The Fireborn Road E-Book

LG Surgeson

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Fantasy und Science-Fiction
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Five years have passed since the Summer of Fire, and the downfall of General Salamander. The outside world has begun to heal, but inside Tartaria, where brother fought brother and whole clans were wiped out, the wounds still run deep and raw. Fear and suspicion have made rebuilding hard, and rumours of a new threat rising in the shadows of the steppe have reached Aberddu.

Once again, the Aberddu Adventurers Guild find themselves heading to Tartaria. This time they are in the company of two powerful but eccentric wizards, ostensibly engaged in an attempt to expand the continental portal network.  Cosseted and used to their own way, the wizards have little first-hand experience of the world outside the walls of the Mages Guild, and have much to learn about life in the war-torn shell of a once-great nation.

The adventurers will have to teach them that there is more to be feared than bad manners, fisticuffs, and unsatisfactory bathroom arrangements as they travel together down The Fireborn Road.

Leseprobe

THE FIREBORN ROAD

THE BLACK RIVER CHRONICLES

BOOK 5

L. G. SURGESON

CONTENTS

Prologue

I. After the Fall of The Freetown Bridge

1. The Queen's Nose

2. The Captain Returns

3. The Wizard's Request

4. Preparations

5. In Memoriam

II. The First Circle

6. Travelling Light?

7. Jaffrian Delight

8. The Other Shoe Drops

9. Ballentini's Caravan

10. On the Road from Paravel

11. Aerial Reconnaissance Goblins

12. Indyadirbenboar

13. Trouble at Guild

14. The Roof Tops

15. Edryd & Gorhan

III. The Second Circle

16. The Paladin and The Healer

17. Travelling Companions

18. Nganda

19. Hospitality

20. A Busy Morning

21. The Problem

22. The Stand Down

23. Twelve Copper Discs

24. Besotted

25. Exploding Wizards

26. Dragon Magic

27. Leaving Nganda

IV. The Third Circle

28. Wall-fish and whimberries

29. Wasteland

30. Intalia

31. The Fireborn

32. Asparlah

33. The Arabian and Jaffrian Mages Council

34. Rula's Place

35. Assistance Required

36. Adarius's Apology

37. The Jewelled City

38. Message Delivered

39. The Arms of Betrayal

40. Anti-climax

41. Loose Ends

42. Penance

43. Home

Epilogue

Author’s Notes

About the Author

Notes

Copyright (C) 2022 L.G. Surgeson

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Elizabeth N. Love

Cover art by Lordan June Pinote

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To Reet, who enjoyed the journey

and Morwenna who made the most of all 49 verses.

PROLOGUE

NGANDA ROCK - THE END OF THE ACCORD

The year is 1107ac, five years since the Summer of Fire swept across the continent leaving in its wake bedraggled survivors clinging desperately to the shreds of civilisation. For many, General Salamander has become a fading memory, just one of many evils that have clawed through the civilised world in living memory, which can be put to rest and left behind them. Not so for the people of Tartaria.

For the Clans, the searing wounds that Salamander left on their country are still raw and real. Every day, they face new challenges left by his decimation of the clans. For five years, they have lived under the Vahe-rahu1. With their borders shut against the outside world, they clutch together in an uneasy truce. Time has passed peaceably enough, and as the accord reaches its end some strength has been regained. It will take generations before all the damage is undone, but a good start has been made.

The Clans Council meets at Nganda Rock on Dragon Lands, for the Vektig-Indaba2to discuss the nation's future. Some Clans have fared better than others. The Dragon, who never fell to the might of Salamander, are strong and wealthy; others are not so. Not much is agreed upon, except that the borders should reopen. Any longer cloistered together and the tension might be too much.

Old enemies die hard, and among Tartars broken trust can never completely heal. Stonesnake, the first Clan to go over willingly to Salamander, are still suffering greatly from the suspicion of others. Lean and hungry, they are easily spotted amongst the gathered Tartars as much by their gaunt faces and sunken eyes as their elaborate snake tattoos. Some clans that had been all but wiped out by the carnage have banded together in uneasy unions and even after this time are still uncomfortable with each other’s ways.

Everyone with a voice has come to the gathering that will decide the future, every Clan is represented. Every Clan except one. No one knows for certain if any of Clan Salamander survived the massive blast that killed their General, his Shaman sister Flame-hair and thousands of their enthralled clan warriors, realising fire drakes into the air and forming a blast site nearly half a mile across. If any have survived, they have had the wit to go to ground and stay there, living apart from everyone else.

Until now, at least.

Blood. She recognised blood as it filled her mouth. Then came pain; that was familiar too. Her face was pulsing with darts of searing pain, wet and warm – presumably covered in blood. She reached out an arm and tried to haul herself to sitting. Agony. She vomited, mostly the blood from her throat, and collapsed back down. Pain became blackness.

When she opened her eyes again it was dark and cold, the chill settling with the dull aches and sharp, stabbing pains all over her body. The skin on her face was dry and tight, crusted with blood and vomit. She could feel her pulse thudding through her whole body, as it struggled to decide which hot spot to rush towards next. Through bleary, stinging eyes she could see the canopy of trees above her and the only noise was the background hum of forest creatures. The dampness of her clothing told her that the first dew had already settled. Slowly, barely an inch at a time, she dragged herself to a sitting position taking stock as she did. She remembered a face screaming at her with hatred, the voice high-pitched and terrified. Hot spittle flecked her as she shrank back in terror. She did not recognise the face, although its owner had clearly recognised her. It was yelling two words that made no sense, over and over. One was 'Harh-nuh' – which she remembered meant traitor in clan-tongue – the other was 'Marta', which she thought was probably a name. The yelling hadn't lasted very long, it had given way pretty swiftly to punching, kicking, stamping and then darkness. How she had got to this patch of forest she had no idea, judging by the quiet she was nowhere near Nganda Rock and the gathering anymore.

