Shades Of Smoke

By Graham Buckby

A thousand years ‘After The Fall’ society on Nuome is trapped in a pre-industrial world; and, as he reaches adolescence, Cormell, the young son of a leather-worker, finds that he is uncommonly gifted with artistic talent; a gift which turns out to be something more than simple talent. He has been endowed with the Art to Illusion pictures in paint, clay, leather, water and smoke. He is taken half way across the world to The Hall Of The Art to refine his skills. It is worth noting that the weapons instructor there had advised him to depend on his art for protection, not his blade, and to avoid fighting anyone not on crutches. At the end of his training he returns home to find his parents dead, and works out how to use his Art to discover what had really happened to them. He embarks on a quest for revenge that is going to change his life in ways he could never have imagined, especially when the consequences of his vengeance lead him to cross paths with other magicians, with a slave dealer who has kidnapped his childhood sweetheart, with a most unusual brigand, and with a percussor desperately trying to hunt down a serial killer; and also to become involved in trying to help solve more than one mystery.
But Cormell is aware that some of his refinements to his Art are proscribed by the Guild of Illusionists – on pain of death! This, together with a yearning for adventure, lead him to undertake the longest and most dangerous trade road on Nuome... the Ryaduran Road, crossing 3000 ‘killoms’ of wilderness, desert and empty grassland... and to become involved in an even more complex series of mysteries on the way. And also, for the first time, to develop real feelings for a beautiful young girl who is travelling with them. But, of course, Cormell’s bread always falls buttered side down, so this girl is a Virgin Acolyte of the Ryaduran Priesthood, who cannot even reveal her name, and who Cormell knows must be the daughter of a Ryaduran noble family – as far beyond his reach as the moons above them. That must be the end of his first experience of love... well, at least, that seems to be the case...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Buckby
• Release date: Oct 30, 2013
• ISBN: 9780957407749

Graham Buckby

Hi. I’m Graham Buckby. I was born and raised in Leicester (England), went to university at York, got a history degree, and spent 34 years teaching history, mostly in the same comprehensive school on the east coast of Lincolnshire. I quit teaching when the mounting tide of government inspired, management enforced, documentation finally swamped my pleasure in actually teaching kids. I first met Alan Denham - my co-author - while doing my postgraduate teaching certificate. He had the room next to mine and regularly woke me by pounding on my door when my alarm clock had woken him... but not me! He introduced me to the local S.F. group. I started writing in the ‘80s (when usable home computers were invented). Alan joined in. Between us we developed our ‘Nuome’ world scene... but then work got in the way for a while... like 20 years! What am I like? Alan reckons I’m eccentric... but so’s he! I’ve been married - twice. I’ve got one wonderful daughter, still at college - studying theatrical make-up. I like real ale, real dogs and motorbikes... oh, and writing.

Book preview

After The Fall

Shades

Of

Smoke

by

Graham Buckby

&

Alan Denham

After The Fall - Shades of Smoke, by Graham Buckby and Alan Denham

Published by Graham Buckby and Alan Denham at Smashwords

Smashwords Edition.

Copyright © Graham Buckby and Alan Denham 2013.

The right of Graham Buckby and Alan Denham to be identified as the authors of this work has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Other titles by the same authors coming soon at Smashwords:

After The Fall – Shades Of Gold

After The Fall – Shades Of Magic

After The Fall – Clissa’s Lay

Ever fancied being a magician?

In a wild and dangerous world?

Your parents have been murdered,

your childhood sweetheart stolen

into slavery.

You are embroiled with brigands,

assassins, and a serial killer...

But you are a magician, remember?

You can conjure really good pictures

in smoke...

But nothing else!

Contents

Prologue

1. The Price Of Life

2. The Price Of Acclaim

3. The Price Of Freedom

4. The Price Of Blood

5. The Price Of A Smile

6. The Price Of Vengeance

Prelude

Part 1. The Price of Friendship

Part 2. The Price of Privacy

Part 3. The Price of Rank

Part 4. The Price of Unpopularity

Part 5. The Price of Help

Part 6. The Price of Magic

Part 7. The Price of Pride

Part 8. The Price of Love

Part 9. The Price of Ill-fortune

Part 10. The Price of Further Ill-fortune

Part 11. The Price of Fame

Part 12. The Price of Impatience

Part 13. The Price of Wrongdoing

Part 14. The Final Price of Love

Prologue

A millennium ago, during the Age Of Expansion, the huge starship ‘Good Hope’ had disgorged its cargo of colonisers onto a deceptively Earth-like planet, a process which those colonisers nicknamed ‘the Fall’.

