War of Power (The Trouble with Magic Book 3) (15 page)

Poised for flight, the golden eagle glared down from the eyrie high on the side of the mountain. A slight movement among the tree-tops on the far side of the frozen lake had caught her attention. She watched and waited.

The message was faint but clear. “Master Karryl calls the mighty ones of old.”

The owl’s message was repeated twice more. The eagle’s answering scream echoed and re-echoed among the lofty snow-covered peaks. Friya launched herself into the air, soaring over the vast expanse of ice towards the pine forest, her bright golden eyes searching its edge for the messenger. A dark and distant shape drifted across the crimson half-orb of the rising sun. Sparing one swift glance, Friya banked, dipping her great wings in a sign of truce to the eagle-owl before wheeling and climbing rapidly into the red-shot purples and greys of the early morning sky. Catching an unexpected thermal she circled swiftly upwards until she was no more than a dot. The dot became a speck and vanished from sight. The sun turned pale gold and poured its light on the dark pine forest. The eagle-owl winged his swift way homeward.

High above swirling clouds of wind-tossed firn, perched on the crest of a pinnacle no human eye had ever seen, Friya puffed out her feathers for warmth, and waited. Barely visible from where she sat, the pale disc of the winter sun continued its low traverse. Still she waited, her strong talons clamped tenaciously to the rock as icy winds buffeted her sleek heavy body. Sensing something enigmatic in the wind, neither sound nor vibration but something rather more sublime and indefinable, she let her keen gaze scan the long curve of the distant horizon. Her spirit soaring she clung steadfastly to the rock. Instinctively she lowered her head, her wings held partly outstretched in an attitude of submission.

They did not lower their great feathered legs to touch down beside her. Their massive dark, gold-flecked wings beat the thin air as they circled her, praising her fortitude and encouraging her to stand tall and proud.

The prime bird, a female, eyed Friya appraisingly. “Is Master Karryl in these lands?”

Friya conveyed the images she had received from the eagle owl. “He is far to the south where men dwell and the air is heavy.”

Ekha thanked her and slowly circled the peak once more. “Will you fly down with us as far as your territory? Then we will leave you.”

Filled with inestimable pride, Friya’s heart soared as she raised her glossy bronzed wings and released her grip on the rocky pinnacle. The knowledge that she was the first of her race to fly with the Lammergeyers gave power to her wings and fire to her blood. The five massive birds in close formation around her, she launched herself off the peak, a joyous scream of exhilaration erupting from her throat. Together they swooped and plummeted towards the valley far below.

* * *

Bardeen’s skills in the kitchen were second only to Symon’s, and the next morning saw the three magicians enjoying a generous breakfast.

“Karryl.” A short pause. “Karryl.”

The young mage put down his knife and fork and grinned at Miqhal and Bardeen. “I think things may be starting to happen.”

Her tone now betraying an edge of impatience, Evalin’s voice entered his mind again. “Karryl!”

Deciding to vocalise for the benefit of Miqhal and Bardeen, he kept his response calm and clear, although his heart was pounding with anticipation. “I’m here, Lady Evalin. Do you have a problem?”

There was a short silence. The question which followed carried a measure of accusation. “Tell me, would these ridiculously large birds parading in the palace courtyard be anything to do with you?”

Karryl chuckled. “Contrary to what you’re thinking, they are real birds and I’ll be there shortly. I’m just finishing breakfast. They’re Lammergeyers by the way. One of them is a female named Ekha, if you wish to talk with them.”

There was a stunned silence, then Karryl detected a light ripple of humour. “Perhaps I will. They already seem to be drawing quite a crowd. As quick as you can, please.”

Minutes later, he and Bardeen materialised inside the porch of the Great Hall, and sauntered out as if they had been there all along. After Karryl had explained the plan to him, Miqhal had regretfully stayed behind to guard the artefacts, saying he would meet the incredible birds later. Wearing a deep blue cap and robe he had borrowed from Bardeen, Karryl nodded at intervals to the crowd of onlookers who had gathered beyond the boundary railings. As he and Bardeen walked along the stone-set courtyard and drew nearer to the mighty birds, he caught sight of the Lady Evalin pacing slowly among the lofty Lammergeyers, completely overwhelmed by their power and majesty. Sensing his approach, one of the birds turned its head, its carmine eyes glinting in recognition. It was Ekha.