PART1

AFTER THE FALL OF THE FREETOWN BRIDGE

1

THE QUEEN'S NOSE

The ballroom glowed with soft, golden light from a thousand floating glass lanterns that hovered in a complex pattern a few feet from the ornately vaulted roof. Dozens of mirrors around the walls and ceiling reflected the magical light, amplifying it and enfolding everyone in a rich, warm blanket. Along the whole length of the room, a white-clothed table groaned with the weight of delicacies piled high on silver salvers and arranged around the centre piece of the whole roasted boar – apple firmly wedged in its maw. Sprays of fresh white roses, the Queen's favourite, stood amongst the food in exquisite designs. Liveried footmen with blank expressions were poised with bottles of the finest vintages and cordials of exotic fruits. A twenty-seven-piece orchestra, composed of some of the most gifted musicians in all Albion, played a lively reel. The music swelled and tumbled, carrying the dancers with it as they spun and trotted through the intricate steps of the set. The women, bejewelled and flush-faced in their tightly corseted fine silks, smiled demurely at the dashing military captains and the elegantly suited politicians whose arms they graced. The young queen, a vision in eau de nil, charmed her partners with her beauty, warmth and wit. It was a perfect tableau of the restrained and civilised opulence of Royal Albion.

From his place at one end of the gargantuan buffet table, Derek watched with lacklustre interest. He could just about see Iona in the centre of the crowded floor, paying polite attention to a tall and handsome Colonel, who in spite of his apparent poise continued to tread on her feet. Derek yawned languidly without covering his mouth and reached out for a small pastry thing that looked quite tasty. As the light of the chandeliers twinkled and glinted from the black jet fluting on Iona's hair piece, he shoved the whole thing into his mouth and chewed vigorously. He could tell from the fixed smile on Iona's face that the gentleman with whom she was dancing was both an ungainly dancer and a bore. The little fold of a grimace that appeared momentarily on her otherwise serene countenance every time he trod on her foot was perhaps the most entertaining part of the evening so far. In fact, all the amusement he had garnered from this ridiculous spectacle had been from watching Iona parading herself around as though she had been born genuine Albion nobility and everyone else falling for it.

Lady Iona, the Dowager Duchess of Pringle, was quite a name amongst minor Albion nobility and the diplomatic corps. Little was known publicly in Albion of Iona's beginnings, and as far as Derek, who knew the whole sordid tale, could tell, this was very much to her credit. She had been an adventurer of no significant standing when she had married the Guildmaster, a renegade Albion Duke, Dakarn Pringle III, and that far her credentials were unimpeachable. The fact that she clearly knew how to dress and behave had never been questioned by the aristocracy. They were not aware how she had come by her stunning grasp on Albion etiquette and how it differed from social convention in other countries. They had not spent enough time with her to find out that she could be surprisingly violent and extremely blunt.

It was only when the stories of her exploits during the Summer of Fire and the following years had begun to filter through the court had she become a source of intrigue in her own right. The foolish women of the Queen's court were enamoured with the romance of a brave and elegant widow who set aside her grief and the comforts of her rank in the pursuit of Justice, and Iona did not disappoint them. At one point, she had become a tea-parlour heroine and would have remained so had she been prepared to make house calls. The fact that Iona had never set eyes on her Duchy, nor experienced the so-called comforts of a noble life, was so far beside the point it was not considered. Neither was the fact that the erstwhile Duke was an amnesiac inebriate with only a feint recollection of where his claim actually was.

Certainly, none of the fawning politicians and simpering débutantes who sought her attentions realised that she was nothing more than a grubby parvenu from the Elven Territories with one eye on Frisia and one hand in the pocket of anyone who could buy her a controlling share of Aberddu. The Dowager Duchess of Pringle was a construction that the Bards Guild would have been proud of, a real piece of performance art and one Derek never tired of watching.

It was, Derek reflected as he let out a staccato belch, very much how the other half lived. He looked again at the table of food that had remained largely untouched, helped himself to some peculiar egg-shaped whatnots and popped them whole into his mouth pensively. Iona had explained to him before they had arrived that most of the women would be so tightly corseted that they would not be able to eat and that most of the men would be more interested in drinking as much of the vintage wine as possible than the picking over the food. Derek had nodded when she had said this earlier, but now he could see the wasted banquet, he found he was simply saddened by the vile decadence of it.

Not five hundred yards in pretty much any direction from this embassy were people who would live their whole short lives without seeing even a fraction of this amount of food. Many of them wouldn't understand how to eat most of it or would look at it suspiciously if you handed it to them. They lived on pease pudding and thin broth and occasionally dried fish or salt beef. He sighed and shook his head. There was no point making a fuss right now he thought, picking up what he assumed was an apple and pondering the possibility of arranging for the leftovers be given to a Temple for their soup kitchen – he was sure somebody would be able make soup out of some of this stuff. It was all he could do, he thought sadly as he looked down on the apple – its bright red lustre was so glossy he could make out his own face in the skin. Not really hungry now, he made to pocket it and realised that in this ridiculous get-up he didn't have pockets that would fit an apple. He put it back on the display. Instead, he helped himself to a handful of fishy-flavoured biscuit things, shoved them wholesale into his mouth, and winked at the nearest footman as he chewed.

He'd long since given up trying to engage the staff in conversation, and one of them had looked mortally offended when he'd offered to help out by collecting empty glasses. Iona had explained at length that he wasn't supposed to do anything except socialise but it seemed totally unnatural to him. This was compounded by the fact that he had been required to dress in high Albion fashion, which this season consisted of neutral-coloured breeches, stockings, a high-cut silk waistcoat with discrete buttons, a tastefully toning frock coat and high collared silk shirt with neck cloth. When Derek had objected, Iona had pointed out he was lucky that the fashion for lace cuffs, towering powdered wigs and silk knickerbockers had passed. He wasn't sure that was luck, as he could at least have kicked up a reasonable fuss about them, the argument that he was really uncomfortable hadn't actually cut it with Iona. She'd just told him that at least he didn't have to wear a corset or a starched petticoat. He had almost retorted that neither did she, but had realised that this was an argument he would probably lose. To add insult to discomfort, he hadn't realised that posh people didn't normally have pockets until he had tried to find somewhere to stash his hanky. This had not helped his mood, nor had Iona, who had laughed at him when he had appeared in her dressing room in a state of partial undressed to demand help buttoning the breeches. She had had to ply him with quite expensive Brandy in order to stop him sulking.