The colonisers dutifully established settlements and bio-engineered embryonic Earth plants and animals to flourish in the alien environment of the planet which they called Newhome. From the surface of that far planet, they faithfully beamed signals of their success. There was no reply. So they watched the sky, and waited... and waited...

Within a very few years they began to split into factions; those who stubbornly clung to the rapidly failing technology which they had brought with them, and who still saw their prime task to be continued preparations for the arrival of the main colonisation fleet; and others who vehemently insisted that they must adapt themselves to this new life on Nuome.

Even in the first generation there were fanatics on both sides.

Within a few generations the descendants of those fanatics had turned principle into religion.

Yet, however hard they prayed, no more ships ever came.

Those first colonisers never even doubted that all the established laws of Earth science must hold true on this planet. Their empirically trained minds could never have grasped the significance of the subtle elemental differences which the planet was concealing, holding in store for their descendants...

Left to their own devices they resorted to all of the other traditional occupations of mankind...

And one or two that were perhaps new.....

The Price Of Life.

Cormell seemed to be a perfectly normal child. He was born in the perfectly normal town of Bridgeport. There were worse places to be born.

Bridgeport was a prosperous little market town huddled on the steep east bank of the upper reaches of the mighty River Nuarine. Other people might have called it the back of beyond, but locals would reply grinning that the back of beyond actually began the other side of the town’s wall. Bridgeport was where it was because the confluence of the White River - which was neither white nor properly a river - with the Nuarine created a natural harbour; and was called Bridgeport because it had one of each. Bridges were a rarity on Nuome, and the high stone arch over the deep rocky cleft carved by the White River was a curiosity which attracted visitors who passed the night there when travelling along the Nuarine on the Southport ferry; and it lured them up through the little town’s market place, and that made the local craftsmen smile a lot.

Another minor curiosity, to a student of natural philosophy who is interested in such things, was the big curving spit of sand which looped across the junction of the rivers, creating the harbour, and which the locals called ‘the beach’. That beach is important to our story because it was Cormell’s favourite childhood haunt.

Like little boys everywhere Cormell liked to play in sand. He built defences against the washes of boats, dug moats and pools, threw dams across a small stream that ran nearby, and built castles. But it was his models and pictures that he enjoyed the most. While he was still a child people could recognise in his sculpting the town’s bridge and the tower of the Riverlord’s castle, and observed how good they were.

If you had asked the teacher at the Artificers’ Guild school whether Cormell was artistic he would have looked blank, and commented that he had a neat hand, though his script tended to be rather florid and over intricate; and wryly added that perhaps he should have been born a Ryaduran. The teaching of art was no part of his remit, he taught the abstract sciences needed by his pupils for their crafts; reading, writing and sums.

However, Cormell’s father approved of Cormell’s artistic bent, for he was a leather worker, and artistically decorated leather work could fetch very good prices, especially from rich passing travellers, and especially if it was decorated with pictures of the famous bridge, so he encouraged his young son to spend his free time practising his talent on the beach.

When Cormell reached nine years his father gifted him with paper, inks and charcoal. Cormell was truly delighted with that gift, and was proud to the point of bursting when his father first displayed one of his pictures of the bridge in his workshop.

When those pictures began to sell for real copper coins both Cormell and his father were even prouder, and, by his eleventh birthday Cormell was on a commission to produce a new picture of the bridge every week for the local bookseller and printer. Pictures of the ferry entering the harbour - with the bridge in the background; and even of the market place - with the bridge in the background - also sold well. Moreover, some of those pictures were now beginning to sell for silver - not copper - coins.

But Cormell’s father did not intend to let him be lured into another craft, and, on his eleventh birthday presented him with a set of a set of small sharp knives and punches and showed him how to carve a simple picture into thick leather. Cormell quickly became rather good at it, and some of his leather work soon came to be displayed in the shop - and occasionally sold, for good prices; but, whenever he was able, he still spent time on the beach by the river.

He still enjoyed sitting alone on the beach, crafting castles and boats, and even faces out of the sand, humming happily to himself as he did so. It struck him that some tunes seemed somehow to blend with his sculpting, though he couldn’t have explained why it was so.

At times the candle maker’s little red-haired daughter, Ellisa, would follow him, and shyly sit beside him on the sand making her own shapeless mounds. Cormell didn’t mind that. It would be kindest to say that the Skygods had not been overgenerous to poor Ellisa when they portioned out beauty, but she was a friendly, good-natured girl and Cormell felt sorry for her. So he never drove her away like other children did, and always told her how very good her sculptings were. That made her eyes shine with pure delight... and that made Cormell choke with pleasure. Thus did Cormell learn that not all lies are evil, and that even a little compassion has its own rewards.

