Dragonlinks (10 page)

T
he ruins of Jelindel's family home were being cleared away by a navvy gang as she passed on the way to the local Temple of Verity. Most of the fire-blackened stone blocks from the walls were piled in a corner of the yard for re-use. There was a proclamation board on one of the stone gateposts.

Jelindel read the signpost with a stabbing sense of loss. A college for the Preceptor's trainee militia officers was to be erected where ten generations of her family had lived. It was so unjust, but she knew there was nothing she could do about it with anything less than the entire Hamarian army behind her. She fled the site, wiping away tears.

The Temple of Verity stood in parkland cropped by fluffy white sheep. It was more than just the central shrine, two hundred marble columns and nine urns with their eternal flames; it was a whole complex dedicated to
study. Scholars came from as far away as Unissera to study there, and even Jelindel had spent time in the place for interviews, tests and general study. Her father had been considering sending her to the Temple when she turned sixteen. Jelindel could hardly wait; she could think of nothing better than to become a Verital priestess.

Amid the nearby dormitories, kitchens, storehouses and stables was a large library, which was as much the soul of the complex as the temple was its heart.

Jelindel slowed her exhausting run to a walk as she reached the white archway that was the entrance to the grounds. She entered with a group of pilgrims who were speaking in some inland Skelt dialect.

The leader of the group spoke to one of the guards, who made a count of their heads. He frowned for a moment, obviously finding one head too many, shrugged, then decided that his counting was at fault and waved them all through. Jelindel slipped away to the library once the others were into the gardens and clear of the gates.

Just as a streetwise churl such as Zimak knew the lore of the port's gangs, alleys, taverns, beggar guilds and roofs, Jelindel knew the workings of temples and libraries. She walked through the main entrance of the Temple of Verity's library, seeming tired and thoughtful.

‘Brother Jaelin Halvet, pilgrim,' she said, reverting to a heavy accent. ‘I'm neophyte of Djolmer Brothers. My study is Observational Magic – Medical Applications. I know where is finding, Holy Mistress.'

She began to shamble on, one hand on her chin, the other behind her back. The battered writing kit at her belt was an extra, but not essential effect.

The priestess had been scratching with a quill on
reedbond paper. Now she peered closely at the newly arrived student.

‘You.' The word was soft but firm, modulated to be heard but not to disturb.

Jelindel turned, fighting against alarm.

‘Did you eat during your lunch break?' asked the priestess.

Jelindel's jaw worked, but she was at a loss for words.

‘Thought so. Catch.' Jelindel's hand went up and came down with a large square of butter shortbread. ‘Eat it now before you go in. I know your type, all study and no thought for eating.'

The afternoon passed quickly as Jelindel sat reading and scratching occasional notes. Life-force word spells were rarely encountered, and there were few references to them. Only master Adepts could cast them in safety, and remedial work was considered to be the province of even more senior master Adepts.

‘A damn lot of help that is to me,' Jelindel muttered. She glanced upwards and added, ‘Sorry, White Quell. Just thinking aloud.'

The lamps were being lit and the sun was shining almost horizontally through the west windows before she realised how late it had become. In the dwindling light, Jelindel stared hard at a text that suggested a master Adept's word spells could be drawn down to a threshold strength where they would collapse if the mage was compelled to fight great odds.

She sighed heavily. Mounting an attack on a mage with master Adept status was no easier for her than single-handedly holding off the lindraks who had slain her family.

The lampwatch priestess came closer, touching a flame to each lamp's wick and speaking a blessing to the new flames as she moved among the study tables.

‘Jelindel! Back from the dead!' she suddenly exclaimed.

Jelindel's head jerked up at once, and two dozen other readers turned to stare as the priestess described the holy circle in the air.

‘By your leave, Holy Mistress Semepel,' Jelindel said automatically, then darted away among the tables and out through the entrance.

A bell began ringing when Jelindel was already most of the way through the sweetly scented gardens. It was the thief-bell. Even though she had stolen nothing, she could not stop to explain and she dared not allow herself to be caught. Invisibility was her only shield from the lindraks.

Two guards were at the entrance to the grounds. One was closing the gates and the other stood square across the path with his pike-axe at the ready.

