There was another explosion, a crushing blast, this time from the Bellan herself.
‘Whoring mothers!’ Brexan shouted, ‘what now?’ She held fast to the captain’s arm as she watched the soldiers along the waterfront deploy. It was clear that no one knew what was happening. Officers and sergeants shouted orders, but were largely ignored. Men helped injured comrades to safety, several choosing to make their own escape at the same time.
Then, through the confusion, they noticed a strange little man with messy hair hurrying towards them. He was carrying a plump young man, an unconscious victim of the morning’s battle, over his shoulder, and was followed by a lithe woman with pale skin, high cheekbones and wispy hair.
‘That’s him, the rutter! And he’s got Gilmour,’ Garec shouted. ‘My bow, Captain, give me my bow!’
‘No,’ Brexan said, teetering as she stood, ‘wait!’
‘Stay right where you are!’ Garec cried, wrestling the bow from Captain Ford. He nocked an arrow and shouted again, ‘I said stop, right now!’
The stranger ignored the warnings and crossed the road to join them in the alley beside the tavern. Glaring at Garec, he said, ‘Put that away, you fool! Do you want to spend the rest of what will be a very short life in a Malakasian prison? What are you thinking? Didn’t Fantus teach you anything?’ He pushed past the startled bowman and rested Gilmour gingerly against the tavern wall. ‘And I would appreciate it if, next time, you check with me before trying to punch me full of holes. I was quite busy just then, I can assure you.’
Stunned, Garec looked to his friends for an answer, and when they shrugged, he wheeled on the presumptuous stranger. ‘Who the-’
Alen Jasper of Middle Fork.’ He prised open one of Gilmour’s eyelids and checked the pupil. ‘He knows me as Kantu.’
‘Kantu,’ Garec whispered, ‘then you’re-’
The woman kneeling beside Gilmour reached out a hand, just as Steven Taylor had done, all those Twinmoons ago, in the orchard outside Estrad. ‘Hannah Sorenson.’
Garec smiled and shook his head in disbelief. ‘Hannah Sorenson. I know someone who’s been looking for you.’
Gilmour gave a low moan and rocked his head from side to side. Alen, supporting his old colleague, said, ‘He’ll be all right in a moment. Hide that bloody bow and let’s get going.’
‘I’m Doren Ford, Captain Ford, and I suggest we get back to my ship.’
‘Yes,’ the strange little man – Alen – agreed. ‘For the moment that will be safer than our rooms.’
Hannah, who had been looking terrified a moment earlier, now all but beamed. ‘Where is he?’
‘On my ship,’ Ford answered, ‘which is where we all need to be if we’re to catch up with that table.’
Alen froze. ‘Well, that bloody explains it!’
‘What?’ Hannah asked.
‘The magic around here this morning. It’s the spell table, isn’t it?’
Garec nodded.
‘Where is it?’
‘They just finished loading it onto that ketch lying alongside the frigate.’
Hannah blanched, knitting her fingers together nervously. ‘We can’t let them get it to Welstar Palace, not with that army there, those things…’
‘What things?’ Garec asked, then interrupted himself. ‘Never mind, you can tell us along the way.’
‘Hoyt and Milla!’ Hannah said. ‘I’ll go get them.’
‘I’m Brexan Carderic. I’ll come with you.’ To Garec, she said, ‘Do you remember the way back to the Morning Star?’
‘We do,’ he said, ‘but-’
‘I’m fine,’ Brexan assured him. ‘I am, really. We’ll be along in a moment. When you get back, you’ll find plenty of healers in Nardic Street, near the marina where we moored. It was out of the way this morning, but you’ll be able to find someone there now.’
‘There’s no time for that,’ Alen said. ‘The Larion spell table should never have come within a Moon’s travel of Welstar Palace. The fact that it’s within shouting distance is a dreadful sign for all of us. As luck would have it, we already have a healer with us.’
Hannah frowned. ‘Alen…’
‘What? You said you can have him on his feet in a day, two at the most.’
She pushed a lock of hair behind her ear. ‘I can, but we need the far portals.’
‘We’ve got them,’ Garec said, ‘well, one anyway.’
‘Where’s the other?’ Hannah asked anxiously.
‘Your mother has it.’
‘My mother! How in all hells did she get into this?’
‘Ask Steven.’
Hannah’s brow furrowed. ‘I can see we’ve a lot of catching up to do, but this is fine, better even – she can help us.’
‘Good then,’ Garec said. ‘See you two on the ship, and be careful; don’t stop until you reach the inn, and then don’t stop until you get back to the marina.’ He helped Alen get Gilmour shakily to his feet, then led them away from the devastation.
‘The only time Steven ever quiets down about you is when he’s busy defending the lot of us from some demon or a mad sorcerer with a case of constipation,’ Brexan said cheerfully as the two women made their way carefully through the disordered crowds.
‘Steven?’ Hannah repeated, ‘my Steven? Defending the lot of you? I truly don’t understand!’
‘We do have a lot to talk about,’ Brexan said, ‘and actually, I think I’ll let him tell you about it.’
‘And Mark? Is he here as well?’
Brexan started to nod, then shook her head. ‘Yes- No, well, not right now.’ She watched the soldiers slowly bringing order back to the wharf. ‘Um, you should discuss this with Steven.’
Hannah, not appreciating being put off for no apparent reason, pressed for a proper answer. ‘What? Mark’s either here or he isn’t. I don’t – holy shit, look at this guy!’
An injured man, blood pouring down his chest, staggering wildly, appeared behind them, using the tavern wall for support. His head was hanging down, his chin dripped blood, and his obviously expensive tunic front was soaked in crimson nearly to his belt.
Hannah took him round the waist and started, ‘Sir, you need to sit down. We can find someone to help you, but please, you’ve got to sit down.’
Jacrys waited until Hannah had ushered him within arm’s reach of Brexan Carderic, then he whispered, ‘Thank you.’
To Brexan, Hannah said, ‘Help me get him against the wall. We’ll set him down gently-’
Emboldened by the knowledge that he was about to die anyway, Jacrys found a vast reservoir of strength and quickness. Shoving Hannah aside with his left arm, he drew Thadrake’s knife with his right and, screaming a throaty, gurgling cry, slashed wildly at Brexan.
‘No!’ Hannah shouted, falling back. She landed hard on her shoulder and struck her head on the cobblestones. The waterfront and pier flickered white to black, like a camera shutter opening for an instant.
Her eyes rolled back, and a nauseous feeling took hold of her all at once. She wrestled with consciousness, knowing that she needed to get to her feet, but she couldn’t get up, not yet, not even to help Brexan.
Thankfully, Thadrake’s knife had been dulled by a Moon’s use as a cooking tool; the gansel meat, jemma and cheese had taken enough of the edge off that the blade tore through her cloak and tunic, but did little more than scratch her chest. She shouted and stumbled backwards, reeling, more a reflex than anything, and suddenly realised who her attacker was.
‘You,’ she growled at the pale-skinned, gangly stranger with the bloody vestments, ‘not you, not again!’
Unable to take another step, Jacrys wheezed in his dying breath through gritted teeth. He slumped against the tavern wall, hatred alone holding him upright. ‘Come to me, my dear. I’ve been dreaming of this,’ he whispered.
‘That’s fine with me,’ Brexan said.
The Malakasian lunged at her, tried to stab her again, but Brexan batted Jacrys’ hand away and watched the blade skitter across the cobblestones. She took Jacrys’ chin in one hand and wrenched it upwards – she wanted him looking her in the eye – and leaned in close, as if to kiss him goodbye.