Cormell was aware that he was having an idyllic childhood, and, if his family weren’t exactly rich, they were comfortable, and at least his father wasn’t a tanner! Or a fisherman! Or even a candle maker like Ellisa’s father! At least worked leather smelt good. So Cormell actively enjoyed being who he was, where he was, and if the hot summer evenings on the beach had gone on for ever it would have been his idea of paradise. He knew in his heart that he would soon need to spend much more time in the workshop, and that a part of the idyll would thus be lost, but that was the price of life, and he accepted that. But he was not expecting what actually happened.

It began innocuously enough. He was twelve, nearing thirteen, when it happened. His father had sold a leather saddlebag decorated with one of his bridge pictures for a very good price, and, well pleased, had told Cormell to take the rest of the day off.

Cormell had wandered down to the beach and found some wonderfully workable wet sand at the water’s edge, and was humming happily to himself, moulding his father’s smiling face, trying to capture the way he had looked when the saddlebag was sold.

The ferry boat passed close, and the wake surged up from it, threatening to sweep across his picture and erase it. Something inside Cormell said ‘STOP’ and then ‘MOVE SLOWER’. The wave flowed over the face, but, instead of blurring the image or washing it completely away, it smoothed the roughness of the edges, and left the picture clean and glistening, like a fine carving, with a layer of water standing on it like varnish.

Cormell froze, studying its perfection. This was exactly what he had been trying to create! Every detail of his father’s face was perfect - without any of the usual roughness, the gritty bits, the odd mistakes - this was a perfection he had always sought but never before achieved.

He suddenly realised he was standing absolutely still and holding his breath, and he couldn’t do that much longer, he needed to breathe - and, as he did, the water on the picture flowed again, the sand crumbled, and the face lost its perfection.

Cormell did not understand what had just happened - what he had done - but he was sure he had done something, and wasn’t sure if it was right; and was rather scared in case it was something wrong. For some reason his head was aching, very painfully; and he felt tired, very tired. He left the river bank and wandered around the streets for a while, until the headache diminished to a dull throbbing and the tiredness gradually eased away, before finally heading home.

His mother was waiting for him impatiently, with a most peculiar expression on her face. Cormell had just about convinced himself to stop worrying, and now he started again. His mother pointed urgently into the living room behind the shop, and he went through. A man was in there, waiting, his father keeping him company, a stranger, a middle-aged man finely dressed in a dark blue gown. Cormell’s mother followed him in and curtsied, as if to a high-born nobleman. Cormell hurriedly bowed deeply, as mere craftsmen are wont to do.

For what seemed like an age the stranger considered the gangly lad with a shock of wavy brown hair standing uncomfortably before him. Finally he spoke.

‘I was on the ferry today,’ he said, ‘and I looked down at a lad playing in the sand, making pictures.’

He paused, and Cormell tried to work out what he had done wrong.

‘I saw him sculpt a face in the sand, and I saw a wave come over it to wash it away...’ the stranger continued ‘...and I saw the picture come through the wave, better than before.’

Cormell swallowed hard. Oh, pox, it was something wrong!

‘I knew I must speak to that lad - but by the time the ferry had moored and I had searched out a way down to the river bank, he had gone. So I wandered round the market square, trying to find the lad - and I was studying the artwork displayed in the workshop here, and the craftsman greeted me - and he was the man in that lad’s picture. You see, that picture of yours made quite an impression on me.’

He paused again, waiting for Cormell to speak - but Cormell had no idea what to say, so he kept silent.

‘Your father tells me you draw well with charcoal or ink?’ he prompted, and Cormell managed to nod.

‘And you carve pictures into leather?’

Cormell nodded again.

‘And shape them in sand?’

That was a statement, not a question, but Cormell’s confidence was growing. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he managed.

‘Do you sing to yourself while you are drawing?’

Cormell gaped at him in surprise. How had he known that?

‘He hums, always,’ his father interposed. He grimaced admonishingly at Cormell, his eyes sparkling with humour. ‘I can never recognise the tunes, but at least it’s always tuneful.’

The man inclined his head profoundly. ‘You wouldn’t recognise the tunes,’ he said, then shifted his attention to Cormell. ‘Have you cast pictures with ink, in the water?’ he asked

Cormell shook his head blankly.

‘Or in the smoke?’

What? He shook his head again.

‘Could you bring me a rush light, please?’ the man asked, and Cormell’s mother hurried to find one and light it.

The man watched it burning for a few seconds then blew it out. Smoke rose thickly from the reed. The man sang, very softly, and waved his hand towards it... and the smoke curled over and formed an arch... and became a perfect miniature image of the bridge which Cormell had drawn so many times.