Briefly she dipped her bronze-flecked wings. “I am honoured to be called. Why to such a strange place however, I do not understand.”

Murmurs of astonishment and disbelief rose from the rapidly growing crowd gathered beyond the railings as Karryl reached up and stroked the soft gold plumage of her breast. “It is all quite deliberate, and I hope it causes you no discomfort. You already know what’s at stake, so I’ll explain what I have in mind”

The crowd began to spread along the pavement, more arriving every minute, eager to witness the amazing spectacle unfolding before them. They watched Lady Evalin as she moved to stand with Karryl and Bardeen. Stern-faced palace guards patrolled the courtyard perimeter, alert for trouble. To gasps of wonder, two of the great birds took a step forward, playing to the gallery as they extended their full fourteen-foot wingspan. The ripple of curious and excited voices rose to a swell, before breaking into an enthusiastic roar, not only for the glorious Lammergeyers, but now also for King Vailin. The young monarch had appeared on the royal balcony, smiling down his undisguised approval at the scene below. In perfect synchronicity the awesome birds wheeled gracefully round as one. Wings half extended they touched their impressively hooked beaks to the ground in respectful salutation. The crowd roared and applauded with enthusiasm, then settled to await developments as the huge raptors moved to encircle Karryl, Bardeen and Lady Evalin. In no more than a few seconds a series of carefully thought out images had been conveyed to the minds of the Lammergeyers.

Ekha began to preen, her huge hooked beak delicately teasing and re-arranging, black on white on brown on gold. “This is most unusual but it is well within our capabilities. We shall do as you suggest.”

Shaking her sleek plumage, she drew herself up to her full impressive height, raising and half extending her massive wings. Karryl was convinced he heard a mischievous chuckle. “Before we depart we will play a game that will entertain your people.”

An image flashed into Karryl’s mind. Lady Evalin and Bardeen had quite clearly received the same image. Quickly, the three magicians strode across to stand beside the railings at the front of the broad courtyard, allowing maximum space for the birds to manoeuvre. Taking line formation with Ekha leading, the five great birds powered into the air, the draught from powerfully beating wings rippling skirts and lifting hats. Rising high into the pale, late winter sky they surged upwards until they seemed no bigger than small flies. Screaming with exhilaration they spiralled down at breakneck speed, swooping and soaring over the palace and its environs in an aerial display which would doubtless be talked about for years to come.

A bystander called out to Karryl. “Where did they come from?”

The young mage turned away from watching the great birds. A well-dressed merchant, his plump face flushed with cold and excitement, caught his eye.

Karryl replied with the explanation he and Evalin had agreed on. “They come from the regions far to the North, in the mountains where no men dwell.”

The merchant leaned on his gold-topped cane as other bystanders began to press round him to hear what was being said. About to ask another question, his hands reached up as the plumes in his broad-brimmed hat furiously fluttered and danced in the waft from the Lammergeyers’ wings. Question forgotten, the merchant’s mouth fell open with astonishment, and Karryl turned. Heart thumping with pride and admiration, he found himself transfixed by the spectacle taking place barely forty feet above the courtyard.

To a chorus of “Ooohs and Aaahs” the five magnificent birds were, to all intents and purposes, dancing in the air. Hardly seeming to move their wings they hovered and slipped from side to side, gliding and dipping under, over and around each other, yet never once touching. Once again the crowd milling outside the railings roared their approval and enthusiastically applauded. Ekha responded with a long ear-splitting call of acknowledgement. Breaking the dance she led her companions high over the roof of the palace and swiftly out towards the ocean.

It was only when the Lammergeyers had become no more than distant specks that Karryl turned his gaze once more towards the folk out on the street. A new note of excitement had begun to ripple through the motley gathering as the trilling notes of a reed pipe capered above the hubbub. This was certainly a day for the strange and unusual. Head bobbing, elbows jigging, a sturdy broad-shouldered man of about thirty or so moved among the crowd as he blithely tootled a merry dance tune on a slender pipe. His outlandish wide-skirted coat fashioned from randomly stitched patches of differently coloured leather, the oversize pockets, and the various bulging cloth bags slung across each shoulder marked him as a chapman, a travelling pedlar.