Why exactly Iona had insisted on him going with her, Derek wasn't quite sure, but she had worked damned hard to get him there. She had tried every angle possible, including claiming that she was a weak and feeble widow who could not bear to attend a royal ball unaccompanied, but none of it had washed. Particularly as Derek was well aware that she had had numerous invitations to the ball from some of the most eligible suitors in Albion who clearly fancied, what was for the Albion Court at least, a walk on the wild side. Even in spite of this, she had persisted. In the end she had written to the Albion Ambassador and pointed out that as the ball was to celebrate the fall of the Freetown Bridge, the very least they could do was invite the Guildmaster of the Adventurers Guild who had been so instrumental in the operation. Unbeknown to Derek she had even vouched that she would ensure he was correctly attired for the occasion. Faced with a copperplate invitation delivered by Ambassadorial messenger, Derek could hardly decline and objected even less when Iona had offered to pay for his suit. He was beginning to suspect she was getting as much enjoyment out of his discomfort as he was out of seeing her play the Dowager Duchess.

The reel ended and the Colonel bowed low to Iona, forcing her to spring backwards in order to avoid being head-butted in the nose. Offering her an angular elbow, he then escorted her to a small gilt chair. Instead of sitting down, Iona excused herself as soon as she could and started to pick her way through the hubbub towards Derek. As she neared him, the band were starting the introduction to the next dance and she had to push her way against the tide of enthusiastic dancers making for the floor.

Dropping her decorous front for a moment she signalled that Derek should find her a drink, and with little poise, she flung herself into an empty seat next to the buffet table. Away from the crowd now, she spoke with her normal flat Elven tone.

“My feet are killing me,” she breathed, slipping a shoe off so that she could rub her foot with one hand and take the glass Derek proffered with the other. “That great prat must have stamped on my toes nearly a dozen times and he's wearing military boots. I've a good mind to send him a bill for my shoes. He's broken three of the gemstones. Pass me some food, I'm starving.” Smirking, Derek handed Iona some of the small pastry things he was quite enjoying himself and watched as she gobbled them quickly.

After a few minutes, she had recovered enough to relax a little.

“So, Mr Peterson,” she said with mock gentility. “Has her majesty asked you to dance yet?”

Derek stuck his tongue out but smiled. Then he frowned comically and said,

“I didn't think the Queen was allowed to ask me to dance”

“Of course she is, why wouldn’t she be?” returned Iona

Derek was aware he was straying quite a ways from his field of knowledge. In Aberddu State, particularly at the parochial barn dances he had attended in his youth, anybody could ask anybody to dance and if they didn’t like it they could go forth and entertain themselves elsewhere. “Well,” he ventured, “I didn't think ladies in Albion were allowed to ask gentlemen to dance.”

“Normally, you’d be right,” said Iona, “except in the case of the reigning monarch. It’s not considered seemly for the Queen to have to refuse suitors with whom she does not want to dance.”

“What if she gets turned down, isn’t that unseemly?”

“Ah, well, you can’t turn down the Queen of Albion.”

“Oh,” said Derek grinning. “Well then, in that case, I'm surprised she hasn't asked me to dance, or you for that matter.”

Iona fixed him with an expression of exaggerated propriety and said with a perfectly straight face,

“Ask another lady to dance? Where do you think we are, Paravel?” Then unable to keep it up any longer, she snorted and they both descended into giggles. They picked surreptitiously over the buffet table and Iona insisted Derek take a plate and some solid silver cutlery. Then they removed themselves further from the dancing to a small unoccupied table in one corner of the hall.

Tucking into his enormous plateful, munching noisily on a slab of beautifully cooked pheasant, Derek said to Iona casually,

“It’s just as well that the Queen is so pretty, really.” It was the sort of comment that could only be made in Aberddu, where breeding and title meant next to nothing. As a renegade City 'Free' State with no aristocracy of its own, residents of Aberddu saw fit to speak plainly about everybody else’s. Iona just looked at him incredulously. “What?” he demanded after a moment of silence. When Iona didn’t speak again, he looked at his plate, arranged a couple of quails eggs onto his fork with his fingers and mumbled, “I just meant it’s good that she’s pretty what with her being Queen and all, I didn't mean anything by it.” Then he shoved the forkful into his mouth and chewed laboriously.

Iona just shook her head, took a sip from her wine glass and said,

“Do you honestly think she looks like that?” Then she took a delicate bite out of a small piece of bread smeared with pickled fish.

“What?” said Derek, swallowing the quail eggs faster than he intended and choking a little.

“She’s the Queen of Albion, Derek, she has a personal magician.” She said this as though a personal magician was just as de rigueur for any high-born lady as a lady’s maid, then she took another delicate bite from her bread.

“A personal magician?” he asked with a hint of scandalised confusion before starting work on a pile of honeyed apricots.

“Yep,” said Iona, finishing off her bread and adding, “he tweaks her a bit, makes her teeth straight, reduces the size of her nose that kind of thing. She’s better looking than the last one though,” whispered Iona, gossip mode fully engaged as she cleared space on her plate for her banana.

In spite of himself, Derek leaned closer and uttered,

“What was wrong with the last one?”

Iona paused for a moment as she made a careful incision along the length of her banana and then said,

“Well, if you believe the gossip, she had buck teeth, watery eyes and no chin, and having met the man who’s supposed to be her father, it figures.” Iona cut a small circular segment of her banana, carefully unpeeled the thick skin and popped it in her mouth before she realised that Derek had not moved. He had stopped with a forkful of precariously balanced apricot halfway to his mouth.

“What do you mean the man who’s supposed to be her father?” he exclaimed a little louder than was prudent during a dip in the music.

“Sh!” hissed Iona, cutting another circle of banana, peeling it and glaring at Derek who at least had the decency to look slightly embarrassed.