Cormell’s eyes went wide.

‘Your turn,’ the man said.

* * *

The next few days were full of change. The man, a Master Illusionist named Wellan, spent much time in the workshop’s living room with Cormell. Cormell tried not to annoy him by humming as he worked, and the Illusionist admonished him for that.

‘That is a part of it,’ he said, ‘now hum as you like to do.’

Cormell found he could shape the smoke, but not well. He could do better with drops of coloured inks in water, but in both cases it was the third dimension that defeated him. Too many drawings and leather carvings, Wellan observed, caused him to naturally think in terms of flat pictures or low relief. Even so, he clearly had talent, not simply as an artist, but as an artist working in the realms of magic... in the Nuomist art of Illusionism.

He might as well have said that Cormell had two heads. The reaction from Cormell and his parents would have been no less shocked and fearful.

Perfection of tongue and thought was a gift of the Skygods, Wellan had continued explaining, a most uncommon gift. Such talent should not be suppressed, but deserved to be nurtured, to grow to its full potential. Cormell would become both respected and wealthy.

His parents agonised. They were Acceptantist by faith, and the Acceptantists didn’t really approve of such things; but the Acceptantists didn’t really approve of all sorts of things. At the town’s Centre Of Reception they stood before the replica of the True Shrine Of The Ellarti, and dutifully gazed upwards towards the window of observation, through which the Western Star - the Motherstar of the Skygods - would appear as dusk approached, while the priest prevaricated. Such arts were undoubtedly in some way the works of the Skygods, and thus perhaps in part virtuous, but mortal men should be extremely cautious about venturing beyond the simple... safe... things of everyday life, and pray to the Skygods for guidance...

‘He wouldn’t know a straight answer if it came up and bit him,’ Cormell’s father observed caustically as they left the Centre of Reception.

At length the decision was made. Cormell would be sent away with the Illusionist Wellan. He would travel far, into the Nuomist lands, to the very edge of the Western Ocean, to the Hall Of The Art at Aransport, to study and refine his art for at least seven years, maybe longer.

The prospect of leaving home terrified Cormell - and he ached with misery at the disappointment his father would suffer that he wasn’t going to follow his craft; but the thought of what he could learn to do was so intriguing! And, anyway, he had no choice. His parents were bursting with pride. Their son was to become an Illusionist, a master of images and conjurer of dreams; not a craftsman to bow and scrape before his customers, but a man to whom guildmaster and nobleman alike would show respect.

* * *

So, finally Cormell stood beside the Illusionist Wellan at the gangplank leading up to the ferry, self conscious in his best clothes, wearing a squeaky new leather tunic and boots lovingly crafted by his father. His mother was weeping some, and that hurt, for the tears were so close in his own eyes. He fought to stop his own lip trembling, for he was near thirteen years, almost a man, and men don’t cry.

His father proffered a purse to Wellan. ‘I will send more each year,’ he swore.

Wellan shook his head. ‘The Guild of Illusionists is scarce poor, and new talent is to be cherished and nurtured, not bartered for,’ he replied.

‘Yet he is my son, and I would do the right thing, the proper thing,’ his father insisted proudly.

Wellan hesitated, then took the bag of silver coins and weighed it dubiously in his hand. ‘Do not impoverish yourself. If you wish to send Cormell a small gift each year, as a token of your love, then pray do so. If you have no silver to spare, then do not worry, for he will scarce starve, I assure you.’

Then Cormell was waving goodbye, the slaves laboured at their oars, and the ferry crept out into the river, swinging south, past his beach. A single tiny figure was there, all alone, standing waving frantically beside a mound of sand.

‘I’ll make your pictures for you,’ little Ellisa cried.

Cormell choked, swallowed hard and waved to her. The ferry slid further and further away, till his parents were two specks on the distant quayside, Ellisa and the sandbar disappeared into his childhood memories, and finally the little town of Bridgeport was lost in a bend of the river. Then the dam burst, and Cormell wept, the tears coursing down his cheeks.

‘I know, lad,’ Wellan said softly. ‘We have all been there.’

Gradually the beauty and freshness of the scenery through which they were travelling began to distract Cormell from his misery, and the tears eventually dried and the ache receded a little. As the days passed, watching Wellan ply his art in noble hall and Town Guild Chambers captivated Cormell, and excited him, and day by day the ache receded further.

Watching Wellan take payment for his art captivated him even more. In a single night Wellan could earn far more than all the silver in his father’s purse! They slept in the best inns, and dined on the best food, and, as the killoms multiplied behind them, and the little town of Bridgeport slipped ever further away, the last of the aching faded from Cormell’s heart - at least, for most of the time.