Arms folded, Karryl watched with interest. Satisfied that he had roused sufficient curiosity, the itinerant slipped his pipe into one of the capacious pockets. He then began producing various small items from the shoulder bags, showing them around with a practised line in patter, before stowing them away again. The chapman moved through his audience, cheerfully making a sale to one side, then delving into a pocket or bag to satisfy a request on the other, his progress gradually bringing him nearer to Karryl. With only a few paces remaining between them, their eyes met. The chapman raised a hand in greeting. The crowd began to drift away, and the pedlar slipped his hand into a pocket. Drawing out his pipe he gave a self-satisfied smirk before putting it to his lips.

Karryl gasped as something sharp thumped into his right shoulder. His left hand flew to the spot, but not before burning tendrils had already begun to course through his body. The scene before him swam and shifted. Powerless to prevent it, he slowly collapsed towards the cold stone of the courtyard. As everything went black, his fading consciousness registered the chapman striding quickly away. Even before the few remaining onlookers had time to react, Evalin had moved. In the space of a heart-beat she crossed the few paces which lay between her and Karryl. Thrusting herself forward, she flung her arms round his still-falling body and they vanished. A second later Bardeen had also winked out of sight.

Bardeen materialised in the centre of the kitchen to find Miqhal sitting cross-legged on the floor, happily teaching Jadhra swear-words to the multi-coloured bird. Quickly transferring the bird to his shoulder the warrior rose effortlessly to his feet.

His expression darkened as he saw the look on Bardeen’s face. “I sense that all is not well. Something has happened?”

The old magician began to pace the floor, his head bowed. “Indeed it has, but what exactly I couldn’t rightly say.”

He gave the increasingly grim-faced Miqhal a brief summary of the events in the palace courtyard, as he had seen them.

It was only when Bardeen described Evalin’s vanishing with the apparently lifeless Karryl that the Jadhra’s face registered uncharacteristic alarm. “We must not allow this to hold us back. The plan must be followed. But first I will find the enemy who has done this thing. Such a man as you describe will not be hard to find.”

Before Bardeen could utter a word, Miqhal had assumed the role of general and begun issuing orders. After listening for a while, the old magician had to admit that the Jadhra’s proposals made perfect sense. In no more than a few minutes they had thrashed out details, then each set about their individual tasks. Settling himself on the kitchen floor beside the artefacts, Miqhal began to plan his moves.

Half a mile away, a stoop shouldered, crotchety-faced old man leaning heavily on a stick, appeared from behind a high-sided cart. At surprising speed he shuffled through the Great Market, his objective the large canvas-covered pitch of the basket-maker. The young man looked up from weaving the pliable osiers to watch as Bardeen, continually muttering to himself, methodically poked, peered and prodded. Eventually the young craftsman put his work to one side.

He approached his nosy but apparently non-purchasing browser. “Looking for something particular was you, sir?”

Bardeen sniffed as he scratched at his white-stubbled chin. “Maybe. These all you’ve got?”

Somewhat baffled, the basket-maker looked about him. “There’s enough here ain’t there? ‘Ow many was you wanting?”

Leaning on his stick, the old magician gave the young man a toothless grin. “Just the one.” He tapped the side of his thin nose. “But it’s got to be the right one.”

The basket-maker shook his head. “Dunno ‘ow I can help then, unless you ‘as a special order. In a hurry, are you? I can make what you wants in a few days if you tells me what it is.”

At that moment a gust of wind lifted the edge of the canvas which formed the back wall of the broad open-fronted tent. Releasing a dry rasping chuckle Bardeen scuttled round behind the covered pitch, quickly followed by the slightly alarmed basket-maker.

He found the old man standing beside a deep, wide basket and tapping it approvingly with his stick. “This one’ll do. Sell me this one.”

The young man threw up his hands in frustration. “That ‘un ain’t fer sale. You can see I carries me withies in that, and it’s full.” His tone softened. “I’ll make another like it if you wants.”

Bardeen chuckled again. Chin thrust out, he peered up into the young man’s hopeful face. “Make another for yourself then. I want that one.” He grinned and flipped a gold coin in the air, catching it deftly. “I’ll give you a good price.”

The young basket-maker swallowed hard. The coin in the old man’s hand was enough to buy half his entire stock. He didn’t spend too long thinking. With a nod to Bardeen he hurried off to collect two smaller baskets and carefully transferred the straight slender osiers into them. Peering into the large and now empty basket, Bardeen lifted it by one of its four strong rope-twist handles, laying it on its side as he tested the bottom. The rim of the basket came up to his chest.

