Dangerous Waters (55 page)

He still had hold of his sword, though with it pressed tight to his leg, Corrain couldn’t see how he was going to use it. As he flexed his shoulders to test these sorcerous bonds, the magic tightened to leave him gasping for breath. He heard the Mandarkin mage laughing with soft malice. He saw Espilan close his eyes and roll his head away, conveying his utter contempt without any need for words.

The Mandarkin mage hissed and the Soluran wizard was encased in mage-wrought ice. Vapour rose from the glittering jade mantle like a man’s breath on a frosted day.

The Mandarkin stepped out from behind the tree where Corrain was bound. He looked the Caladhrian up and down. Hesitating before he spoke, he finally cocked his head towards the bound Soluran. ‘You and he. Friend?’

If Corrain had never heard anything remotely like the man’s guttural accent, he recognised the formal Tormalin that all these wizards seemed to know. Thank Trimon for that.

‘No.’ he said forcefully. Hadn’t the mage seen him knock the Soluran senseless?

Before he could ask that, a shard of ice appeared in the Mandarkin mage’s hand. He pressed the razor-sharp edge against the blood vessel pulsing in the side of Corrain’s neck. Feeling the cold fire burning his skin, Corrain had no doubt that this magewrought blade could kill him as efficiently as any steel.

The Mandarkin mage raised sceptical eyebrows. ‘True?’

‘True.’ Corrain put all the conviction he could muster into the word.

The Mandarkin stared up at him, deep in thought, the pressure from his icy blade unrelenting.

From a distance, Corrain had thought he was some youth like Espilan, yet to grow into his full height and strength. Close to, he realised the Mandarkin was older than he was himself by half a generation. The man was little more than skin and bone and he’d been hungry lifelong, Corrain guessed, to judge by his bowed legs and stunted frame.

His heavy leather tunic stank of sweat and he wore no linen beneath it to save his dirty skin from its chafing. Corrain tried not to flinch away from his foul breath. The man couldn’t have an unrotted tooth in his head.

Didn’t wizards have spells to save them from a tooth-puller’s pincers? He’d bet good coin that those in Hadrumal did. Mandarkin magic doubtless had other priorities. So did he. If this wasn’t what he’d hoped for, at least he’d found what he’d been hunting.

Corrain looked into the Mandarkin mage’s eyes, making sure his words were slow and clear. ‘I will be your friend.’

He gasped as the emerald magic tightened further, crushing him against the rough bark.

The Mandarkin mage leaned close, his breath even more nauseating. ‘Why?’

The cold from the ice shard was an excruciating itch. Corrain swallowed. ‘I need a friend with magic.’

The Mandarkin mage’s eyes narrowed, dark beneath brows and hair that might have been blonde if he’d ever fallen foul of some soap. ‘Why?’

‘I come from far away to the south.’ Did the man understand? Corrain couldn’t tell. He could only press on. ‘We have enemies who attack us. We need magic to attack them.’

The Mandarkin was puzzled. ‘You are friend or enemy to Solura?’

Corrain curbed an impulse to shake his head lest he cut his own throat on that cursed ice. ‘Not friend, not enemy.’ He tried to shrug but the magical webs held him tight. ‘I care nothing for Solura. I fight for my own people—’

The Mandarkin was turning away. Whether or not he understood, he was losing interest in Corrain.

‘I have gold,’ Corrain shouted, ‘and silver. And food,’ he added as an afterthought.

The Mandarkin understood some of those words. A new light shone in his eyes, a light Corrain recognised from his years among troopers. Greed.

‘Where?’ The mage’s gesture was clear enough. It was obvious that Corrain was carrying no more than his weapons and the clothes on his back.

‘No.’ With the ice blade clear of his neck, he could shake his head emphatically. ‘I tell you and you kill me?’ He forced a laugh. ‘Then we are not friends.’

Whatever the Mandarkin mage might have said to that was lost as the skinny man spun around. Corrain saw that the ice encasing Espilan was melting faster than lard in a hot pan.

The Mandarkin snarled, raising his magewrought blade up high. The Soluran spat back through the muffling gag. In the next instant he was gone, leather bindings and all.

As Corrain instinctively surged forward, he felt the magic binding him to the tree weaken. Looking down he saw the mossy webs flicker and begin to fade.

The Mandarkin mage was looking this way and that, his lip curled in silent defiance. As he flourished his ice blade, Corrain saw the fear in his eyes. The man must be as worn out as everyone else by this relentless pursuit. No wonder his magic was failing him.

Espilan’s escape could be the death of them both. Corrain didn’t imagine old Orul or that hard-faced woman Selista would give him the benefit of any doubt. Not once Espilan explained how this Caladhrian had saved the Mandarkin mage from capture or death, whichever the young wizard intended.

With a convulsive effort, Corrain ripped himself free from the withering magic. The Mandarkin turned on him; his ice blade lengthening into a spear, Corrain brandished his broken manacle instead of his sword. When the Mandarkin had pressed that blade to his throat, he’d seen the distinctive scars of such shackles on the man’s bony wrists.

‘You want to be free? Come with me to my own people. So far away that no one will ever find you. Not those Solurans.’

He jerked his head towards the sun though in truth he’d no idea where Espilan might have fled. He shook the broken manacle again, this time to the north.

‘Nor any man who would chain you. Earn gold and silver with your magic, keep it for yourself and enjoy the finest wine and food.’

Again, he wasn’t at all sure the Mandarkin understood him. He broke off at the sound of booted feet trampling through the undergrowth. The Solurans didn’t care who heard them coming now that Espilan had reported the Mandarkin’s imminent exhaustion.