Jelindel ran straight at them.

‘Halt, by command of –'

Jelindel dodge-stepped perfectly, batted the wavering pike-axe aside with her left arm, came in close to the guard with a spin-step, then jumped and kicked him right in the face grille of his helmet. The shock sent him crashing back into the second guard. Jelindel was already through the gate and running for the tangle of streets as the guards scrambled to their feet.

Once safely clear and hidden in an alley she stopped to gasp for breath. Jelindel smacked her head with the flat of her palm. She had abandoned her writing kit and notes in the library.

‘Damn stupid panic, stupid damn panic!' she cursed, then glanced upwards and shrugged.

‘Your forgiveness, White Quell, but my writing kit is surely good payment for kicking one of your guards.'

Travelling slowly and cautiously, it took Jelindel nearly an hour to get back to the market area. To her there seemed to be temple guards, constables or lindraks at every corner, yet they all materialised into drunken costermongers or weary artisans finding their way home.

She returned to Bebia's stall for her good writing kit and the fighting knife that Zimak had presented to her on her birthday.

‘Jaelin!' Bebia said querulously. ‘Wherever have you been? There was a big group of pilgrims here, we've lost a chance to earn two argents due to your –'

Jelindel heard no more. She stuffed a hessian strap-bag with her few possessions and made straight for the purser's window, where she presented her carefully forged papers. She drew out all thirty-seven silver argents that she had saved during the six months past. Whether Zimak lived or died, she would have to flee. Still, she had the glimmer of an idea to save him.

The Boar and Bottle was quiet when she entered the taproom. She slumped down near a window and snapped her fingers for service. A nearby table showed a stain where Zimak had quenched his Skeltian arrowhead that very morning.

‘Master Jaelin, how could you be so weary from merely scribing?' asked the vintner's maid.

‘A cod pie and a limewater, Ellien. I – I've been at … knife practice with Zimak again.'

‘Again? Why soon ye'll be fit to take on the Temple guards barehanded.'

Jelindel cowered slightly at the words, then turned to look at the fire. She rubbed her hands, trying to calm herself. She needed time to
think
. How to make Thull speak so many words of blue essence that the bonds about Zimak would weaken and dissolve?

Thull had been checking the house of Fa'red. Perhaps he intended to burgle the place that very night.

A tin dish and mug clattered down on the table in front of her.

‘My thanks, Ellien. Here are five coppers and one for your dowry.'

‘My thanks to you, too, Master Jaelin.'

‘Ellien, a strange man from beyond the port is staying here. I wonder if you have seen him today. His name is Jabez Thull.'

‘Hie!' she exclaimed, and the rest of the taproom fell silent and turned to watch.

Jelindel avoided being the centre of attention by habit, and she froze in rising panic for a moment.

‘He – that is, Zimak did some messages for him, but he has not been paid yet,' Jelindel continued. ‘I – we have been looking for him.'

‘Well, look no further. The drunken goat is upstairs asleep, as is his oafish warrior friend Daretor. Why, when last he was drinking here he seized me and forced me to sit on his lap. He even ran his cold, clammy hand up my leg!'

‘No!'

‘Yes! Sit here and keep watch, Master Jaelin. We will make sure that Thull has a lively reception when next he descends the stairs.'

The maid minced off, and Jelindel toyed with names in her mind. Thull the mage. Fa'red the ex-mage. Mage. Someone Adept 9 or higher. The very word described a being held in fear and awe by common mortals. Once achieving this status, a mage was stuck with it for life. One could no more be an ex-mage than an ex-murderer.

An idea struck Jelindel so suddenly that she nearly choked on a mouthful of fish. Thull was spying on Fa'red and had exchanged menacing notes with him, so Thull was sure to be on bad terms with the man. The vintner's maid had given her the basis of quite a good plan.

Mages sometimes drank, but seldom became drunk. Perhaps Thull was feigning a stupor for the benefit of Fa'red's spies. Why? To lull Fa'red into a false sense of security, in preparation to rob him – probably of the enchanted mailshirt in the note. If he had to fight another mage, it would require a lot of life-force. Perhaps enough to free Zimak, if the theory in the book she had read was correct.