* * *

The years flew past. Illusionism was a demanding art, and Cormell became engrossed in it. The headaches and the tiredness diminished. The leather jerkin, which his father had deliberately crafted a size too large, no longer fitted, and Cormell began to wonder how he had ever been that small. He should have sold it, as he had the boots, he knew that, but it was a last poignant reminder of his father, and of home. Each year a purse of silver arrived through the inter-guilds’ delivery service, and, to start with, Cormell was simply grateful for the treats and luxuries that silver would buy, but then the doubts began to nag at him. Could his father really afford this? But his new found art enthralled him, distracting him from his worries, and there was so much to learn!

To his surprise he had to learn how to identify and mix minerals and plant juices to make his own compounds for colouring smoke and water and clay, then to learn how to combine the compounds in the smoke, and blend them together to create every possible colour.

More surprising was that there were girls learning the art of Illusionism beside him. That made Cormell very uncomfortable, for he had been raised an Acceptantist, and the word ‘witch’ was on the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back. The mages instructing them accepted the girls, as did his fellow apprentices, especially the Nuomists amongst them, so he kept his mouth shut. His concern gradually diminished, though a ghost of his upbringing haunted his thoughts from time to time.

Even more surprising to Cormell was that he was required to learn how to defend himself with sword and dagger, and from a genuine Castle Rock swordmaster employed at great expense by the Guild of Illusionists!

‘Your robes will grant you some protection,’ the swordmaster scathingly warned the handful of nervous junior apprentices, ‘but you’re not Ryaduran priests, and you’ll be travelling alone with purses full of gold. Mind you, none of you’ll ever be any good at arms, you artist types never are.’ He rolled his eyes in despair. ‘Prayers might help.’

He was right on both counts, Cormell conceded ruefully.

And he actually met Ryaduran priests! Men who, accompanied by their pretty acolytes, had travelled across the entire world to ply their arts in the western lands, awesome in their black and white robes, the most vaunted of all magicians. These men often wintered in The Hall Of The Art. Their public discourses and parables upon philosophy were not to be missed, for their magical arts were equalled only by their rhetorical skills.

The fifth purse from Cormell’s father was smaller, and the doubts reappeared and began to gnaw. He inspected the Bridgeport town seal on the purse minutely, and was sure it was undamaged. A note inside promised more next year. The doubts grew. He used a large part of that silver to send a letter back home, thanking his father, telling him not to worry, and swearing that, once he was practising his art, he would repay every silver piece twofold.

Yet still he was absorbed in learning his art, and he knew he was learning well, exceptionally well. Even in the fourth year of his apprenticeship Master Illusionists began to take him with them to assist in their performances at noble banquets. Cormell listened and watched and learnt. More, by his fifth year, they were allowing him to conjure his own illusions before their illustrious audiences. And soon those illusions began to earn applause and occasionally some silver coins, even in Aransport, the home of Illusion.

The more Cormell learnt, the more there was to learn. He learnt how to conjure perfect three-dimensional coloured illusions from his imagination as well as from his memory, and also how to link illusions to the subject he was copying and so create perfect images, indistinguishable from the real object or person. He learnt how to mould clay and colours into busts linked to the subject, busts so lifelike that you expected them to blink or speak, busts for which a nobleman would pay richly in silver. He learnt how to capture air and hold the image trapped in it, frozen, creating a fragile occlusion behind which a man could hide... for a few moments. He learnt how to make illusions move, so that an illusion of a clumsy fellow apprentice tripped over and made his classmates laugh. On arrival, the mage teaching them would inspect the class of expectant senior apprentices closely, trying to discern which one was the illusion.

Hidden within that new skill were yet more surprises for Cormell. The first one was shocking enough.

‘None of what you do is magic,’ a teacher announced to his class of senior apprentices. ‘You have been gifted by the Skygods with perfection of tongue and thought, and this enables you to control a natural phenomenon called Elemental Consanguinity, a powerful but invisible force like gravity, or the wind.’

What? Cormell instinctively knew he was going to struggle to spell, or even pronounce that, let alone understand it; but teachers were usually right. Anyway, providing the magic worked, did it truly matter what caused it?

‘Here is the proof of that,’ the teacher announced, and produced a metal object, waving it around. ‘What is this?’

It was a firestock, an ancient symbolic weapon ritually worn by some Bakkomite Guild Warriors, but it wasn’t a very good one. Usually they were highly decorated, but this dogleg was the plainest metal, all smooth and squared - lacking any artistic merit. There weren’t even any carefully cast and painted iron flames coming out of the hole in the end.