“Well?” he said in a more suitable but still outraged whisper. “I kind of assumed that Leopold the Fair was her father, what with him being married to her mother you know, Queen Celia.”

“Oh dear,” snorted Iona, popping yet another piece of banana into her mouth. “You really are out of touch.”

“With Albion court gossip?” snapped Derek. “Yes, I am. It doesn't usually come up at the council of guilds or at the Sulchester Pig Mart for that matter.”

Iona ignored him as she struggled with another piece of banana skin, and then said, “In that case, you won't have heard Rupert Haverstock, Marquis of Waterfield, will you? Let's just say he was a gentleman with buck teeth, watery eyes, no chin and a noted talent for personal metamorphic magic. Apparently, the King took such little interest in his daughter that he never noticed that she’s been under a metamorphic spell for the whole of her life.” Derek, who, prior to Aberddu's independence from Albion, had been a loyal Albion schoolboy for the whole three years it had taken him to learn as much reading, writing and arithmetic as was necessary to run a pig farm, was sitting staring at Iona was mild incredulity. Iona looked on with amusement as she finished her banana with arduous precision well aware that a little part of Derek’s world was tumbling down as she ate.

Iona dabbed the side of her mouth with a napkin and was just about to sink the last mouthful of wine when she realised that the music had stopped and the Royal fanfare had begun. Reaching across the table she pulled a still eating Derek to his feet, glaring at him and pulling faces to indicate he should put down the plate. When they turned to look back at the room they could see that the dance floor had cleared and every man and woman in the room was standing bolt upright as the Queen made her way up a blue carpet to a small dais at the opposite end of the ballroom. A banner depicting the Royal Crest of Albion had appeared and the court trumpeters were now midway through the full royal fanfare. Derek did his best to stifle a belch as the Queen climbed the steps to the platform and turned. As she set her eyes on the gathered company every single one of them, including Iona and a second later Derek, bowed their heads. Then, she began to speak. Her soft melodic voice carried across the vast room.

“Loyal subjects and esteemed guests,” she began, “t is my great pleasure to celebrate with you this night the fall of Freetown Bridge a symbol of the dark insidious power of our sworn enemy Frisia. Tonight we celebrate here in Aberddu, traditionally the home of Albion’s defences against the Frisian menace, now home to the Aberddu Adventurers Guild, the world's defence against the Frisians. It is my honour to present to you this evening two of the courageous heroes of that guild who were responsible for this extraordinary feat.”

Iona was torn between embarrassment at the pomposity of this proclamation, and amusement at the look of outright horror on Derek’s face. His jaw had dropped open, and the half-eaten chicken leg he had been still holding had fallen to the floor. As the Queen continued, he tried valiantly to shut his mouth with little success.

“It is with great delight that I ask these two individuals to come forward to be awarded the Order of Leopold, in honour of their bravery and in memory of my beloved grandfather, the illustrious King Leopold the Fair.”

It was all Iona could do to suppress a snigger as she tugged Derek forward onto the blue carpet and they made their way up to the dais with every eye in the room on them.

Speechless, Derek bowed to the Queen as she slipped the blue ribbon around his neck and then stood gazing out at the gaping nobility who seemed far more fascinated by him than they had been a few minutes ago. Iona took it in her stride with a small feline smile and a graceful courtesy. They were then treated to an extremely twiddly fanfare of their own before being escorted from the stage by the Albion Ambassador to Aberddu.

Within moments, they had been high-tailed off to one side, whilst the orchestra reassembled and the carpet was swiftly removed. Derek was now muttering to himself.

“What’s wrong,” demanded Iona, her face still fixed in an ecstatic grimace of a smile.

“I’ve just been given a medal I don’t deserve, in the name of a King who it turns out was either so heartless or so stupid that he didn’t realise the child that wasn’t actually his daughter was magically altered every morning so that no one would suspect that he wasn’t her father, how am I supposed to look?”

“Oh, cheer up will you, you’ve just significantly improved your social standing and you were there when the bridge came down, weren’t you?”

“Well, yes, but still,” Derek continued quietly, looking down at the medal with embarrassment. “It doesn’t quite feel right.”

“If it’s bothering you that much, you could probably sell it,” quipped Iona sarcastically, now examining her medal with a covetous look.

“Really?” replied Derek in all seriousness, too bemused to recognise the sarcasm. “What do you reckon it’s worth?”

Iona was just giving him a disparaging look when a soft hand touched his arm and a quiet voice said,

“Mr Peterson, would you care to dance?”

Iona would dearly have loved to stand on the sidelines and gloat at Derek's discomfort as he hoofed his way through the Maybury Spring-step, a quadrille that bore enough of a resemblance to the Haymakers Four-step that Derek was, at least, not left lumbering into the other dancers. However, it was not to be. No sooner had the quivering Guildmaster led her majesty onto the dance floor, than Iona found herself surrounded by a press of suitors. Grudgingly she had to admit her gratitude to Sir Samuel Westonbrook, the Queen’s Ambassador to Aberddu, who by virtue of rank, charm and superior height, had intervened to save her from the grasp of a number of other men, most notably a small, sweaty, moustachioed man with a thick Southern Albion accent and grasping hands. Sir Samuel was at least a competent and pleasant smelling dance partner. Luckily, due to the arrangement of the dancers in four couple squares, Iona was afforded a relatively good view of Derek and the Queen. Darting looks whenever she could, she revelled in the amusing sight that was Derek, already uncomfortable in his suit, trying not to touch the Queen as they trotted through the steps.

Derek’s country manners had at least taught him the basics of dance etiquette and most of the time, he managed to not look at his feet. However, he had become painfully aware of the roughness of his hands and every bead of perspiration on his weather-beaten brow. He also appeared to be counting under his breath. To her credit, the Queen seemed to appreciate his struggle. She wore an expression of sympathetic encouragement on her delicate face and tried to assist him by gesturing the next in the string of steps. By the fourth or fifth repetition of the set, Derek was beginning to get the hang of things and started to almost enjoy himself. Letting his guard drop momentarily, he flung his arm a little over-enthusiastically and almost hit the Queen square in the eye. With a swift agility that belied her idle lifestyle, the Queen ducked and then stepped sideways to avoid his feet, as a mortified Derek stepped out of time and tried to apologise. Far from being affronted the Queen just kept dancing and, judging by a fleeting drop in her composure, had actually found the incident amusing.