The basket-maker grinned. “Manage that on yer own can you? Bit too much for you I reckon.”

Bardeen winked and tossed him the coin. “Don’t you worry. I’ll manage. Now go and find me a length of cord.”

Swiftly pocketing the coin before the old man changed his mind, the young basket-maker went off to find the cord. Having sorted out a good clean length, he returned to the rear of his pitch. Basket and old man were nowhere to be seen.

* * *

The basket materialised in the middle of the kitchen floor, closely followed by Bardeen.

Miqhal nodded his approval as he examined it. “This is an excellent basket. I feel certain it is what Master Karryl had in mind.” He placed it on the floor beside the artefacts. “Is there some way we may discover what has befallen him?”

Bardeen sat down and rested his elbows on the table. “I think all we can do is wait and hope. It would be pointless going to the palace. I doubt whether we would gain admission in Lady Evalin’s absence, and I could only hazard a guess as to where she’s taken him.”

Looking down, he managed a little smile as he watched Moonstone wander over to the new basket, sniff at it briefly, then saunter out of the kitchen. Giving no further thought to the cat, Bardeen relinquished the guise of Hieronymus Smeers and set about preparing a rather belated lunch. Miqhal declined. As Karryl had done, he borrowed a robe and cap from the old magician, slipping the robe over his desert clothes so as not to draw attention to himself. After transferring to the fountain garden of the palace, the only place that he could accurately visualise, he walked briskly to one of the side gates and told the guard he had been visiting. Robed magicians were becoming a common occurrence just lately and he was let out unquestioned into the lane. Making his way round to the wide mall which fronted the palace he began to focus on his quarry. He intended to find whoever had struck down and possibly killed Master Karryl. That person would spend a long time wishing they were dead before their wish was finally granted.

* * *

Rather than waste valuable time attempting to persuade one of the guards to open a door, Moonstone opted for the risky shortcut through the palace kitchens. He was in luck. Despite the chill, the heavy kitchen door stood wide open, great clouds of steam billowing out into the wintry air. The big tortoiseshell sidled round the door-jamb and ducked into the deep shadow against the wall to his right, just as one of the pot-boys was sent to close the door. When he was sure no one was looking in his direction, Moonstone quickly trotted across the front of the wide deep-set hearth with its spits, pots and irons. Beyond this, a large alcove made storage for an assortment of boxes and barrels. Slipping between them the cat made his way to the rear wall. Hidden by kegs and tuns he wriggled through a broken air-grille. From there he squirmed along a horizontal shaft through the wall and into an unlit and little used passage. Hugging the walls, and dodging out of sight whenever he heard anyone approaching Moonstone quickly made his way through the palace corridors, leapt nimbly down the stairs and along the circuitous route to the door of Vailin’s office and sitting room.

An armed bodyguard stood leaning on his halberd, his eyes wearing the vacant look of the utterly bored. Moonstone sauntered along the tiled hallway as if he had every right to be there. Sitting down in front of the guard, he looked up and uttered the most persuasively pathetic “miaow” he could muster. Totally unmoved, the guard glanced down, shifted his weight to his other foot and continued to lean on his halberd. Moonstone tried again with even less success. This time the guard didn’t even bother to look down. Almost out of options, the cat decided to try the direct approach. A loud, far-reaching drawn-out “Meee-ee-oow” echoed along the hallway, eliciting a less than satisfactory response from the un-co-operative guard.

Glaring down at Moonstone he flapped a dismissive hand towards the far end of the hall. “Clear off cat. I’m not letting you in, so scram!”

Not one to be easily discouraged, the big tortoiseshell uttered one defiant “miaow” before ambling off towards the end of the hallway. He did know another way in but it was difficult and time-consuming and he didn’t relish the prospect. However, his luck was about to change. As he reached the end of the hallway, Jobling came striding along the adjoining corridor with a large tray of silver cups. Catching sight of the cat, the unflappable major-domo stopped and regarded him thoughtfully. Moonstone sat down, closed his amber eye and looked at Jobling with the green one.

Jobling shook his head. “If you’re looking for Lady Evalin you’ve just missed her. She popped back to collect some things and has returned to Arinel to care for Master Karryl. I’m afraid she will be away for quite some time.”