The class were commanded to conjure simple smoke illusions of the firestock. They all did.

Then the firestock was placed in the centre of the table. ‘Now link your illusions to the object,’ the teacher ordered.

The apprentices smiled knowingly at each other. That was so easy now! One after another they attempted to chant the link, and one after another their illusions collapsed into smoke. The teacher let them keep trying, but no matter how hard they tried not one of them could create any link at all.

‘There is no link to this, for this is truly ancient, dating back to The Fall itself,’ the teacher finally explained. ‘It is starmetal, and no form of starmetal responds to Elemental Consanguinity, nor to any other art, so perhaps the Bakkomites have got this one thing right, perhaps all starmetal truly was brought here from the stars by the Skygods? But understand this, only materials native to our world respond to Elemental Consanguinity.’

So perhaps the teacher was right then? Perhaps all illusions truly were caused by a natural, invisible force called Elemental Consanguinity?

Cormell was not really sure that actually mattered at all... but he did take the trouble to learn to spell it... and he never forgot that lesson.

Then Cormell was taught how to make a linked illusion match the movements of the subject. His enquiring mind found a further possibility, and explored it. His illusion moved a little faster than the subject, beginning to move a fraction in advance of...

‘STOP!’

This teacher’s command was urgent, unequivocal, absolute.

‘I had expected it to be you who discovered this, Cormell,’ the teacher scolded him. ‘This is a facet of our art that is banned, proscribed; proscribed upon pain of death!’ He glowered darkly round the class. ‘All of you, pay closest heed! What Cormell did is to make the illusion prognosticate what the subject will do next. This is something none of you must ever do! You have reached the point where our art turns from light to darkness... from good to evil. Never, if you value your lives, err past that point!’ He glowered round them. ‘Believe me, the Guild will not hesitate to take out a contract of termination upon you with the Aransport Guild of Percussors, and their assassins will pursue you to the furthest ends of the world. There are no exceptions, no excuses, never!’

There was no doubt that his teacher’s advice had been both deadly serious and profoundly heartfelt, and Cormell took it seriously... yet, despite himself, he was also intrigued. If you could make the illusion move faster... why then you could foretell the future! Could you watch the start of a horse race, illusion the horses, speed them up and know which one would win? Could you start your illusion of the race before it actually began? Cormell grasped some of the dark consequences of that... But how did you move things that quickly?

That night, confident that he was truly alone in the small private chamber which he was afforded as a senior apprentice, and still feeling desperately guilty, Cormell conjured an illusion in smoke, an illusion of the old bell tower visible through the window. He linked the illusion to the tower... that much was easy now... and stared at the picture. The tower itself would never move... but, if you imagined... He concentrated, harder and harder. Nothing seemed to be happening, save that the colouring of the illusion was fading... Now it was brightening again... He gasped in shock. The illusion collapsed. Cormell stared at the place where it had been. The tower had suddenly glistened wet in the sharply angled morning light. He glanced out of the window at the cloudless blue evening sky. But it wasn’t raining! Not yet...

The next morning he wore his cloak.

* * *

The sixth year, his father’s purse did not arrive near the appointed time, the anniversary of his departure from Bridgeport. Cormell waited, a month, two months. The inter-guilds’ deliveries were dependable enough, but notoriously slow. They simply arrived - eventually. But with the passing of each new week the doubts he had suffered the previous year steadily grew and grew, and turned imperceptibly to fear. At length he went to Master Relger, the aged mage in charge of apprentices. The old man listened thoughtfully to his concerns.

‘Cormell, you are the most promising of our apprentices. Any of the public illusions you have created over the last two years could rank as an apprentice piece. You need only spend a year, or maybe two, on the obligatory Journeyman’s Travelling while you refine your art, then you can return to the Hall and ask to be graded Master; and, after some further experience in performing - and perfecting - your art, you would be welcome back into the Hall to teach and to research.’

Relger hesitated. ‘But your mind will never focus properly upon your art till you have satisfied yourself as to your parents’ well-being. Thus, at the next Guild Council I will propose that you be elevated to the rank of Journeyman. Even though you have not completed the full term of your apprenticeship there will be no objections in your case.’ He smiled slightly. ‘Perhaps you would like to journey home?’

* * *

The knowledge that he was set to return home calmed Cormell’s fears. Well before the winter solstice he would be back in Bridgeport for the first time in over six years. He knew he could accumulate enough silver on the journey home to repay every copper piece his father had ever sent him. He became engrossed in the ceremonies to elevate him to journeyman, and revelled in wearing an Illusionist’s blue robes for the first time. The day finally dawned, the first of several days which Cormell already knew would be fine, and, proudly wearing his new robes, he boarded the Aran ferry to begin his journey upstream, eastwards towards his home.