Forcing such a fight need not be hard, Jelindel decided. When Thull emerged from his room on the way to Fa'red's house, the combined wrath of the taproom's patrons might slow him down long enough for Jelindel to run and warn Fa'red.

Time passed, and Jelindel wondered how Zimak was. An ostler, barely able to walk, was ejected from the tavern. Moments later he staggered back in, babbling that he had seen a huge black bird land on the upstairs balcony carrying an artisan's holdall in its beak.

The vintner went upstairs, then came down again saying that there were only two drunks asleep in their room and ejected the ostler for a second time.

Another hour passed, and an armourer entered with two constables. Someone had torn the shutters from an upstairs window of his shop and stolen a set of valuable tools for making chainmail. Jelindel nearly fell off the bench with shock.

‘Can't hold yer limewater, eh lad?' remarked a nearby docker, but nobody else noticed.

The constables searched the bags of everyone in the taproom, and the vintner explained that the two men upstairs had not been outside since before the robbery. The constables left after a discreet drink.

Bebia entered, ordered a glass of sweet wine, and asked Jelindel if she would be at the stall the next day. Jelindel explained that she was waiting to see two men who were upstairs and could not give him an answer yet.

Ellien sauntered over to Jelindel during a lull in orders.

‘You know, Jaelin, you're going to be quite a man in a fiveyear,' she said, sitting on the edge of the table and folding her arms.

Most unlikely, thought Jelindel, but she said simply, ‘Thank you, Ellien.'

‘Just look at you, loyal to your friend, working hard, saving argents, able to read and write,
and
able to fight two-hand quarterblade and Siluvian kick-fist technique.'

‘I'm alone and a fugitive from my country,' Jelindel said with maudlin finality. ‘All that I do is to survive in a rough world.'

‘Tch! You're brave, generous, even handsome in a sweet, frail sort of way. Not like that weasel Thull and his young bear of a bodyguard.'

Jelindel was just deciding that she had a bad feeling
about where all this was leading when Ellien slipped down from the table and onto her lap. She wrapped both arms around Jelindel's neck before planting a lingering kiss on her forehead.

There was a deafening cheer from everyone in the taproom. Ellien sighed as she pulled back, shaking her head. ‘In a few years time I'll have to stand in a long queue of girls to kiss Jaelin, but tonight I am first. Hey there, all you other churls. Learn manners, learn to charm, then your only problem with girls will be having too many of them fawning upon you. Watch Jaelin and learn how to be a real man.'

Ellien turned back to face Jelindel. ‘I don't mean to embarrass you, Jaelin, but girls sometimes need the touch of a true gentleman to sponge away the chill of a lecher's grasp. Thank you, most kindly.'

White Quell is still punishing me for kicking his temple guard, thought Jelindel, her face burning with embarrassment.

Ellien stood up, stroking Jelindel's hair. ‘Jaelin, Jaelin, I'll pray to White Quell that you develop a taste for older girls,' she crooned as she walked to the centre of the taproom. With her hands on her hips she then shouted, ‘Well, what are your orders?'

Once the taproom had returned to something like normal again, Bebia elbowed Jelindel in the ribs.

‘Whatever you do, don't tell me that I've got quite a way with girls,' muttered Jelindel.

‘Well yes, but still, you have. Ah, er, I hated to interrupt you two, so I didn't, but about those two men you were waiting for.'

‘What about them?'

‘Well, while you were being, ah, embraced, two men came down the stairs and went outside. One big fellow and one thin, hawky type. I must have been the only one in here who noticed –'

Jelindel gasped. ‘But the vintner said that only two men were up there!' she exclaimed. ‘That means – how long ago did they leave?'

‘An hour's tenth, or less.'

Jelindel dashed out and pounded down the cobblestones for a distance, then twisted her ankle and went sprawling. She limped on, far slower now and silently cursing her own frantic haste.

The eastern sky was loaded with the moonlit clouds of impending monsoons, and the air was stifling with humidity. Although she was fitter now than at any time in her life, Jelindel still gulped the warm air with increasing effort the further she ran.