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  Ulran studied the approach of the combatants. He nodded his head to indicate that the contest could begin.

  Meetel was dark, tall and powerfully built. His long black hair streamed behind him as he rushed first, shrieking defiance. He had nerve – but no technique. With little effort Ulran skipped to safety. Close on Meetel’s heels came Ephanel and the other two. Ulran ducked and weaved out of reach of grasping hands, flailing feet and fists.

  By now all four must have realised there were no openings in the garment Ulran wore: he used neither arms nor legs to block or counter-attack: his speed was sufficient to avoid contact. They circled Ulran in a wary, predatory fashion.

  As Meetel charged with rigid fingers lancing at the innman’s eyes, Ulran lowered his head and Meetel’s fingers shattered on impact with cranium-bone. Ulran swiftly moved away, leaving Meetel on one knee, tears of pain streaming as he clutched a broken hand.

  Ephanel was squat and too muscular. His sallow features twisted as he delivered a tremendous kick.

  Robes cracking with the sudden movement, the innman leapt high above the out-thrust leather boot and, as though from nowhere, the innman’s legs whipped out from the material, full into Ephanel’s stomach. The kick’s force hurled Ephanel head over heels to land noisily among weights and dumb-bells. Ephanel was completely taken by surprise.

  Without any openings save that for the wearer’s head and feet, the garment’s special properties were impressive. With the right force and inclination, the cloth could be penetrated easily and when the limb was again withdrawn into the folds, the opening would seal, leaving no trace. But if the right force could not be mastered, then the garment was little better than a burial shroud.

  Krailek was short and wiry, his face careworn by weather and travel; his blue eyes darted to left and right, gauging distances. Yorda was tall with well-toned muscles, and deceptively light on his feet. Both, obviously determined on a joint action, simultaneously attacked Ulran from each side.

  Ulran leapt in front of Krailek on his left, arms suddenly shooting out of the black garment; the surprise had hardly left Krailek’s lined, weather-beaten face when he found himself grabbed, stunned and swinging in an arc towards the astonished Yorda. Both tumbled into the nearby wall, dazed and bruised.

  Turning, Ulran reflected his son Ranell’s fleeting smile: two would prove suitable for probationary employment, replacements of men recently slain by the shadow assassin. Yorda and Krailek. They would require a great deal of training to be a match for the rest of his men, but they had that special intelligent spark that –

  Only one lightning-fast blow was necessary, delivered as Ulran pivoted on buckling knees: the punch, angled upwards, thudded into Meetel’s solar plexus and seemed to travel through bone and flesh, rupturing the man’s heart.

  A small dagger fell from lifeless fingers and Ulran grasped it before the handle hit the floor.

  A nasty weapon with serrated edges pointing to the hilt, it would extract entrails, flesh and muscle on withdrawal from the wound. Ulran knew it well: a tukluk, the brainchild of the Brethren of the Sword, the gild of the mercenaries. Ulran shook his head. “A man who would savour another’s pain or misery,” he mused, turning to the slowly recovering participants. “The test is not to win but to see how the fight is fought – and, indeed, how it is lost.”

  Without another word, he left the Long Gymnasium with his son and his aide close behind.

  ***

  Looking down from his tenth storey office, Ulran gazed upon the vast variety of colour blossoming in the roof garden.

  Decorative shagunblend lamps tinted sunlight in his office. Ulran divested himself of the Jhet-fibre garb and slowly his thick lips curved in a sanguinary grin. He pictured again the disconcerted look on Meetel’s face.

  Perhaps then, at the instant on the Edge – the moment between life and death – Meetel had comprehended that the cloth was the fabled Jhet-fibre woven by seamstresses from the Fane of the Overlord itself.

  Ulran washed then dried himself on a small towel and donned a silk shirt from the wardrobe and a pair of loose-fitting cotton trousers which he tucked into brown hide boots.

  In a rare moment of reverie, he idly fingered the large wall-chart that reminded him of the travels he and Ranell had made.

  Ranell was quick to learn; yet after all his training he possessed a stubborn streak. Still, he’d done well, considering he had lacked a mother’s warmth and love almost since birth. Ulran felt he could be justly proud of his son as the youth approached full adulthood.