* * *

To begin with the journey aboard the big sailing ship which plied the lower reaches of the River Aran was swift. Cormell did not disembark to ply his art in the first ports which the ship visited. He wanted to put some distance between himself and the Hall Of The Art before he did so, and also to give himself time to steel his nerves for his first individual public performance as a journeyman. He knew that, although he had grown tall, he still looked very young, and that the beard which he was attempting to grow wasn’t helping much, however hard he tried to convince himself otherwise. The prospect of having to seek employment terrified him nearly as much as the idea of performing alone, but, for once the Skygods took pity on him.

A rich merchant travelling home aboard the ferry approached him. ‘I see you are a journeyman Illusionist, young sir. A banquet will be held upon my return. Perhaps you could be persuaded to break your journey to demonstrate your art for my guests... for a fitting remuneration?’

The remuneration agreed was only five silver pieces, but Cormell was only a journeyman, and it was still more than a craftsman could earn in a month. His performance was greeted by enthusiastic applause, and another five pieces, and, emboldened, he thereafter began to stop to ply his art in each town he passed. Before he had begun the overland trek from the Aran to Nuarinamere his purse was heavy, and he was becoming accustomed to ordering the best chambers for himself at every inn upon his way.

But, as he passed evenings in various village inns, a sense of guilt also began to nag at him. He was becoming wealthy by performing for the rich, but what of the ordinary people around him in the inn? Had they ever even seen Illusionism? One night, unbidden, he moved to the hearth in the main chamber of a rustic inn, cast his compounds into the fire, and gave an impromptu performance. The applause was even more tumultuous than he received in a banqueting hall, as were the heartfelt thanks of his audience. The peasants and village craftsmen presented him with coppers, not silver; but he knew that, in their own terms they were rewarding him far more handsomely than any nobleman had done. That was a profoundly heart warming feeling.

Copper in the villages, silver or gold in the larger towns. Before he was halfway home Cormell had bought a second purse, and was visiting goldsmiths to trade his new wealth into gold that was easier to carry and to conceal.

Eager though he was to get home, he did not take the fast oar-powered ferry down the Nuarine, he travelled on the slow, ungainly, market boats, stopping at every village on the way. And every village had its inn, where he could conjure illusions for the villagers in the smoke of the fire - and generally leave each village richer than when he arrived, even if only by a handful of coppers. Also he would recount tales of recent events from the distant places he had visited, and he would be regaled with the local news in turn.

One item in particular intrigued him. Towards the end of the summer the brooding castle of the fearsome Riverlord Jakyde had collapsed, supposedly because Jakyde had angered a passing magician. Cormell laughed raucously at the thought of the powerful and famous lord who exacted tolls on all travellers being so profoundly humiliated.

‘Aye, and I’ll wager he’s rushing to rebuild it afore it snows on him!’ a peasant laughed.

Cormell also began to do something else.

Foretelling the future might be strictly proscribed by the Guild, but if all the villagers wanted was to know the weather for the next day or three he hardly thought that counted - though doing anything more could clearly be dangerous. And farmers and fishermen would truly be grateful for that much foreknowledge. And why were the Mages at the Hall Of The Art so vehemently against foretelling? He knew it could be done, his tutors knew it could be done - but there had been no debate, no explanation - just an absolute prohibition, with threats of the direst penalties. He rankled at that. Surely a skill gifted by the Skygods should be used?

So, in a private place, he would select a suitable tree from the village, conjure his illusion, and watch night and day creep across it, revealing the patterns of the sun, the wind and the rain.

Each application of that skill made his command of it easier and more assured.

Cormell came at last to Bridgeport, feeling suddenly nervous and excited. The boat rounded a bend in the river, and there it was, the familiar cluster of houses clinging to the hillside, the bridge, the spit of sand. Fighting to control his excitement, he forced himself to carefully count the silver and gold in his purse - the one on his belt, not the one secreted in his bags - and realised that already, after only a few weeks, he could repay his father thrice what he had received, and still have more than he knew how to spend.

The ferry crawled so slowly past the empty sand bar - which seemed to have shrunk somewhat - and docked in the harbour. Then Cormell was climbing eagerly up the main street, thinking how small and... well, poor... it all looked. He was aware of the usual glances and whispers as his robes were noticed, but he was disappointed that he recognised no-one; and no-one seemed to recognise him. Still, he had been away over six years. And there was the beard. He reached the turning by the bridge and stepped out into the market place, bracing himself for the first sight of his father’s little leatherworking shop, turned the corner and there it...