Iona had to admit that she was both impressed and disappointed by this display of humanity and legerity from the Queen. She would have liked nothing more to see the Queen get an accidental thump in the face and then sulk about it, but it appeared that, unlike many of her ladies in waiting, the Queen was made of sterner stuff. Mechanically, Iona went through the last couple of sets and curtsied to Sir Samuel who by now was being particularly dull about the importance of Aberddu to the Albion economy.

As etiquette dictated, she allowed him to walk her back to a seat, but did not pause to take refreshment. She started pushing her way through the crowd, flatly ignoring the attentions of further dance partners as she made her way once again towards her friend. On the other side of the room, Derek was now yes ma'aming under his breath as the Queen gaily recounted their dance with simpering glee. Somewhat less enthusiastic about the whole exercise, Derek continued to look respectfully at his shoes as he tried to work out the most expedient way to leave without giving the sort of offence that ended in an international incident.

He was saved by the orchestra, who struck up a lively rondelet causing the Queen to squeal with delight and scamper away to seek a more suitable candidate for her dance partner. Iona reached him and put a reassuring hand on his shoulder, and felt his muscles tense beneath her grasp, clearly dismayed b the prospect that the Queen had returned.

Iona snorted in amusement and said quietly,

“Relax will you? It’s me,” Derek muttered incomprehensibly under his breath as he turned around. Iona could tell that he was still tense from his close quarters brush with her majesty, he still looked a little shocked. “Drink?” she said genially and he nodded.

Comfortably ensconced in a corner again, and busily putting himself on the outside of a substantial second helping from the buffet, Derek’s blood pressure and heartbeat had returned to normal. Iona had fetched them both some variety of fruit cordial, although Derek was not particularly confident that it would be a rare treat given that she was sniffing it suspiciously and had yet to put it near her mouth. After a few moments of waving it under her nose, she decided to brave it and took a deep swig.

“So, how was your dance with her majesty?” she asked lightly with a coy smile and a playful wink. “She’s available, you know, and I think she was quite taken with you?”

“Shut up,” retorted Derek, shoving a whole radish into his mouth and crunching with gusto. He continued to talk around his mouthful. “I didn’t dare take my eyes off her nose,” he spluttered. “Are you sure it’s not really hers?” Iona almost choked on her cordial as she snorted with laughter.

“Her nose? It’s a miracle that you weren’t just fixated with your feet, like you usually do when you dance.” Derek grunted, unable to deny it. “And I suppose it’s better than staring freely at her décolletage as though you were the Paravelian ambassador.” Derek grunted again, this was also true. “Anyway, we all survived, no broken bones or embarrassing pile-ups so we can't really complain.” Derek nodded his concurrence as he stuffed more items from the salmagundi into his mouth without looking up. “Shall we go home before you make yourself sick? It must be nearly midnight, I’m sure I heard the eleven-hour chime.” Derek looked up and examined Iona. It wasn’t like Iona to suggest an early departure. She looked tired, Derek thought to himself as she fidgeted in her corset trying to get comfortable. This was the unguarded Iona, the one that lived in the real world, that risked her life against Frisia and played in the garden with her daughter. This Iona looked at odds in fine purple silk and black lace, as though she might just reach up and yank her combs out of her hair, and fling her feet up on the table. They might still be surrounded by the Albion pomposity, but at last there was something Derek recognised.

“Okay,” he said, with some relief, although with a slight concern for his friend, “let me just finish this lot.” He indicated the remains of his gigantic helping, which still quite comfortably filled the plate. He took an oyster and knocked it back with an audible slurp and then began gnashing his way through some sort of pickled vegetables. In a few moments, with a resounding belch, Derek had cleared his plate. He licked his knife and fork and slipped them up his sleeve. Iona drained her cup and pretended not to see him.

Then she stood up and said,

“Right, let’s start saying goodbye.”

2

THE CAPTAIN RETURNS

Iona let Sir Samuel kiss her hand, compliment her combs and babble on, using long words to say it was a shame they were leaving so early. Beside her, Derek was trying to work out how to bow low without dropping the cutlery he was smuggling in his sleeve. Suddenly, a disturbance by the door caught his eye. A tall man in the livery of the Amroth Temple had burst into the room and was gabbling to two Albion officers, one of whom was of such high rank that Derek didn't recognise his insignia. His guildmaster's sense for trouble told him this was not just an ordinary message. The flushed countenance of the messenger, the intense concentration of the two officers and the hurried manner in which they were all speaking and gesticulating gave a sense of urgency and excitement. Unable to stop himself, Derek sidled towards them, training his tracker's hearing onto the garbled exchange. Within seconds he was rewarded with three words that intrigued him beyond what he had initially imagined: “Freemonte,” “here” and “Temple”. By now, the three men were attracting quite a bit of attention, not just from an earwigging adventurer. The buzz was starting to flutter across the end of the room. William Freemonte was the very pinnacle of social intrigue and his name had caught the prying ears of many a skilful socialite. Soon most of the room who weren't dancing were talking about the return of William Freemonte.

Discussing Captain William Freemonte was not a new pastime among the Albion elite. When news of his wife's death had first reached Albion there had been some very cruel comments made about him. It was widely known that he was a disgraced soldier, sent down for insubordination. It was also widely known that he had only recently married Josephine de Beaujolais and that he was significantly older than her. It could not be disputed that he had wed his wife and then almost immediately taken her to war and let her get killed. At best it seemed callous, at worst it had been perceived as calculating and devious. Dark and disturbing rumours that he had some kind of hold over her family had faded when he failed to return to claim any inheritance.

