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.    

Chapter nine

Gorodnikov

 

After lunch there had been an absurd meeting in the major’s office between Viola and Dom. The elf had described very carefully, as if explaining something rather complicated to a dull child, all about mail paper. In turn, Dom, the apprentice mage, had to pretend that he had never heard of the things before. He was happy with the resulting confusion: it was fine by him if his ‘superior’ thought him an utter fool.

He knew exactly where to go to get some mail paper; it would take him an hour or so to get it on a hired horse and it would involve visiting one of his favourite people in the world. However, this would be far too quick to be plausible for an incompetent functionary and so he decided that he would have to make an afternoon out of it. He would walk the long way along the harbour wall and on into the Elven quarter. 

 

Gorodnikov was a city in three parts: the sprawling human buildings on high ground to the east, the harbour in the middle, and the ancient elven city on the island of Psephos to the west.  The two species mixed quite readily in the offices and warehouses around the harbour, but there was less intercourse within the other two areas. None of this worried people very much, except perhaps the poorer humans – there were very few poor elves – but the city remained prosperous and so people generally rubbed along.

The government buildings were just on the eastern side of the harbour, which roughly summarised local politics – the governor was human, but he had a Visneorian name and a lot of smart elven friends.

The walk from the civic centre to the sea took about three minutes. After that, Dom turned right and strolled along the low, wide, harbour wall. Ships spread out in front of him in an apparently infinite range of shapes, sizes and colours. He could tell the provenance of many of them:  fast clippers from Paror, designed to cross the Central Sea in just a few days; huge cargo ships from Babalia, bringing dried fruit, green bananas and spices; smaller ships from the cities of the Oket federation carrying meat and hides; and among them, the beautiful Visneorian patrol vessels, small and sleek, with their lovely purple sails. These were two of the very few things he had ever missed about his home city when in Amansk – the boats in the harbour and the endless sea.

He walked slowly on, completely ignoring the noises of loading and unloading coming out of the warehouses. His eyes were fixed on the blue-green ocean.

He finally came to the toll bridge that spanned the strait between Psephos and the mainland. The toll man waved at him as he approached. They chatted briefly about the recent wars, and the spring weather, and then he paid the toll and strolled across the bridge.  Behind him was light and heat from the warehouses, and in front of him was the cool stuccoed elegance of the elf town. He had never been able to say which he preferred.  

 

Dom’s gods-father was a mage.  He had no idea how he had acquired a gods-father, particularly given that he had absolutely no clue who his parents were, but here he was, Castanus Mulus, if not perhaps quite the wisest Mage in the city then most certainly the oldest. He was a round and jolly elf, and looked about sixty. The thing was, however – he’d been like that for thousands of years.  

Castanus was delighted to see his gods-son. He yanked him in from the front door of his tiny town house and gave him a giant, very un-elven, hug.

‘Dominic!’ he boomed, ‘lovely to see you again so soon!’

Although they had not seen each other for five years at least, Dom wasn’t put off at all. He was used to this.

They parted and Castanus looked his gods-son up and down.  

‘You’re taller than me!’ continued Castanus, in mock affront, ‘how can that be?’

‘Children are as fast as weeds’ said Dom, quoting an old elven children’s rhyme

‘And grown-ups as dull as oaks…’ continued Castanus, ‘or in my case yews…’

Dom was dragged into the sitting room and plonked down on the most comfortable chair. Castanus continued to grin with pleasure.

‘You’ll be old enough to drink now, then…’ said Castanus, delightedly.

‘I suppose so’ said Dom, a little hesitantly. His gods-father had a reputation for avid experimentation when it came to food and drink. Castanus opened up a large cabinet and pulled out a bottle full of bright green liquid.

‘This is the stuff!’

‘What is it?’ asked Dom

Castanus laughed. He filled two fat wine glasses with the viscous liquid and passed one over to Dom.

‘Don’t ask….’

Dom picked up his glass and sniffed it. It smelled of distilled apple and molasses. He dared to sip it. It tasted worryingly marvellous. He did have to get back at some point, though, and, he had at least two important things to say. One glass couldn’t hurt though, could it?

Castanus sat down opposite Dom and drank half of his glass in a single gulp. He burped moderately politely.

‘So, what’s your news?  Why are you here? What’s going on in your life? How’re Lily and Toby? Have you seen the Governor? Tell me everything…’

Dom knew that this questioning might go on all day, and so he had better say what he needed to say first and then make a quick exit. He looked straight at his gods-father, willing him to be serious.  

‘I know, Cassie…’

Castanus looked puzzled, but concerned, perhaps even slightly shocked.  

‘What do you know, dear Dom? You look very solemn…’

‘I’ve felt it. I have looked into the future’

‘Ah, you have, have you?’ said Castanus, smiling sadly, ‘and what exactly did you see?’

Dom squeezed his hands together in front of him, almost as if he were praying. This was the first time he had revealed this to anyone, and Castanus was the only person whom he trusted with the information.

‘I saw no edges, Cassie, no limits, no borders. It is just eternity stretching away like a dark sea in every direction’

Castanus put his hand on top of Dom’s clenched fingers. His voice was soft and quiet.

