Wardragon (20 page)

‘That’s the last time I’ll wish I could swap jobs with Daretor,’ mumbled Zimak, as an odd mixture of irritation and terror swept over him.

Chapter 13

Damaged Goods

A
cold wind buffeted Daretor as he hung from the leather harness. He had shut his eyes several times, squeezing them tight, and had even considered pinching himself, but each time when he opened them he found himself hanging off a ziggurat’s tower. He was back in his own body. It felt odd, like putting on a favourite pair of boots that hadn’t been worn in years: strangeness mixed with familiarity. Part of that strangeness was less strength and more weight.

‘Damn Fa’red and his tricks,’ he cursed. ‘Even when he keeps his bargains he causes trouble.’

It took Daretor a few seconds to recollect where Zimak had been, and why he was there. Zimak’s lock-pick was still sticking out of the lock on the window frame. Chalk marks outlined wire.

‘Zimak planned to break in here, make his way to the hub of the fortress, and glean what information he could,’ Daretor reasoned hurriedly, doing everything he could to avoid thinking about the horrendous drop below him. ‘Well, at least the mission is less likely to get fouled up now that I –’

With a start Daretor realised that Zimak would be in a similar situation, standing outside the chamber of the Sacred One.

‘Not good,’ Daretor sighed. There was no way Zimak would be able to convince the Sacred One to help them. He was a liar, a thief and a philanderer.

‘He can’t even spell “integrity”,’ Daretor continued under his breath. ‘Neither can I, I suppose, but at least I know what it means.’

There was nothing for it but to proceed with the mission at hand, although at least he was now in the last place that Jelindel had been before her exile to Golgora. Somewhere within the fortress there would be a portal, and he intended to find it.

Daretor got to work on the lock, a grim smile on his lips. Zimak would feel irked if he could see what was about to happen. Daretor the Honourable, as he sometimes sneeringly called him.

‘Keep company with pigs and you eventually learn to oink.’ The lock clicked open. ‘And pick locks.’

Now to the strands of wire. They carried what the Farvenu called ‘electricity’. Daretor knew little about electricity but he had learnt one fact: separate wires carrying the mysterious force threw sparks and crackles when they touched each other. When that happened, things stopped working.

This sort of cold science would stop all thievery dead, Daretor decided. He wondered how the likes of Zimak would make their way in life if every house had this type of security.

He searched his pockets and found a wooden-handled dagger. Taking care not to disturb the wires, he edged the dagger blade into the gap and, carefully holding the wooden handle, laid the blade across the parallel wires. Instantly, sparks flew and the dagger shot out of Daretor’s hand, narrowly missing his cheek. Eruptions of sparks occurred on several other towers, raining down from windows in cascades. Lights failed all over the place. There were shouts and cries and running feet.

Daretor quickly flipped open the window, climbed through, and shut it behind him. Now he must think and behave like Zimak. What would the weasel do next?

‘Try to sell any guard that chanced upon him an old nag while lifting his purse and asking whether he had a pretty sister,’ muttered Daretor as he set off.

Zimak gazed around in momentary panic. Then it dawned on him that something was tugging at his sleeve. He looked down. It was a pageboy.

‘Master, are you all right?’

Zimak swallowed. He fought for control of his bladder while his knees weakened.

‘Where am I?’ he asked, even though he was fairly sure that he would be expected to know.

‘You are outside the audience chamber, Master.’

‘Audience chamber? Whose audience chamber?’

‘The Sacred One’s.’

‘The Sa –’ Zimak groaned inwardly.

Finally pain made its presence felt. Zimak quickly looked down at himself and started patting his limbs, his face, his chest. He found blood-stained bandages.

‘Daretor!’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘More dummart heroics with my body!’

It was clear that Fa’red had managed to have them swapped back into their correct bodies, even at an immense distance. Funnily enough, Zimak had thought there would be some kind of warning. He also hadn’t expected to get back such damaged goods.

‘I lend him this superb body, and does he look after it? No. He gets it sliced up as if he owns it. He practically
throws
himself in front of swords and knives, not to mention anything with jaws.’

‘Master?’

Zimak realised he was blathering. ‘What?’

‘The Sacred One is waiting,’ said the pageboy. ‘For you.’

‘For me?’ Realisation hit him again. The Sacred One, the dragon to whom even other dragons deferred. What does one say to a dragon? Hey, how’s it been draggin’ lately? Heard the one about the dragon and the flying-carpet merchant’s daughter? The Sacred One was a creature of enormous integrity, and it was only to similar traits that he responded. Integrity. Zimak recognised the concept. It was like honour. Not good. Not good at all. The dummart dragon would know his seedy past in the blink of an eye.

Where was Daretor when you needed him?

A slow grin spread across Zimak’s face. Daretor would now be hanging from the side of a tower in the middle of Argentia, outside a locked window.

‘Hope he hangs there all night.’

‘Master!’ pleaded the page.

‘All right. I’m coming!’ snapped Zimak.

He took a deep breath, and stepped into the audience chamber.

Daretor padded down a long corridor, moving as quickly and quietly as he could. He was putting as much distance between himself and his point of entry as he could. He had already come down five flights of steps and was on the other side of the tower. Most secret parts of the fortress would be down low, and possibly even below ground. The ziggurat looked like the Preceptor’s way of reminding the local population of his power. Daretor was sure that cold science had been used to erect the structure quickly. No army of builders from Q’zar could have built the thing so soon, however skilled or numerous.