Fearing for his reputation when he did eventually return and wary of idle gossip, Iona had convinced Anthony Devlin-Smythe, himself a veteran both of Freetown and the Albion Court, to help her control the rumours and disseminate the facts. They had, very subtly, let a few influential people know the truth: that William had cradled Josephine as she died, unable to save her from the poisoned blade she had taken for him. The romance of it had won over the silly women of the court. Fat countesses, who in the summer had swilled gin at garden parties and mused that he must have his nasty common claws into the family were now, in the winter, swooning with palpitating excitement at the thought of his return.

Iona and Anthony had been very thorough in their defence of Freemonte. They had only omitted one salient yet repulsive fact: Josephine was a high-ranking Frisian sleeper agent and she had died wearing the uniform of a Red Army officer. It was not lying; Iona had convinced Anthony. The world had eyes on the Freetown fields and rumour would break soon enough without the ignominy of explanation. When Freemonte returned, she had reassured Anthony, he would not want the whispering or the false sympathy that it would garner if they portrayed him as the betrayed victim of an evil empire – better the tragic widower of a heroic woman. That, she knew, was going to be hard enough.

The first Iona knew of the news that he was back was a rough hand on her wrist as, throwing etiquette to the wall, Derek grabbed her and shouted

“He's back, in Aberddu, Freemonte's back.” Speechless, Iona gaped at him and then recoiled, grasping at the situation with both hands.

“Excuse me, your excellency,” she said with as much grace as she could manage before taking Derek by the sleeve and leading him towards the reception hall.

“My chaise, quickly!” she barked at a footman who replied

“Of course ma'am right away,” and disappeared through a side door. Then, as if by magic, another uniformed flunky appeared and began to put Derek into his cape before he had realised what was going on. In less than a minute, the first footman reappeared and escorted the now be-cloaked pair to the front door, bowed low and pulled a cord. This set off an impressive array of pulleys and counterweights and the massive front door swung open to reveal Iona's chaise and four smart greys waiting for them, not a servant in sight. If they hadn't been in such a rush, Derek would probably have been so impressed by this display of incredible efficiency that he would have asked how it was done. As it was he paused only to shake hands with the footman, who returned the shake with a look of utter confusion.

“It would be quicker on foot,” he said, tentatively, as Iona levered herself into the driver's seat. “Lime Bridge is closed to carriages at this time of night because of the Docklands curfew, we'd have to go all the way around to Runyon.”

“You can walk if you like,” said Iona tersely, settling herself in her seat, “wearing stays, a starch petticoat and these shoes, but I'm not.” Derek shrugged and swung himself onto the cart and let her drive on. Even if they had fitted, he didn't think those shoes would have suited him.

In spite of the late hour, Temple square was crowded when they arrived. The Death Temple were holding a midnight congregational meditation which had spilled out of the building onto the main thoroughfare and Iona was forced to swerve hard when it became clear that the kneeling participants were too enraptured to move out of her way. Not to be outdone, the Life Temple were holding paladin prayers with the sanctuary doors open. The plain, monotonic, chanting echoed out into the night, clashing with the Death meditations.

Derek vaulted down from the chaise before Iona had been able to pull to a stop in front of the Amroth Temple. He hit the ground running and sprinted up the steps towards the impressive doorway. Before he could reach the wrought-iron filigree work gates, he was halted by a guard with a halberd who blocked his path. Brought up short in his tracks, he stumbled and almost lost his balance, grabbing at the halberd to steady himself. It was unusual for the entrance of the Temple to be blocked. Charity was a big part of life for this most honourable of religions, and usually everyone was welcome in the outer sanctum at any time of day or night.

However, tonight security was tight. Derek was still answering the guard's questions when Iona jumped down onto the cobblestones. It wasn't in usually his nature to demand the privileges of guild rank, but in his present state of agitated desperation, he was losing patience with the triviality of the questions. As Iona reached the top of the stairs, she heard Derek say haughtily,

“Well I'm the Guildmaster of an important city guild and you are wasting my time.”

At this the guard capitulated and let Derek pass. Nettled, he turned his attention to Iona and brought the halberd down in front of her instead. Derek didn't stop to argue the case for Iona, she was more than capable of fighting her own battles. He slipped through the wicket panel in the filigree screen and into the dim candlelight of the outer sanctum. He could hear Iona's shrill petulant tone cutting through the night as he disappeared into the Temple. By the sound of it, the luckless guard was getting a first-class ear-bending from an uncomfortable and humiliated Iona who was fed up with her corsetry. Derek would certainly be impressed if the guard lasted more than a few minutes.

Once inside, it was all he could do to stop himself breaking into a trot, aware that it would be considered disrespectful. Instead he waddled as fast as he could, like a man in desperate search of a privy. He was scanning faces for anyone he recognised amongst the crowd milling around the gateways to the inner sanctum. There were a few that seemed familiar, but not enough for him to race up to them now and demand access.

There was a distinct lack of white-robed acolytes. The only one he could find was a pasty-faced squat little man with a nervous twitch. Derek felt a twinge of guilt as he practised the full breadth of Guildmasterly pomp on him and demanded an audience with Freemonte in no uncertain terms. City guilds carried enough legal weight in Aberddu that the acolyte was sent scuttling through the gate into the inner sanctum and out of sight.

Only vaguely aware of the ruckus continuing outside, Derek bounced nervously on his heels as he waited for the acolyte to return. He could hear Iona yelling at the top of her lungs and he was wondering if he ought to go outside to referee, when the quivering acolyte returned with a prayer book held so tightly in his hands that his knuckles were almost blue.

Derek could see that it was gently vibrating.

“Um,” he said as an opening segue “Er, um,” he continued.

Derek, normally a very personable and sympathetic man, trembled with impatience.

“Yes?” he demanded as he tried to thrust his hands into his non-existent pockets and ended up awkwardly stroking his silk-covered thighs.

“Well, er,” spluttered the acolyte, “the thing is, the thing about Captain Freemonte is…”

Derek could barely hear him over high-pitched screaming sound and yelps of pain. He was only partially listening by the time the poor man choked out the end of his sentence.

“… the thing is that Captain… well, ex-Captain technically… Freemonte is um in seclusion and he's not seeing anybody.”