Wasn’t!

Cormell stood frozen, staring in stunned disbelief. Where the workshop had been was an empty, blackened space. Behind the gaunt remains of the door frame were piles of rubble and a few jumbled, charred timbers. There had been a fire!

He stood, shocked, bewildered, the panic growing in him. What had happened? Where were his parents?

An attractive young red-haired girl carrying a sack of grain came along the street. Cormell hurried to stop her.

‘Excuse me, could you tell me what...’

Her eyes widened and she shrieked: ‘Cormell! Is that really you? You’re back! Mum! Dad!’

Cormell looked at her, then looked again... then he gaped.

‘E... Ellisa?’ he stuttered incredulously.

It couldn’t be her! Ellisa had been ugly and clumsy, and this girl was a beauty. Now she was blushing to match her hair as well as jumping with delight.

‘You’ve changed,’ Cormell stammered... eloquently.

Ellisa beamed at him. ‘Dad says I’m a hatchling who’s grown her proper plumage.’

The candlemaker Levrin and his wife Geela came out from their workshop, and, after a moment’s surprise, greeted him like an old friend - which he supposed he was. Geela gushed over him, admiring his robes, expressing wonderment that the lad they had known six years ago had come back as such a grand young man, then insisted on dragged him into their workshop shop to ply him with cordial and cake, barely allowing him to get a word in.

Eventually Levrin - solid, reliable Levrin - took control and led him through to the back room, his expression grim.

‘I’m sorry, Cormell. I fear the news is as bad as it can get,’ he began. ‘It was only a month past, just as dusk was falling. The fire was fierce and took hold before anyone could do anything. I’m afraid your parents both died in the fire.’ He waited a few seconds for that to sink in, Geela and Ellisa standing silently behind him.

Cormell shook. He couldn’t help himself.

‘I don’t suppose your father told you how ill your mother was?’ Levrin continued quietly. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted to trouble you, not when there was naught you could do about it.’

Cormell gaped. ‘My mother was ill?’

‘Aye, bedridden, all this year. Your father got the best physician, and best medicines...’ Levrin shrugged. ‘It wore him out, and I guess it distracted him that night. It must have been a candle fell on fresh bulbgrass oil.’

‘But my father knew how dangerous that was!’ Cormell protested. ‘You know that! He was always so careful till it dried into the leather!’

Levrin shrugged. ‘Careful or not, there was a fire. We think your father tried to rescue your mother from her bed upstairs, but the floor collapsed...’ He looked away. ‘There wasn’t much left. He died courageously, Cormell, know that.’

Cormell desperately tried to choke back the tears.

Ellisa stepped forwards and tentatively proffered a collection of scorched and blackened pieces of metal to Cormell.

‘I found these,’ she said, her voice choking with pity.

Cormell realised with shock that they were tools from his father’s workshop. He remembered most of them - how they fitted his hands, how they cut or crushed the leather. They were in a sorry state now, wooden handles burnt away, the iron fire-damaged, their temper lost, corroded by the time they had spent waiting in the ruins for Ellisa to discover them and gather them together.

‘They’re not so bad as they look,’ said Levrin.

The flood broke. Cormell wept.

* * *

As dusk fell Cormell bade farewell to the candlemaker and his family. He stood and stared at the rubble for a while. A month since? If he had rushed back here...? Guilt consumed him.

He took a room at an inn in the market place, overlooking the sad remains of his father’s workshop. He couldn’t sleep. Instead he sat in his chamber, rubbing at the staining on the remains of his father’s tools. Now the dam broke afresh and floods of silent tears fell on the blackened iron. Could he have got here in time? What the pox had happened?

The idea crept up on him then, in the depths of his despair and the darkness of the night. If he could move time forwards in an illusion...?

Other Illusionists must be able to move time forwards, otherwise it wouldn’t be proscribed, but, what about conjuring a vision of the past, of events which he hadn’t seen...? No-one had ever once mentioned that. Could it be done at all? He simply didn’t know - but he knew he had to find out.

All night his mind raged, and a plan of sorts formed.

The following dawn he ordered a fire in the hearth in his chamber, then returned to study the ruins. There was nothing he could recognise, except for the door frame. He reasoned that the town folk’s attempts to fight the fire would have begun there. He stared fixedly at the half burnt timber frame, committing every detail of it to his memory. Then he returned to the privacy of his chamber.

He cast the compounds in the burning fire.

Summoning an illusion and linking it to the door frame was simple... but what now? For hour after hour he conjured fresh illusions of the same door frame