‘It was only a matter of time, my dear, I suppose…’ he murmured ‘…and when did this happen?’

‘You know when it happened,’ said Dom, fiercely but not unkindly, ‘at the same time as it happened to you’

‘Well’ said Castanus, withdrawing his hand, ‘that was a long time ago…but I take your point’

 ‘How old are you, gods-father?’

‘I’m a first born. I’m almost as old as the oldest human, and I suppose, assuming good luck, of course, that I will be here after all the humans are gone’

‘And will I be too, then?’ asked Dom, knowing the answer.

Castanus barely nodded.

 ‘A Mule’s sentence, gods-son…. for better or worse…’

Dom studied Castanus’s face carefully. It was weary, but not unhappy.  Somehow he had made his own life bearable.  Castanus looked away. He took another gulp from his glass, noticed that it was now empty and got up and filled it again. 

‘Why didn’t you tell me earlier?’ asked Dom, still without rancour.

Castanus considered this, leaning against the drinks cabinet. He walked over to Dom and stroked his head. Then he drained his glass very rapidly and returned to the green bottle sitting on the sideboard.

‘Because I wanted you to remain a sweet little human boy for as long as possible…’ he said, as he poured himself another glass, ‘…that’s why’.

Dom sighed.

‘Is it really terrible?’ he asked, his heart pounding in apprehension.

Castanus filled his glass again, this time right to the brim.

‘No, of course it isn’t. It’s just a long haul, hard work and it’s full of disappointments. For us, other people are always a great disappointment…’

Several pennies began to drop in Don’s mind.

‘I can see now why you’re my gods-father. I often wondered why they’d chosen a hybrid’

Castanus laughed.

‘Mules need to stick together. Everyone else leaves so fast’

Dom thought of Lily. How long would she live? Seventy years, eighty at the most. It was just the blink of an eye – it was scarcely even a passing skiff in his vast sea. It could never be long enough, but then could anything?

‘Why is it?’ he asked, ‘why has this happened?’

 ‘Because inventing humans was undoubtedly feckless and mixing up humans and elves was a monstrous crime against nature… ’

‘Do you mean that?’ Dom asked

‘Well yes, I do’ chuckled Castanus, ‘but I really don’t mind being a monster; particularly as it’s no-one’s fault’

‘Except our parents,’ muttered Dom ‘who clearly couldn’t control themselves’

Castanus shook his head. He almost looked cross.

‘Really, Dominic, don’t be so ungracious.  My parents loved each other deeply, and so did yours…’

‘How can you know that?’

‘Because producing a mule requires a lot of love’

Dom looked confused. Castanus grimaced in mock embarrassment.

‘How can I put this delicately? Well… umm… the probability of…  conception…. is only about one in a thousand;  and so that only happens when people love each other a lot, I’d imagine…’

‘Oh’ said Dom, ‘I didn’t realise that…’

‘Anyway, I knew your parents extremely well, and trust me, they were unbearably inseparable, bless ‘em’   

‘I believe you…’ said, Dom, still slightly petulantly, ‘but ours is not an inheritance that I would have chosen freely’

‘Well, most inheritances are a mixed blessing, and who knows what ours will bring. We do have, however, as long is necessary to find out, of course…’

Castanus’s gaze was fixed on Dom’s. His eyes still gleamed but his jovial face was lined with concern.  

‘I know this is hard to bear, but barring catastrophe I will always be here, gods-son. I promised your mother and father that I would look after you, and I plan to fulfil that promise’

‘And you still won’t tell me who they were, despite everything?’

Castanus, who was still standing, drained the glass one more time.

‘No, dear boy, I won’t and I can’t – not even after three glasses of hooch. It was a sacred promise, but I will help in any other way that I can…’

Dom finally got to the bottom of his own glass and stood up. It was time to wade back into time’s swift stream, which mortals are foolish enough to think is all there is of reality. He refocused his mind. He had expected his gloom to linger on him, but to his surprise, his spirits were rising again. He knew that that might just be the alcohol, but nonetheless, he still had a job to do.

‘Actually, that’s why I’m here.’ he said, smiling, ‘beloved and venerable gods-father:  I need a favour’

Chapter ten

Kinspit

 

The conversation had been going for twenty minutes and it really wasn’t getting anywhere. John was staring into the area inside the pentangle trying to see Gwyneth clearly. Although it had started out dry in the Forest it was an increasingly drizzly day and her umbrella kept getting in the way.

‘…which means it could be anyone’ she said

‘Anyone could have set up a splinter CRS group, you mean?’ asked John

‘Yes – all we know about them is their name and that they have Macrocephalos’

‘True’ nodded John, ‘although from what Laurence said, it looked like the mage was with them willingly and that the CRS were trying to kidnap him. And also, if they are a splinter group then they are a lot more pleasant than the legitimate CRS – that Braith woman saved Laurence’s life…’

‘Possibly, but that could just be coincidental; anyway, we’ll put feelers out. It may be time to send Laurence out on another little job. I suggest a trawl round some more of the western pubs might reveal a few interesting things…’

The umbrella tipped forward again, so that, fortuitously, Gwyneth failed to see John’s reaction.