“Right,” said Derek in response, “excuse me, I'll be back in a moment.” Iona had graduated from vociferous to threatening, and he didn't fancy having to bail her from any sort of custody.

Pink in the face, she had tried every gambit she could think of to get past them, but it seemed that neither her rank in the Adventurers Guild, her Albion title nor her standing in the City itself was enough for a night-shift guard who had already been riled by one hoity-toity big knob with delusions of rank and silly breeches berating him. Her credentials may have been impeccable but with such a well-known face, she couldn't deny one very important thing: she was one of the most high-profile Kesoth followers in the City.

Amroth was the God of Honour, and valour and shiny breastplates and Kesoth was the diametric opposite – the balance of power, the God of treachery, betrayal, winning at all cost and sneaking about with a fancy dagger. The Gods, their Temples and followers traditionally despised one another as anathema to their faiths and lifestyles. They co-existed side by side in the Temple Square under a fragile and bitter cease-fire - more as a result of City law than any diplomatic relations. Though the threat of punishment under the law prevented the followers of the Temples from physically harming each other within city walls and the heavy gaze of the militia at least, they never missed an opportunity to importune, obstruct or embarrass one another. Holding a bellowing woman in full evening dress on the Temple steps in front of the slowly dispersing crowd from the Death Temple certainly classed as all three.

Elor sighed as he walked out of the Life Temple and into the chilly night. He normally tried to avoid acts of religious observance because he found the unshakeable righteousness of the deeply faithful slightly disturbing but tonight he'd found himself unable to avoid one. He paused for a moment by one of the four towering marble statues that guarded the door of the temple and rubbed his knees. The constant genuflection of the Paladin Prayers had taken its toll on his ageing joints. He looked up and met the solemn gaze of the effigy looking down on him. The exquisitely craved face seemed somehow sad, as though it was weary of watching the tiny mortals that scuttled about living and dying in her sight.

He had to admit it was a beautiful piece of sculpture, if sculpture was the right word for it. It was said that the Four Faces of the Goddess had stood outside the Life Temple as long as there had been a Life Temple in the Temple Square of Aberddu. Legend had it that they had been placed there and imbued by the Goddess herself. It was well-known that their expressions changed depending on who or what they were looking at. Looking down on him the Crone seemed melancholic and tired.

Elor had a lot on his mind as he stood on the Temple steps, contemplating which way he should go back to the Guild District at this time of night. He couldn't believe how much Saran had changed since he had last seen her. She had returned from Frisia lean and withdrawn. He had been used to her plump rosy face and sparkling eyes, but now she was hollow-cheeked and sallow. She wouldn't look him in the eye even though she had said she was pleased to see him. He was just contemplating the wisdom of crossing the Brightling Bridge on foot at this time of night when his attention was drawn by a shrill shrieking from across the square.

Looking up he saw a familiar figure on the Amroth Temple steps, arms flailing as two of the Temple guards tried valiantly to arrest her. Elor couldn't imagine what in the world Iona was doing outside the Amroth Temple under arrest and wearing a purple and black lace ball gown but he was curious enough to find out.

Derek arrived at Iona's side at about the same time as Elor, who had jogged across the square in spite of his aching knees just as one of the unfortunate guards tried to slap some cuffs on Iona. They were both just in time to see Iona driving the heel of her court shoe firmly into his knee joint. He bent and squealed in pain, his comrade was already lying prostrate on the steps, blood gushing from his nose. Derek took his friend by the wrist, and said firmly,

“Come on, Iona, it's time we went home.” Iona opened her mouth to retort but he continued, “We can't see Freemonte anyway, he's in seclusion. Good evening, Elor, care for a nightcap?”

With that, he swept past the bleeding guards and somewhat bemused wizard, towing the furious duchess by the wrist swiftly back to Iona's chaise.

3

THE WIZARD'S REQUEST

Iona cracked the reigns angrily and they sped away in silence. Neither Derek nor Elor were daft enough to say anything, they just let her drive. The cold city air rippled over them as they crossed the Brightling Bridge on the way to the Guild District and they were met with a blast of salt coming from the sea. Derek fidgeted in his breeches; he was looking forward to getting back to the Guild. Even though he hadn't been into his Guild room for a while, he was fairly sure there was a pair of more comfortable trousers in there. They may well be threadbare and frayed from adventuring and quite possibly infested with lice or fleas, but even so, they were one hundred percent preferable to the fancy article he was currently wearing.

Elor cleared his throat and looked over at Iona. Her lips were still pursed and her cheeks were still flushed. At first, he had thought this was a serendipitous meeting as he had been hoping to see Derek and Iona in the morning in any case, but now it seemed that the only thing that he had gained out of this encounter was a free ride to the guild district. Mind you at this time of night, in this slightly chilly breeze, that was nothing to be sniffed at.

As they turned the corner into the guild district, they heard the Law Temple bell chiming midnight. As they drew up past the Merchants Guild, they saw the last stragglers leaving through the guild's massive front doors, ushered by the proctor holding a lantern. The square was dominated by the trade guilds – weavers and dyers, cartographers, bakers and all – who did their business during daytime. The imposing buildings were in darkness, looming out of the shadows and casting murky pools onto the cobbled square.

Scattered amongst them the less salubrious buildings belonging to the Bards, Warriors, Mages and Adventurers. These were still teaming with life, noise and soft yellow light. Iona drew the chaise to an abrupt halt outside the Adventurers Guild gate and Derek hopped out to open it. As they waited Iona turned to Elor, her whole countenance relaxed and she was smiling.

“Plum brandy?” she said genially and the wizard nodded with a relieved sigh and a broad grin, crape diem and all that.

Half an hour later, Elor was sitting comfortably in the outer kitchen of the Adventurers Guild warming his toes by the range. Derek was at the table dressed in a pair of holey, foul-smelling hoses and a faded tunic with a suspicious mildewy stain on one arm. He was staring bleakly into a beaker of stomach tonic, rubbing his belly and burping profusely.

