Rob Scott - Lessek_s Key

‘But not before you went looking for books,’ Garec reminded him.

‘Of course – I’m a businessman, just like anybody else.’

‘But you couldn’t get to the library,’ Gilmour stated more than asked.

‘Rutting mothers, no. I couldn’t get out of the stinking scullery. The doors, windows, nothing would open.’ Rodler pursed his lips. ‘That’s when I knew the place still had some leftover magic in it.’

Again, no one replied.

‘So that’s why you want to go up there, you want to tap into that force somehow – with that stick? Or is it you?’ He pointed at Gilmour. ‘You seem to know a lot about the Larion Senate.’

Gilmour shook his head. ‘I had a grandmother much like yours.’ He changed the subject swiftly. ‘How would you recommend we get into Gorsk?’

The sun had set by the time they reached the river, but the water reflected moonlight in hundreds of tiny sparkles, illuminating a surprisingly bright path into Gorsk. ‘It will be cold,’ Rodler said, not bothering to whisper – unless a patrol was right on top of them, the perpetual background roar of the water would muffle their voices. ‘But we don’t have to be in it for long, a few hundred paces, that’s all. The patrols from the highway station come up to this river on that shore. Patrols from the encampment in the west come up as far as this shore. Neither patrols the centre… I’d prefer it a bit darker, but we ought to be able to pass by tonight without incident.’

‘What makes you so confident?’ Garec asked quietly.

‘I almost stepped in your campfire – if one of you isn’t wielding powerful magic to mask your whereabouts, someone is watching over you. I think we could be screaming songs and playing a bellamir and no one would know we had passed. But it’ll be very cold, so we have to move quickly.’ He gestured and moved into the water.

Steven shrugged and followed, leading his horse. The mountain water was icy-cold and for a moment he feared the horses would refuse to move, or worse, might bolt and give away their location, but apart from a few irritated shakes of her head, the mare allowed herself to be drawn towards the centre of the river. Their packs were tied onto the saddle, but he retained the hickory staff, warm in his hand despite the frigid, numbing cold in his legs, and Lessek’s key, an indistinct lump in his pocket. Rodler hadn’t commented on the curious cut and colour of the Gore-tex coats; he appeared to have learned when to keep his mouth shut.

They picked their way carefully upriver, but after what felt like an hour, Steven began to worry that he might never regain feeling in his legs. He was seriously considering an attempt to warm the water as it rushed by when Rodler turned and pointed.

‘Just up here, up past that big willow,’ he said, indicating a willow tree standing sentinel on the bank, its leafless branches hanging like the thinning hair of an ageing woman. Steven waited until Rodler was distracted and then quickly moved between his friends, drying their leggings and warming their feet with the hickory staff.

‘Thanks, Steven,’ Mark said. ‘Do me a favour and leave him wet, okay?’

‘He got us here,’ Steven said firmly.

‘Where’s here?’ Mark asked. ‘How do we know Eldarn’s answer to the Gulag Archipelago doesn’t lie just over the next hill? We can warm up beside the fire with Al Solzhenitsyn.’

‘Nah, he got out,’ Steven said.

‘Do you know where we are?’ Mark asked Gilmour.

The old man nodded. ‘I used to fish in this river – if we follow it north, we’ll begin to see landmarks I’ll recognise; then we can turn east to Sandcliff.’

‘Should we risk a fire?’ Garec asked. ‘I’m freezing.’

‘Not here,’ Rodler answered, ‘let’s ride further north. There’s a copse upstream where I keep a fire-pit ready to dry me out after coming through. I’ve yet to hear a patrol come by while I’m in there.’

‘Come here first,’ Steven said. ‘I owe you at least this much.’ He used the staff to dry Rodler’s leggings and boots.

‘Well, that’s a neat trick,’ he said, grinning. ‘I knew that stick was special.’ He reached out to touch it, but recoiled, wondering if it might strike him dead on the spot. Coming across the four travellers had put an unfortunate kink in his plans; agreeing to guide them into Gorsk was a desperate offer to save his life, but he was curious about Steven and the wooden staff, and he wanted very badly to pillage the library at Sandcliff Palace. Rodler decided to remain with the four strangers for a while – at least until he had a better understanding of their intentions.

Steven and Mark turned into the car park next to the Air Force Academy Aquatics Centre just north of Colorado Springs. They had made the trip to the Colorado State Championships to support one of Mark’s swimmers, Bridget Kenyon, who was a favourite in several events. Bridget was behind them in a titanic SUV with her parents, her two younger brothers and her grandmother.

Steven asked, ‘Why do they hold this all the way down here and not in Denver?’

‘The facility is state-of-the-art: an Olympic-size pool cuts down on the number of turns the kids have to make so in the end, the times are faster.’ As Mark opened the truck door, the winter air rushed inside, chilling them both.

‘It’s a long ride to watch one girl swim.’

‘Ah, but wait until you see this girl swim.’ Mark zipped up his jacket, pulled on his gloves and stepped outside. ‘You’ll agree it was worth the trip.’

‘All right, but you’re buying the hot dogs.’ Steven realised he had forgotten his gloves and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Let’s hurry. I’m cold.’

‘You’re such a wimp, Steven,’ Mark teased.

‘But I’m good at it – nearly world class!’

Inside the centre they split up; Steven headed upstairs to find their seats while Mark escorted Bridget down to the pool, distracting her with inane jokes to keep her mind off the early heats. As they emerged into the pool area, a wave of voices washed over them and Mark heard someone say, ‘There’s that Kenyon girl. She’s picked to win the 200 free.’

‘Bridget. I think that’s her name,’ someone else replied. ‘I saw her swim at Regions. She put on a freakin’ clinic that day, I tell you.’

‘We may be able to take second or third, but she’s the one, over there, that’s her, she’ll take the l00 butterfly.’

‘That’s right. That’s right. She’s the one with the nigger coach from Idaho Springs. Oh, yeah, I hear great things about him, too. He was tough in his day.’

Mark wheeled on the crowd, drawing an arrow. ‘Who said that?’ he shouted. The bow felt good in his hands. He had made it himself, whittling down the green branch, even killing the deer whose hide provided the crossed leather strips that made the weapon so resilient.

‘Hey Southie, can I come up now?’

‘Right, the one with the nigger coach from Idaho Springs. Oh, yeah, I hear great things about him.’

‘ The nigger coach from Idaho Springs. I hear great things about him.’

‘Hey Southie, can I come up now?’

Mark homed in on the voice. It was Rodler Varn, the Falkan drug smuggler. He was here in the stands somewhere. There, beside that guy, whatshisname, the bigot in the green Fort Collins sweatshirt. Smiling, the racist waved and offered Mark an ironic thumbs-up.

‘That’s just great,’ Mark said, ‘smile and wave. No one heard you, asshole, but this ought to get your attention.’ He exhaled slowly and released the bowstring.

The man in the green sweatshirt took the arrow in the chest, just above the second L in Collins. Two more followed with muted thuds. One dotted the I; the other found its way inside the tiny hillock of the N. Garec’s coaching was paying off.