‘He’s here,’ Redrick whispered. ‘I can smell him, Blackford. I can smell his stench from across the city, but how they survived the tanbak, I haven’t a clue.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Blackford replied, unwilling to say anything else, in case it might cost him his life.
‘He’s over there somewhere, on the wharf, probably watching us right now… okay, this is fucking odd: I can’t get a whiff-’ Redrick squinted as the sun crested the rooftops, blinding him. ‘Ah, no matter. He’ll show himself. It’s just a matter of time, and he’ll come. He has to.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Blackford repeated, ‘and in the meantime, sir, is there anything I can do?’
Redrick hesitated, as if considering his options, then said, ‘Yes, Captain Blackford, I would like the cargo in my cabin prepared for transfer right away. A river-runner will be coming alongside in a few moments. Make certain they lash themselves amidships. When they’re prepared, and the crane is secure, lash on to the crate; then find me. Do not move it without me, Blackford. I want to be ready to sail with the incoming tide. That gives both of us about half an aven. Understand?’
‘Yes, sir.’ The weary officer shook with equal parts fear and cold and exhaustion.
‘Until then, I’m going to do a bit of hunting.’ Redrick paused to shout orders to the men preparing the block-and-tackle to transfer the spell table for its journey upriver. Blackford stood on the quarterdeck long enough to see Redrick meander down the gangplank. Then, literally quaking, he summoned what remained of his courage and hurried towards the main cabin. ‘I’ve got to find that stone,’ he whispered to the gods of the Northern Forest. ‘Please, please let it be in there.’
‘Which one is he?’ Brexan asked, sipping a welcome mug of hot tecan.
‘It’s impossible to say.’ Gilmour peered through the tavern windows. They had got lucky and found a cafe open early for the dock workers. ‘The whole pier is reverberating with Larion magic, and that means the table is still there, somewhere on that ship. But right now I can’t pinpoint Mark, other than to know for certain that he’s here, very close now.’
‘That’s not terribly comforting,’ Garec said. ‘What if he opens the table?’
‘He won’t.’ Gilmour seemed more confident now that he’d had a moment to think. ‘He’ll be too afraid to open it until he knows exactly where Steven is – that’s Nerak’s fear, a Twinmoon later, and still echoing like a fart in a canyon.’
‘Nice.’ Brexan frowned.
‘But true,’ Gilmour said. ‘Mark didn’t know anything about magic, but Nerak did, and Nerak died terrified of Steven Taylor. Thank the gods the creature inhabiting Mark Jenkins had a taste of that insecurity, or we’d all be dead already.’
‘Why the fear?’
‘He knows we’re here, but he can’t find Steven,’ Gilmour explained. ‘If he can’t find Steven, he risks Steven crashing down on him the moment he opens the table.’
Captain Ford dipped a crust of bread into his goblet. ‘So what will he do?’
Gilmour shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Wait? Search?’
‘Bury the whole city under an avalanche of fire?’ Garec added.
‘Perhaps,’ Gilmour conceded, then dug about in his robes for a pipe.
‘Gods, I wish you could feel this,’ Alen said.
‘What’s that? Magic? No thanks.’ Hannah tore off a piece of warm bread and wrapped it about a sausage.
‘It’s everywhere.’ Alen appeared to have developed a nervous tic. He ignored his breakfast and checked the wharf. ‘It’s like Sandcliff used to be, energy all over the place; I can feel it on my skin like summer wind.’
‘Whose energy is it?’
‘I don’t know, but it’s enormous, more powerful than me or Fantus, or even Milla.’
‘Could it be another shipment of bark? That’s an awfully big ship. If even one of the holds was full, it might resonate-’
‘No,’ Alen interrupted, rubbing his arms against the chill. ‘This is like…’
‘Alen?’ Hannah spoke with her mouth full. ‘You all right?’
‘I wish I had contacted Fantus again.’
‘So what should we do?’
‘We should wait. It won’t be long.’
*
Redrick slipped behind the workers nailing wooden braces into the wharf. The block-and-tackle crane towered overhead as they lashed it to the braces and let out a length of heavy rope, then they hefted crude stone counterweights from a trolley, two men to each stone. They stacked them on each corner and checked the stability, tugging hard on the main line – then waved to the sailors waiting near the quarterdeck.
That’ll keep them for a while anyway, Redrick thought as he ducked between the harbourmaster’s office and a boarding house. At the frontage road, still out of sight, he sent a seeking spell through the waterfront, but it yielded nothing helpfuclass="underline" there was too much magic around, too many waves of noisy power emanating from the spell table and the keystone, from Fantus and Steven. They were here, nearby, but lost in the miasma, impossible to locate.
Perhaps a bit closer, Redrick thought, and slunk along the road, back towards the deep-water pier. He kept the seeking spell alive, searching the crowds, the side streets, the buildings.
Then Gilmour was there, stepping from a dockside tavern.
But no Steven.
‘They’re about finished securing that crane.’ Garec was sweating. ‘We should go.’
‘Another moment, please; have another drink.’ Gilmour didn’t look at him, but stared across the Bellan’s decks, watching and feeling for signs of Mark. It was a daunting task, locating anything in the mystical fog.
‘Why didn’t the table give off this kind of power when we found it in Meyers’ Vale?’ Garec asked. ‘I don’t remember you being this overwhelmed by it down there.’
‘Because this is more than the table,’ Gilmour said, ‘this is me, Mark, the table, and… someone else.’
‘Kantu?’ Brexan asked.
‘Maybe.’
‘Who else could it be?’ Garec swilled the last of his tecan.
Gilmour whispered, almost to himself, ‘That little girl, Milla.’
Before the others could respond, Gilmour was bustling towards the door. He tossed a few copper Mareks to the barman and forced a smile. ‘Lovely breakfast, my friend. What’s on for midday?’
‘Fish stew.’ The Malakasian was drying tankards with a cloth. He caught the Mareks and stashed them in his apron.
‘Shrimp, booacore and jemma?’
‘Of course. With potatoes, pepperweed and leeks.’
‘Nice and spicy; excellent,’ Gilmour said. ‘We’ll be back.’
The barman shrugged, unimpressed. ‘Whatever.’
The others hurried after him; Brexan cried, ‘Wait, Gilmour.’
‘Did that fellow just say booacore and jemma?’ Alen craned his head to see over the bar. ‘Delicious. I could do without the leeks, though. They always give me gas.’
Hannah stood. ‘I don’t know about booacore,’ she said, ‘but that woman just called that short guy “Gilmour”.’
‘What? Where?’ Alen leapt to his feet.
‘There, going out the alley door, that woman. She just called that little stout one “Gilmour”. I heard her from here.’
Alen moved towards the window. ‘No, it can’t be. He’s too…’
‘Young?’ Hannah laughed. ‘Call me crazy, but have you looked in a mirror recently? You look pretty good for a man three hundred years old.’
Alen was only half listening. He brushed his fingers over the goosebumps that had risen on his forearm.
‘What is it?’ Hannah asked. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.
‘You can’t feel it,’ he said, ‘but the air in here just changed, as if it was sucked out into the street.’
‘So what does that mean?’
He looked out of the window and peered down the alley. ‘It means you’re absolutely right: that’s my old friend, Fantus.’
Jacrys finished the wine, tilting the goblet far enough to catch the last drops on his tongue. He let it slip from his fingers and it shattered on the floor.
‘Rotten vintage,’ he wheezed, ‘but if that’s the last thing I taste, I suppose it’s better than nothing.’ He propped himself on a pillow and looked over the wharf. ‘Though it would have been nice to have one more Falkan-’