Stan Nicholls - Quicksilver Zenith

‘I’ve always tried to perform for as wide an audience as possible.’

‘Yes, but what does that amount to? A few seats for charity cases. That’s not your fault, Kin; it’s the system you’re part of. What I’m thinking of is something big, and cheap enough for people to afford. No, forget that. Free. Free and open to everyone.’

‘In one of the city’s open spaces. A park, perhaps.’

‘Right.’

‘It’s a good idea, Tan. But …’

‘What?’

‘We’re in a state of emergency, remember. Martial law. The authorities aren’t keen on large gatherings.’

‘You have connections. Use them. Pull strings.’

He brightened. ‘I could try, I suppose.’

‘Sell it as a mollifying event. You know, a way to turn people’s minds from the troubles.’

‘Bread and circuses.’

‘If you’re not taking this seriously, Kin –’

‘No, no.’ He laughed and hugged her. ‘I said, it’s a good idea. Thank you, Tan.’

She could see he was taken with the notion. It was good to set his mind on something other than brooding about the move.

There was a clattering on the stairs, and shrill, excited voices.

Kinsel grinned. ‘Here comes trouble.’

Two minor hurricanes burst through the door. Teg, nearly six, had a shock of ginger hair and freckled cheeks. His sister, Lirrin, going on nine, sported a long blonde mane nearly as pale as her milky complexion.

The children rushed to enfold themselves in outstretched arms. Amid a flurry of caresses and laughter, Kinsel ushered the youngsters into the parlour. Tanalvah hung back, watching them. Lirrin, wearing her habitual, slightly serious expression, even when she should be free of cares. Teg, mercifully still too young to comprehend the full horror of their mother’s murder.

And Kinsel. A little on the short side, well built, with a classical singer’s drum chest, cropped black hair and a close beard. On his hands and knees, blissfully happy in horseplay with the children. Like a child himself. Trying, perhaps, to bind the unexplained wound that blighted his own childhood.

Tanalvah’s family. The only one she’d ever known. Miraculously arriving in her life ready-made: another gift from the gods.

Let there be something better for them , she thought. For all of us. In our new home.

She shivered as though a chill wind had blown in from the unrealised future.

If we ever get there.

In common with every other land, there were locations in Bhealfa that people tended to avoid. Dangerous, unsettling places, such as the Great Chasm at Murcall, that legend said had opened up to swallow a warlord’s invading horde. Spots like the forest of Bohm, with its curious ruins that many believed dated from the time of the Founders, and from which few travellers returned. Or the Starkiss valley fracture, where at intervals a geyser spewed raw magic, despite a thirty-year effort to seal the breach.

There were undesirable sites for urban dwellers, too. Lawless quarters, debtors’ prisons and the re-education camps figured high on the list. But one was shunned above all others. A place where people were more often taken than chose to visit.

The headquarters of the paladin clans in Valdarr was a forbidding redoubt. Doubly so as an autumnal dusk fell. A large and imposing complex of grey stone structures, it existed behind high walls and heavily guarded gates. Black pennants flew at the tops of its many watchtowers.

That the compound stood in such a prime position was testament to the clans’ overweening power. As soldiers of fortune, to use the polite term, they fought for both Gath Tampoor and Rintarah, and professed to see no conflict of loyalties. Their constitutional position was unique. They were deemed stateless, a legal nicety they’d wrung from grateful clients on opposite sides of the divide.

If an ignorant person were to ask what the paladins did that regular forces didn’t, the answer would be everything and anything. Consequently their wealth and influence were considerable.

As the light began to fail, a man walked the spotless paths bisecting the rows of neatly maintained buildings. An observer would have put his age at around twenty summers. He was blond and clean-shaven. The tunic he wore was black with triple lines of red piping at the wrists and a circular red patch on the left breast. Markings that indicated his function was administrative rather than combative, and that he served the clans without being fully of the clans. He had an oilskin document pouch tucked under one arm. Back straight, he moved smartly, free arm swinging military style. Watchful human eyes followed his progress, and eavesdropper glamours hovered above.

His thoughts centred on the secrets harboured by his stern surroundings. Their secrets, and his own.

He came to a long, low, single-storey building that was in fact a wing projecting from a much larger central edifice. This was the core fortress, its sloping walls dizzyingly tall and dressed with crenellated defences. The wing was an infirmary, reserved for the highest ranking.

A pair of sentries guarded the door. Their tunics were crimson, indicating full clan blood. They didn’t salute him, but did stand aside to let him pass. He nodded and went in.

The interior consisted of a central corridor with doors off to either side. The room he wanted was at the far end. Just before he reached it, the door flew open.

An elderly man stumbled out. His robes marked him as a physician, and he was in a state of agitation. No sooner had he cleared the door than a china jug flew out, barely missing him, and shattered against the opposite wall. He pushed past, ashen faced, and fled.

The young man took a breath, knocked, and stuck his head into the room.

‘I said stay out ! Oh, it’s you, Meakin.’

Devlor Bastorran, heir apparent to the clans leadership, lay in an oversized bed. One of his legs was plastered from thigh to ankle and suspended by a pulley. He was coverd in scars and abrasions and his closely trimmed black hair had a small shaven patch, revealing a laceration that was still healing.

He put down the porcelain bowl he was about to throw. ‘Well, don’t just stand there, man. Come in!’

Lahon Meakin entered. ‘If this isn’t a convenient time, sir …’

‘Time’s one thing I have plenty of at the moment.’ He nodded at a chair. ‘Sit.’

The aide shut the door and did as he was told, placing the folder on his lap.

Bastorran turned to look at him, and winced through clenched teeth. ‘Damn leg!’

‘Can I summon assistance, sir?’

‘Absolutely not. If that last healer’s anything to go by, I’m better off without their ministrations.’

‘Sir.’

‘Now report.’

Meakin started to leaf through the contents of his folder.

‘And keep it brief, will you?’ Bastorran added. ‘Just the basics.’

‘Yes, sir. I have a summation here.’ He fished out a sheet of parchment and cleared his throat. ‘Let’s see. Accounts for today are still coming in, of course, but we have most of Valdarr’s figures for the last twenty-four hours. There were fourteen instances of public disorder serious enough to warrant our attention. Five cases of arson directed at government or imperial property. An attempt was made to steal a consignment of arms in transit, which proved unsuccessful, though there were three fatalities. Regrettably, two paladins lost their lives in other incidents. As did eleven members of the watch and a licensed sorcerer assigned to one of their units.’

‘Detentions?’

Meakin consulted another document. ‘Er, seven hundred and twenty-two, sir.’

‘That’s up again.’