Moments later Iona appeared, dressed in similar attire to Derek although her clothes were in somewhat better condition. She had taken her hair pins and combs out and her long auburn curls bounced on her back and shoulders. She looked tired but pleased with herself and she was carrying a stoneware bottle with a hand-written Paravelian label and three small tumblers.

“So, Elor, long time, no see,” she said, stifling a yawn as she filled the cups with syrupy purple liquid and handed Elor his. “What's new?” Iona took a delicate sip of her brandy and seemed to revive a little.

“Well,” said Elor pausing to pass his cup under his nose, “funny you should ask.”

After ten minutes of listening intently to Elor's explanation, Iona leant over and refilled his tumbler. She went to refill Derek's only to find it untouched. He gave her a pained look and she pulled the cup back towards herself with a smirk. She took his cup away and re-stoppered the bottle with a smirk.

“Let me see if I've got this correct, I'm not sure if I tuned out halfway through or not,” she said, dipping her finger into the liqueur and licking the sticky plum-flavoured residue. “You've spent the last nine months with your nose in a book researching Tartarian totems, you think there's something going on in Jaffria and you want us to do what about it?”

“Well, the Mages Guild was thinking of commissioning a party to set up a new chain of three new transport circles, one of near the middle kingdom’s border, one in the middle and the last down on the Jaffrian border at Asparlah. The Clan Council of Tartaria have agreed…”

“Yeah, yeah,” interrupted Iona yawning again, “I remember now – Salamander's dead, the portal circle network can be extended across the borders of Tartaria etcetera, etcetera. Have I forgotten anything important yet?” Elor shook his head and scowled. He knew that Iona was needling him for taking ten minutes to say something she had summarised in two sentences and he wasn't sure whether he was offended, amused or ashamed of himself.

“A few questions spring to mind,” continued Iona dipping her finger into her drink again. “First of all, how long do you think it will take?”

Elor took a deep breath. Apparently he had taken such lengths to explain the ideology and magical significance of the plan because the logistics were extremely unappealing. He fixed Iona with a sheepish look and said,

“Somewhere between six and eight months. It's a long way to Jaffria over land.” To his amazement, Iona didn't explode, she simply nodded grimly. Iona was a well-travelled woman who had crossed the continent overland before.

“Secondly,” she continued, “How much are you planning to pay us?” Elor, an adventurer himself when he had the time, knew this was make or break time – if they were discussing fees then the proposal was viable, for the right money.

“Well,” stalled Elor doing some quick calculations in his head and trying to work out what wouldn't be an insult. He hadn't expected to get to this stage of negotiation so quickly. Strictly speaking it was the Guildmaster who made these price arrangements, but as Derek was now sitting with his head on the table making little groaning sounds, Elor assumed it was okay to deal with Iona. “The Mages Guild were prepared to offer fifteen guilders plus a magical item or weapon each and reasonable expenses obviously, healing, food and such like.” Iona pulled a face, well aware that this was more than generous for this kind of work but not ready to settle. Elor, not as skilled in this kind of business arrangement added, “Of course, in addition, I was planning to offer an extra three guilders,” Iona raised her eyebrows incredulously, deliberately pushing her luck. Elor stammered and said, “Um, er, sorry an extra five guilders per person and of course, there's whatever spoils you can carry.” Iona's face broke into a smile.

“Okay,” she said, “sounds fair to me.” Elor could tell from the sparkle in her eyes that he'd been done but he didn't say anything. “I assume once we've set up the last circle in the chain we'll be able to use it to get home.”

Elor nodded and said with a dry chuckle,

“That's the theory, can't have you walking all the way back.”

“Good,” said Iona. “Just one more thing.” Elor smiled accommodatingly, fees and transport home were the main sticking points in any guild contract - everything else tended to be peripheral.

“How do you expect us, a group of simple adventurers, to know the intricate magic required to set up a portal network?”

Elor cringed as Iona flung some of his own pompous phrasing back at him.

“Ah, well that's the thing,” he said timorously, he had been deliberately leaving this part out. “As part of the commission, you would be expected to escort and protect two of our most prodigious portal mages. They'll be doing all the technical bits.”

This thought took a moment to catch up with Iona, she was having a horrible thought.

“When you say prodigious portal mages do you mean Gerard?” she said slowly. Elor snorted. He had been Gerard's first tutor at the Mages Guild and struggled to think of him in the same sentence as prodigious.

“No,” said Elor smirking, “as your luck would have it Gerard is not one of our most prodigious anything and besides which he's taken a leave of absence to study some kind of twaddle to do with magical flux and the moon.” Iona nodded, she could hardly blame him. Whatever she thought about Gerard, and she thought plenty, he had had a rough break in Freetown. In his position, she would have taken a leave of absence herself, although she would have been more likely to study some twaddle to do with all the different types of Jaffrian liquor imported into Aberddu. “You'll be taking Professors Augustus Bobang and Bertrand Crozier. I don't expect you've heard of them, they don't get out very much, not into the streets at any rate.”

Iona shook her head, this description was ringing the faintest alarm bells in her head. After a moment, she said,

“Okay, in that case, I have one more question.”

“Go ahead,” said Elor with trepidation. He had been expecting more of a reaction to the news that the party were to be escorting a pair of unworldly wizards.

“If we're not doing the magic, then why not send the Warriors Guild?”

It was not the question Elor had been expecting but never mind. At length, he said,

“Well, two things really. First of all, I wouldn't expect the Warriors Guild to be of any use in following up my other agenda. They probably wouldn't have much of a clue as to how to spell anomaly, never mind investigate one.”

Iona nodded, he had a point there, the Warriors Guild were not known for their intellect. Elor had explained his personal agenda quite thoroughly, and she wouldn't have sent them to follow it up either.

“So apart from the fact that the Warriors Guild have to take their boots off to make change at the marketplace, what was the other thing?” she said and Elor cringed. He'd been hoping she wouldn't ask but he knew it was a faint hope.

“It turns out that, even including the magic items and the likelihood of you causing some variety of diplomatic incident, you guys are still cheaper.” Elor, who had been expecting an angry tirade from Iona since he'd started, was confused when instead of exploding she just snorted with laughter.