If cats have a god and Moonstone had been praying, his prayers would have just been answered. Giving Jobling a little “ miaow” he began to wash his paws, allowing the man-servant enough time to be well out of the way. He then scampered down the corridor in the opposite direction. It was getting dark as Moonstone headed down towards the cellars. Having found out what he wanted to know, he was no longer in a hurry. Getting out would take a good while longer than getting in, but he was quite confident he wouldn’t be seen. He might even have chance to catch supper on the way.

* * *

Miqhal was puzzled. Despite the most diligent searching of the immediate area, he could find no magical trace of his quarry. Returning to the spot where Bardeen estimated he had last seen the chapman, Miqhal changed his approach. Enhancing his olfactory powers he sniffed and analysed the minute traces lingering in the cold air, systematically rejecting each one that proved to be of no consequence. As he inched closer to the tall railings which fronted the palace courtyard, his heightened sense of smell detected an alien piquancy lingering among the everyday scents of bustling humanity. Although the day was well advanced, enough traces still remained for him to follow, but as darkness fell even these would sink lower until they dispersed into the cobbled surfaces of the streets. Quickening his step Miqhal trailed the unique and increasingly sporadic wisps a short way along the mall, losing them briefly before picking them up again. They led him into a long narrow side street to his left, heading down towards the town centre. Recognising the distinctive cap and robe, people in the street nodded respectfully as they passed, little realising how much Miqhal wanted to run in pursuit of his quarry. Instead he maintained a brisk pace to the bottom of the street. At the intersection the Jadhra looked both ways. His options were limited and he had lost the scent. If the chapman had turned left he could have followed the wide road to its junction with Broad Street and disappeared amid the hurly-burly of the Great Market, both himself and the scent of his poison swallowed up in the anonymity of the crowd. Miqhal thought it unlikely. It was far more probable that the itinerant would want to put Vellethen far behind him and head for the coast road. The Jadhra turned right.

He had gone no more than a few paces, snuffing at the air as he went, when a familiar voice entered his mind.
“You’re going the wrong way.”

Stopping to slip his chilled hands into the sleeves of his robe, Miqhal settled his gaze on the far side of the street. “Are you sure?”

“As sure as the roof I’m sitting on.”

Now turned and headed in the opposite direction, Miqhal floated a question into the chill of the evening air. “Have you seen the one I seek?”

“He is at this very moment in the tavern beneath my feet.”

Mystified, the Jadhra moved into the concealing shadow of a doorway. His first thought was that his quarry was obviously a cold-blooded assassin, confident in his ability to remain undetected. Putting that aside, Miqhal considered the implications of another possibility, something he had encountered on more than one occasion.

Curbing his determination to kill, he stepped out into the street and looked about him. “Where is this tavern?”

“That building with the sign and lighted windows a few paces down on the other side of the road is a tavern. The Jolly Fiddler.”

Miqhal allowed himself a wry smile. “And how long have you been watching me?”

Moonstone’s reply surprised him
. “Only since you entered this street. I knew you would arrive eventually. I caught sight of the pedlar as I was on my way home and followed him. He seems a merry sort of fellow and I sensed no malice in him.”

Miqhal waited for a horse-drawn carriage to pass, then crossed the street and walked slowly up to the tavern door. Instead of going in he stood quietly, his hands in his sleeves, and waited. After a few minutes he felt something brush against his ankle. He looked down to see Moonstone sniffing curiously at his robe.

The cat looked up.
“What are you waiting for?”

Miqhal gave an enigmatic smile. “Be patient my sharp-eyed friend and you will see.”

Moonstone sat down beside the Jadhra’s foot and the strange pair waited. Not many minutes later their patience was rewarded. A bluff faced workman walked up from the direction of the market, stepped around them and reached for the tavern’s door-latch.

Miqhal held out a hand. “Pardon me sir. I would ask a favour.”

Quickly the workman looked him up and down. Noting the robe and cap, he nodded. “It would be an honour Master Magician. You only have to name it.”

Touching his fingers to forehead, lips and chest, Miqhal made a little bow. “My faith does not allow me to enter such places, but a certain person with whom I would speak is within. Please ask the pedlar if he would join me out here. It is possible he may carry an item of which I have need.”