‘We can’t’ he said, firmly, but in a rather hollow voice.

Gwyneth shut the umbrella suddenly, even though it was still raining. She peered through the haze at her leader.

‘What on earth do you mean by that?’

‘He’s working to rule…’

‘As I said – what are you talking about?’

‘He’s refusing to do anything for the council outside Kinspit. He’s had enough, Gwyn, and I can hardly blame him’

‘And you let him get away with that? Does he have any idea how useful he is to us?’

‘I don’t think that that is the most prominent concern in his mind at present…’

Gwyneth snorted.

‘Well, if anyone is blame for this it’s clearly you’

‘What?’

‘You don’t know how to handle him properly’

John was briefly speechless. Gwyneth waited, irritably brushing her dampening red hair from her face.

‘Oh no’ he finally said, ‘I’m not going to let you blame me for this. We’re all equally responsible – we assumed that he would go on doing our will for ever’

‘Well he is a servant’ said, Gwyneth, dryly

‘And that’s exactly what he’s trying to be, but not for the whole damn coven… Even he can’t be stretched that thin. Just leave him be for a while’

‘It depends how long you think “a while” is, John’

John was getting so angry that he was briefly tempted to smudge out a corner of his pentangle and shut Gwyneth up.   

‘This is my household problem, not yours – I respectfully suggest, and request, therefore, that you keep out of it…’

Gwyneth looked briefly irritated, but then she shrugged and looked up at the sky. She clearly didn’t want to be out in the rain for very much longer.

‘Well, you sort it out then – but do it quickly: we’ll be seriously debilitated without Laurence’

John shook his head. He had been expecting this reaction, but just because he knew that it was coming didn’t make it any more welcome.  Also, Gwyneth would be the last person to realise that some things took time to put right.

‘So… we may have to send Myfanwy to nose around’ she grumbled. The ‘of all people’ was unsaid, but very clear.

John was determined to end this bit of the conversation.

‘Anyway…’ he said, making the word roll on for as long as he could, ‘…right back at the beginning of this chat you said you had something to ask me…’    

Gwyneth had the decency to look very slightly shamefaced – she fully realised that now was not the best time to be asking for a favour.

 ‘It’s not me, actually, it’s really Bronwyn who wanted me to say something…’ she said, rather unconvincingly.

‘About what?’

John was beginning to enjoy the sight of the increasingly bedraggled twin getting wetter and wetter. He knew very well that she wouldn’t be out there in that weather unless it was something important.

‘Celia – Bron is worried about her’

‘If so, why are you talking to me?’ 

Gwyneth looked suddenly flustered. This was the look that came over her every time that any personal problems came up. John’s mood began to lift as Gwyneth’s discomfort grew. .

‘Umm… because we think that you should talk to her’

John knew that Celia had been physically exhausted after her duel with Kratos, but that was months ago now.  He felt a bit bad that he hadn’t paid more attention to how she’d been.

‘Where is she?’

‘She’s still here, moping about the woodlands – she hardly ever comes in to eat. It’s very distracting knowing she’s wandering around in a state…’

‘What?’

Gwyneth lowered her voice and stuck her head right into the pentangle. Her wet head loomed.

‘To be honest with you, John, I think she’s lost it…’

The pit of John’s stomach suddenly burned. He always relied on Celia to be there, strong and steadfast, in fact, just like Laurence. He really couldn’t have both of them suddenly going wonky.

 ‘Lost it?’ he said, ‘what do you mean by that?’

Gwyneth shook her head and frowned deeply.

‘She says she’s going to leave the coven, and that she’ll do no more magic. She’s says she’s lost her nerve and that she’s not up to magic at that level’

John thought about this for a second or two.

‘Are you sure she said that?’

Gwyneth nodded very definitely.

‘Bronwyn says that she has announced that several times and quite emphatically’

John smiled bleakly.

‘She’s lying’

‘What?’

 ‘I don’t believe a word of it. You know that she’s the strongest witch in the coven – that’s why we had no doubt that she should take on Kratos. And she may be self-effacing but deep down she knows exactly what to do’

‘Really? She always seems full of self-doubts to me. I’ve always found it rather irritating…’

‘Take my word for it, Gwyn; something else is going on here. Could she have been cursed?’

‘Possibly, but I can’t see anything’

Her voice became far softer; there was a note of uncertainty in it.

‘Perhaps if you came and checked her out…?’

John sighed, very loudly and very obviously.

‘So, this is your way of asking me for a favour, is it?’ 

Gwyneth took a step backwards so that her face no longer filled his field of view. She shivered.

 ‘Not at all, Mr President’ she said, briskly, ‘I’m just asking you to do your job’

The skies around her opened and the rain came tumbling down even harder.

‘I’m going indoors’ she said, glaring at the sky and then back at him ‘we’ll look out for you in the morning, shall we?’

There was a blur as she cut off the connection with her foot.

John stepped back and began to rub out the chalk circle with a cloth. His mind was crowded with worries, but at least he was still dry.