The ice blade crumbled away into milky steam. Corrain levelled his sword at the starveling mage.

‘I am leaving,’ he said with careful precision. ‘If you will not help me, I will not help you.’

The Mandarkin mage grimaced and held out an empty hand, palm up and fingers spread. Corrain hesitated, unsure what to do. With a hiss of exasperation, the Mandarkin stepped forward and grabbed his wrist.

He leaned close to whisper. ‘Show me gold. Then we go to your people.’

Corrain nearly ripped his hand free, no matter what that might cost him. As soon as the Mandarkin took hold, a crawling sensation began spreading up his arm. From there the vile prickling swept over his whole body.

Was he covered in spiders summoned to that magespun web? That revolting thought drove Corrain to the verge of panic. Looking down, he expected to see insects swarming over his hands, underneath his shirt and down the back of his neck—

Instead he could see his own boots through his arm. His body was no more than a rippling translucent outline. As he watched, his legs turned clear as glass, the twigs crushed beneath his feet clearly visible.

‘Gold!’ The Mandarkin mage jerked Corrain forward, unexpectedly strong fingers fastened on his insubstantial arm.

How could he be so solid and yet seemingly made of nothingness? Soluran shouts prompted a more pertinent thought. Espilan had already found the Mandarkin once despite this concealing magic. They had to get away as fast as they could.

Corrain pressed a finger to his lips, trusting that the sign for silence was common to people of any race. With the Mandarkin’s hand clamped round his wrist, he swiftly retraced his steps.

Talagrin be thanked, the Solurans were a good way off. Better yet, they were heading towards the trees where Espilan had found his prey. That would only widen the distance between them as Corrain backtracked. Until one of those men-at-arms found a trail to follow. Unless these magics left some trace visible to other wizards.

Corrain glanced at the scrawny Mandarkin. Seeing the man’s eyes were already glazed with effort, he decided against asking if the mage had any spell to cover their tracks. Better to find that hollow stump and prove his good faith. What might happen after that? Corrain couldn’t begin to guess.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY-
F
IVE

Halferan, Caladhria

10th of Aft-Summer

R
ASELLE FINALLY RETURNED
as Zurenne was beginning to worry that some misfortune had befallen her. Or Ilysh. Or that the kitchen had been so thoroughly emptied by all those needing food and drink that the maidservant had gone foraging in the guard hall or the steward’s house in hopes of overlooked stores.

‘There’s fruit rolls, my lady, that Doratine put by for you,’ Raselle said breathlessly, ‘and cheese and cold bacon.’ She clutched a makeshift bag knotted from kitchen muslin. ‘And small beer.’ Anxious, she offered a leather flagon with a matching cup for a top tied to the handle by plaited thong, such as a horseman might take on the road. ‘Let me set breakfast for you here and I’ll go aloft—’

‘I’ll go.’ As Esnina whined and buried her face in her mother’s lap, Zurenne resolutely removed the child’s clinging hands from her waist. ‘You must be good and brave, Neeny.’

She clenched her jaw against the tremor in her words as she raised the little girl’s chin with a firm finger, to look deep in her eyes. ‘I must help the lady wizard who’s keeping us safe.’ She had to put her trust in Jilseth. The only alternative was utter despair.

‘While I do that, you must help Raselle to pack up our clothes and—’ Words failed her.

What should they take or choose to abandon? What of her costly festival gowns? The heirloom Halferan silver and the rich hangings on these walls? The elegant furnishings of her withdrawing room and their bedchambers? Their precious clavichord brought here with so much care at such expense?

What of the barony’s records and ledgers down in the muniment room? The archives of grants and strictures, the annals of tenants rewarded and punished? What of the statues in the manor’s shrine, worthless in terms of coin but priceless for being so revered?

‘Gather up our plainest, most hardwearing gowns and boots for travelling,’ Zurenne resolutely ordered Raselle. ‘My jewellery, my writing box and—’ she looked distractedly around the room ‘—whatever you can find of most value to fill a single pair of saddlebags each. We’ll decide what else to take when we know how we’re to travel. Neeny, do as you are told!’

Zurenne forced herself up from the window seat, holding Esnina at arm’s length. Raselle set the muslin bundle on the table and came to stop the child seizing hold of her mother once more. Esnina began to grizzle.

‘Eat some bread.’ Zurenne delved into the depths of the cloth and pulled out a hastily shaped plum roll. She left it on the table without looking at Esnina. If she did, she knew her courage would fail her.

Fumbling with her keys, she slipped the knotted muslin over one wrist. She held the leather flagon between her elbow and breast as she unlocked the door. Thankfully the square of pale blue sky up above offered sufficient illumination now that the magelight had gone.

Her haste nearly betrayed her as she climbed. Head-high up the ladder, she trod on the hem of her gown. Her foot slipped from the rung and if her toe hadn’t caught the next by pure chance, she would have fallen all the way down to the unforgiving floor. As it was, small ale soaked the side of her gown, forced up out of the flagon as it was crushed between her body and the ladder.

Zurenne closed her eyes until her heart’s pounding slowed and the stinging pain in her shin subsided. Since hitching up her skirts was impossible at this point, she climbed slowly and more carefully. Kicking her slippers forward made sure of no more missteps.

As her head emerged from the trapdoor, she saw no one by the southern parapet. Foolish as it was, Zurenne couldn’t curb her alarm. However the rest might flee, a wizard could step a thousand leagues in an eye blink. She’d seen that for herself, when Planir had vanished from the dais. ‘Jilseth?’