Daniel Cohen - Coldmarch

Harper Voyager

An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by Harper Voyager 2018

Copyright © Daniel Cohen 2018

Map © Micaela Alcaino 2018

Cover design and illustration by Stephen Mulcahey © HarperCollins Publishers Ltd 2018

Daniel Cohen asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008207212

Ebook Edition © November 2018 ISBN: 9780008207229

Version: 2018-09-24

To my mother

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Map

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Part Two

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Part Three

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Also by Daniel A. Cohen

About the Publisher

‘Break in.’ Shilah stabbed the shop door with a sweaty finger. ‘I think after what we invented you should have no problem with a lock, Spout.’

I was still in shock and barely able to think, let alone tinker.

News of my father’s death had kicked my heart halfway through my chest. And watching Leroi being consumed by the Vicaress and her army had finished the job. I had a feeling if I turned around quickly enough I’d see a red lump gathering sand and dust on the street, thumping its final beat.

My cleverness was as slow as scorched honey. Despite staring right at one, I’d forgotten how locks even work. Shilah was breathing heavily, her braided hair pasted against her right shoulder with sweat. There used to be a blade hidden in those locks when she’d lived out in the sands, but she’d given that habit up after moving to the Tavor Manor. Something at the back of my mind whispered that a traditional blade would be too big for this job anyway, but I had no access to any other memories that might spur an alternative plan.

‘Spout,’ she said. ‘I know you can do this.’

The dark skin of her face was flushed, thick beads of sweat dripping down her neck and staining the waterskin slung over her chest. After getting used to the comfort of Leroi’s tinkershop, I think both of our bodies had forgotten how deeply the sky could bite.

Shilah, Cam, and I had somehow avoided the Vicaress, fleeing through the empty sands and making it to the centre of Paphos without getting caught. The hour was too early for the Street Jadans to be racing towards their corners, which meant only the eyes of the sky were upon us.

The enemy wasn’t far behind and was quickly gaining ground. Shouts and commands flooded the nearby streets and echoed down the alleyways.

‘I don’t want’ – heave – ‘to rush you, Spout.’ Cam’s words were mostly wheeze, pitched up and squeezed. ‘But I think I hear’ – heave – ‘them coming.’

If Shilah appeared overheated, then Cam was roasted and ready to serve. Unkempt yellow hair was brightly contrasted against the red of his face, making him look as if he’d been hanging upside down all night, his blood gathered in his delicate Noble cheeks. He’d somehow managed to maintain his gold-rimmed glasses, but despite his best efforts, they kept sliding down his nose, his skin as slick as Ice.

Shouting from the pursuers became more barbed as the taskmasters closed in. The Vicaress and her forces had been at our heels since our narrow escape from the Tavor gardens, where Cam’s father nearly had us cornered. If not for Leroi’s heroics, I imagine we would currently be strung up from the Manor gates, awaiting judgement.