  A distinctive knock sliced into his thoughts.

  “Come in, Ranell.”

  Though shorter than his sire, Ranell was otherwise in every way Ulran’s progeny, from his dark wavy hair, alert brown eyes and almost classical facial features, to his slim yet powerfully muscled physique. He stood in the doorway that led into the anteroom; there, Ranell performed the duties of secretary to his father, in preparation for the day when he would succeed him to become Innman, Red Tellar.

  Formally, he gave a respectful nod. “Begetter,” he said, assuming the common family address for an esteemed father. “There’s a strange silent fellow in the passage waiting to see you.” His eyes gleamed, amused. “He speaks with an air of the arcane about him and is weighted down with countless talismen.”

  “And what did you say?”

  “I expressed sincere apologies for having kept him waiting and requested that he be patient while I ascertained when or if you would be available...”

  “But didn’t you ask him his business here?”

  “Yes, Begetter – I tried, but he just smiled knowingly and said his business was with you.”

  “I see.”

  “He’s unarmed – and looks as though he wouldn’t know which end of a sword to hold were he given one!”

  “Very good. I’ll see this mysterious visitor now.”

  At that moment Aeleg stepped in, his old skin creased in anxiety. “Ulran!” he said, breathless. “Thousands of them! Sky’s full!” His eyes shone in excitement. “Never so many before – red tellars!”

  Scalrin. Heart hammering though outwardly calm, Ulran brushed past his son and aide and, ignoring the seated stranger, he leapt the stairs three at a time to the roof.

  ***

  The midday sky was brimful with red tellars. The entire populace of Lornwater seemed to be out – on the street, rooftops, city walls or at windows – looking at these mystical creatures.

  Even Ulran’s height was dwarfed by the bird’s wingspan. With bristling carmine red feathers, yellow irises and darting black slit-pupils, the red tellar appeared a formidable bird, predatory in mien, an aspect completed with lethal talons and huge curved beak. And yet not one living soul, Ulran included, had once reported seeing a red tellar eat. To compound the enigma surrounding them, they were rarely observed landing anywhere. And apart from the muted whisper of their wings, they created no sound at all – unlike the local avians that infested most eaves, lofts and trees in the city.

  Ulran burst out onto the inn’s flat roof as a shadow darkened the area.

  A solitary red tellar broke formation and dived down from the main body. Ulran instinctively glanced back at Aeleg and Ranell; but Scalrin’s sharp eyes had spotted them and he veered over to the opposite side of the roof.

  A slight crack of mighty wings, then the bird was down, talons gripping the low wall by a shrine to Opasor, lesslord of birds.

  Ulran motioned for the others to stay where they were.

  Aeleg and Ranell stared, as if thunderstruck that a red tellar should land on their roof.

  Recognition flickered in Scalrin’s eyes as Ulran knelt before the bird’s great feathered chest. Without hesitation the innman reached out, gently stroked the upper ridge of the bird’s beak and smoothed the silken soft crest.

  In answer, Scalrin’s ear feathers ruffled and he settled, pulling his greater wing coverts well into his body.

  The innman exhaled through his nos
e, then relaxed, steadying his breathing till it was shallow. Ulran closed his eyes and slowly outstretched his hand again, palm flat upon Scalrin’s breast. A rapid heartbeat pulsed under his palpating hand and transmitted sympathetic vibrations through his own frame.

  Their rapport created a bridge and across this span came primitive communication, sense-impressions. Ulran gathered that something was seriously amiss in Arion.

  Something terrible, something concerning Scalrin.

  Ulran opened his eyes, surprised to discover moisture brimmed his lids for the first time since his wife Ellorn’s death.

  Then Scalrin was gone, powerful primaries lifting him up to the vast multitude of his brethren. As far as the horizon they still flocked.

  But what did it portend?

  ***

  “Trouble in Arion?” the stranger enquired as Ulran stepped from the stairs into the passage.

  Ulran did not show the surprise he felt at this disclosure.

  The wiry stranger was evidently chagrined at the innman’s negative response but, poise quickly regained, explained, soft spoken, “I walk with Osasor.” An offered hand.

