of Kinspit, regardless of how important my intervention appears to be to others. I plan to get the house and garden in order. In addition, I intend, with your permission, to find an apprentice to work under me and train him here in domestic service to a high standard. If then I am required to undertake any diplomatic missions, should any arise subsequently, I can perform them without constant fear of imminent catastrophe’

‘What about Simkins?’ asked John

Hardacre shook his head to indicate that this suggestion was unworthy of any words. He finally put John’s breakfast tray on the desk. ‘There are many other much younger and far better qualified witches who can do these ‘diplomatic’ jobs, sir. I’m sure that they are queuing up for the opportunity’

‘But…’ began John

Laurence raised a hand to stop him. 

‘My mind is made up, sir. You will have to make alternative arrangements’

He turned and walked briskly out of the door.

‘If you need me I will be cobwebbing the billiards room’, he said, as he disappeared from view.  

John looked down at the beautifully poached eggs on his plate. He no longer felt very hungry at all.