Luck was with Daretor. He made it down almost to ground level before running into a group of men, each carrying some kind of writing book and implements. Deciding to act as Zimak would, he bluffed his way past. The men were deep in some arcane discussion and paid him little heed, at least till they had passed by.

‘Are you with the electrifiers?’ one man called after Daretor.

‘No,’ Daretor said. ‘I’ve been sent to fetch them. Sparks all over the place.’

‘Try down on sub level three. They’re probably on their break.’

Daretor wondered what a ‘break’ was.

‘I … ah …’

‘Prot, you idiot, he won’t get access down there,’ said another. ‘Can’t you tell he’s just a guard?’

The one called Prot scribbled something on the pad he carried, tore off the page and handed it to Daretor.

‘Show that at the checkpoints. Now hurry. We need those electrifiers up here on the double!’

‘Yessir!’ replied Daretor briskly.

Prot and the others walked off. Daretor turned and kept going; he scanned the sheet of paper. Would it really get him through the checkpoints? It seemed a suicidally daring thing to do, but after all, he had to be Zimak now, and Zimak’s way was to use trickery and brazenness whenever possible.

‘Anything Zimak can do, so can I,’ he said firmly to himself.

He turned a corner and almost froze, but the Zimak persona took over. There was one of those moving rooms. More to the point, there was a guard outside it. Daretor marched boldly up to the guard and showed him the sheet of paper. The guard gestured him inside the open door, saying nothing. The door closed behind Daretor and the room began its descent.

When the door opened Daretor saw a sign on the wall that declared this to be ‘Sub Level 3’. Faced with a line of guards, his own instincts screamed at him to draw his sword and fight, but by ‘becoming’ Zimak he not only passed the line unscathed, but received directions to the chamber of electrifiers. Dutifully, he did as he was told, locating three electrifiers in a common room. By now a lot less nervous about the deception, Daretor showed them the note and told them that they were required in the tower with the greatest of urgency. They hurriedly collected tool bags and dashed out.

Daretor quietly closed the door behind them and began a search of the room. Within a closet he found uniforms like those worn by the three electrifiers. He put on the largest of them, happily noting that it came with a badge bearing the name of Horga Tatt. An adjacent room belonged to some kind of official and here he found a desk strewn with papers and documents. He skimmed through them, not always understanding what he read, but beginning to see a pattern of
scale
. Whatever the Preceptor was up to, the enterprise was vast. The flooding of foreign markets – such as D’loom – with a variety of cold science products was just one small part of a much larger puzzle.

Equally vast was the
army
of personnel involved: merchantmen, guards, crafts-workers, plus the indentured slaves. The size of the Preceptor’s operation was a hundred times greater than anything they had imagined. Daretor felt like a plains barbarian suddenly dropped into the middle of a large city. He found maps. Maps of some place much larger than Argentia.

Golgora
.

Daretor folded up some of the papers and stuffed them inside his tunic. They were not much, but they suggested a great deal. Unfortunately, nothing in them indicated exactly what it was that the Preceptor was doing here.

Daretor went to the door and listened for voices. But then thought: why act stealthily? He was feigning the role of someone who was meant to be here, so stealth might be more dangerous than striding about boldly. The corridor was clear as he stepped out. Daretor glanced at one of the maps again. And tarried too long.

‘Seems you’re in great demand right now,’ said a silky female voice behind him. Daretor turned to find a tall attractive woman regarding him.

‘Pardon?’

The woman raised her eyebrows. ‘You are an electrifier, aren’t you?’

He tried to think what Zimak would say to that. ‘You need electrifying?’

She smiled, pretending to be annoyed but failing. ‘You’re new around here.’

‘Yes. Just arrived.’

‘I’m Tashar, of defence. Are you hungry?’

‘Famished.’

‘Let me be your guide. In my first week here I got lost a dozen times. I thought my foreman was going to report me.’

‘He didn’t?’

‘Well, I smiled at him and the problem went away. My smile makes a lot of problems go away.’

Tashar smiled at Daretor. He now understood the foreman’s forbearance. She led him to a large dining hall which was about a third full.

‘Normally there’s more people in here but there’s an alert on right now.’ They took seats. ‘How come you’re not running around like the others?’

‘I was told I would only get in the way. Besides, my field is not useful for this.’

‘I see. What is your field?’

Daretor cursed himself. What would Zimak say? He would probably try to get his hands on her drawers …

He leant close to the girl so that his arm rested against hers. She did not move away. ‘I’m much more interested in
your
field.’

She laughed lightly. ‘I told you, defence.’

A serving boy came along beside the table hauling a wheeled trolley. He put two plates of steaming mush in front of them and moved on.

‘Defence is such a big area.’

She lowered her voice. ‘I shouldn’t be talking about it.’

‘You aren’t.’

‘Well, it’s pretty boring.’

‘So is being an electrifier.’

‘Oh, all right. But remember I warned you. If you go to sleep it’s your own fault.’

‘I promise I won’t go to sleep.’

She started to tell him what her job entailed and Daretor listened, pretending to be fascinated, though actually making mental notes. Once again, there was the suggestion of things done on a vast scale, and a sense of secret purpose. So secret, Daretor realised, that he suspected Tashar’s job description fell well short of what it actually entailed.