  Ulran’s enfolded it completely: a gentle, yielding handshake. Not the usual type who would follow the white lord of fire, the innman thought.

  “Cobrora Fhord,” the stranger made the introduction, dressed sombrely in a grey cloak, charcoal tunic and trousers, colourless face angular and thin. “I can enlighten you a little on the behaviour of the red tellars. And I would like to join you on your journey to Arion.”

  Ranell appraised the stranger with quickened interest; Aeleg stared at Cobrora shrewdly.

  Ulran, unblinking, said, “But I haven’t mentioned that I’d go – though I was considering it.”

  Cobrora nervously stroked long lank black hair. Ulran noticed the glint of some kind of amulet beneath Cobrora’s grey cloak. Big brown eyes suddenly evasive, Cobrora Fhord murmured, “My – er, properties might prove useful – should you decide to go.”

  In preference, Ulran always travelled alone, in this way being responsible for himself and nobody else. But, this Cobrora presented a conundrum. The roumers regularly and swiftly carried messages along their established routes complete with staging posts, unmolested by villains and Devastator hordes, but even they could not have carried news of Arion’s dire affairs in such a short time. And, as conclusive proof of this psychic’s ability, Cobrora knew of Ulran’s intentions to travel to Arion. It was just possible that the strange powers of Cobrora’s spirit-lord could be of some use on the long trek.

  “All right,” said Ulran decisively. “But first we must arrange equipment.” And, looking at Cobrora’s thin city clothes, he added, “We must dress you properly for the long journey ahead. It may be summer – but the nights are harsh and the mountains will prove inhospitable.”

  ***

  “I have no intention of using the accredited tracks or the Dhur Bridge across Saloar Teen,” Ulran said. “We’ll leave by the Dunsaron Gate, stay overnight at The Inn, then head for Soemoff – about five days from Lornwater.” Ulran’s thick index finger traced the parchment map; an impressive red ruby sparkled on a gold ring. “Then we’ll leave the Cobalt Trail, crossing Saloar Teen at its narrowest point, the shallows – here...”

  “But that way you miss the Goldalese road –”

  “I don’t want to go in by the front door. As you know, Arion is sealed off from all save a few necessary merchants. So, instead, we’ll try getting into Arion over the Sonalumes. It’ll take at least eighty days.”

  Cobrora’s head shook. “You – we’ve only got seventy.”

  Ulran arched an eyebrow.

  “I – I don’t know the how or the why, but the red tellars are involved in some rite... which is to take place on the First Durinma of Lamous – seventy days hence.”

  Rolling up the map, Ulran grinned. “Then we’ve no time to lose – even if we shorten our journey by way of Astrey Caron Pass.”

  Cobrora blanched at that prospect.

  Sturdier boots and tougher cloak and clothes were borrowed from the Red Tellar’s ample stocks for Cobrora’s use. Ulran loaned Cobrora a light sword and dirk, though one look at the city-dweller’s face confirmed Ranell’s first observation that Cobrora would have little inclination to use either even if life depended upon it.

  Their transportation was obtained from the stables attached to the rear courtyard of the inn. “I’m afraid we’ve got little spare at the moment, save Sarolee, this palfrey,” Ulran said, nodding at a roan the ostler was holding.

  “I’m not proud.” Cobrora smiled and hesitantly stroked the horse’s muzzle.

  Ulran’s horse, Versayr, was a beautiful black stallion. Ulran also selected a pack-mule for carrying provisions: “We’ll hire another mule and purchase most of our stores at Soemoff. I have no wish to alert anyone to the length of my absence.”

  As shadows lengthened with the approach of dusk, Ulran embraced his son in the courtyard entrance.

  Solemnly, the young man said, “No harm shall come to the Red Tellar, Begetter.”

  “I know.” The sureness of Ulran’s tone impressed Cobrora. “Now, we’ll be on our way.”

  Marron Square, named after the great battle of Marron Marsh in 1227, was bustling with people raising banners across the streets. The two travellers shook hands with Ranell, and mounted their horses. A gentle nudge and they set off across the square, Cobrora holding onto the pack-mule’s reins. Neither looked back.

  Cobrora scratched an irritating itch, unaccustomed to this heavier clothing. A faint hammering of trepidation churned within, which must be controlled. A city-dweller since birth, Cobrora, apart from an occasional picnic with the gild outside the high outer city walls, had not ventured further. In fact, many people never set foot beyond the square launmark of their city-sector. Now, Cobrora couldn’t really blame them.

  But it was surely too late to turn back. O, by the gods, what a capricious gift this Sight was!

  They cantered along the Long Causeway, the only road that ran straight through the Three Cities.

  From the Red Tellar Inn to the Dunsaron Gate was a good ten launmarks; Ulran intended to get out of the city before the gates closed at sunset.

  For many weeks the gossip had revolved around the forthcoming carnival. And now Cobrora snatched snippets of dialogue from passers-by:

  “Let his liver stew, I say!”

  “I hear the Harladawn Players have some satirical comments on our magnanimous monarch!”

  “Only yesterday a friend told me Saurosen’s been hiring spies to report on our preparations and progress...”

  “Typically underhand!”

  “He’ll ban sex next!”

  “If you were wed to my husband, you’d wish he would!”

  Even in adversity, some people retained a sense of humour. Perhaps it was the city’s unease that affected Cobrora. Something other than the normal had drawn the city-dweller to accompany the innman.

  Drawn was the right word. And to speak to Ulran like that at their first meeting! As though possessed, Cobrora thought, forthright and ironical, so unlike my true, docile self! Drawn, indeed.

  “Three years since Saurosen replaced Kcarran II – three hundred it feels like!”

  “Aye, he may be the fourth Saurosen, but if the Three Cities have their way, he’ll be the last!”

  “Hush, Lorg, that’s seditious talk!”

  Some mansions shone red in the sinking sun’s rays, as though on fire; other adjacent dwellings were little more than timber-shacks and voluminous tents.

  Many of the side streets carried on as normal, their entire length covered with awnings, the stalls vying for custom. Cobrora always thought they most resembled an underground city. Unpleasant smells suggested that the drainage system was not coping with the increased numbers.

  A glance down adjoining thoroughfares revealed buildings on either side leaning inwards, conveying a claustrophobic atmosphere, deepening the shadows, great
ly welcome in the summer heat though to be avoided at night.

  Shouting from the left drew their attention.

  Miners, still grimed with coal-dust, were leaving the Pick and Shovel Inn, a musty earthy place where they habitually congregated after work or before their next shift. Lornwater was built over many disused mines; now, mining continued in the suburbs, beyond the cultivated fields. Opposite this inn was a competitor, The Open House, one of ten so named and owned by Ulran’s biggest rivals, a combine.

  “Next shift’s due back from the death-caves, soon, lads – let’s meet them, toast their good health!”

  “Health? Till the carnival, anyway, then we’ll see who’s left alive, let alone healthy!”

  “Oh, be quiet, Moaner. We’ll tell him what to do with his infernal edict!”

  “Aye!” chorused the dusty-throated men.

  Pausing at the Old Drawbridge, which had not been raised since the New City was built, Ulran twisted in his high tooled saddle, and waited for Cobrora Fhord to draw alongside.

  “I’d say they’re near the brink of rebellion,” Cobrora observed.

  “They’ll have their carnival, regardless of any stupid royal edict. It’s a pity the king’s second cousin, Lord-General Launette is on his way to Endawn; he would mollify the crowds, I’m sure.”

  “You fear rebellion, Ulran?”

  “I do. But I cannot tarry from this quest. Let’s move on.”

  They crossed over the very old stagnant and evil-smelling moat that completely surrounded the Second and Old Cities, and passed into the Second City.

  Saurosen IV had persistently deprived his people of their little pleasures; and now he had banned their annual carnival that commemorated the crowning of Lornwater’s first King, Kcarran. Considering these festivities had taken place without fail annually for over a thousand years, Cobrora thought the people had taken the edict commendably well. But, as Ulran said, they intended having their carnival anyway!

  On either side, the flat rooftops of varying heights presented a colourful display of roof-gardens and tents.