After The Fall: Shades Of Gold

By Graham Buckby

Long ago, the crew of the foundation ship ‘Good Hope’ was sent to establish base colonies on a distant planet in preparation for an expected fleet of colony ships. Most of the colonists and their equipment were dropped to the planet’s surface in cheap and simple ‘one-shot’ craft, in an operation nicknamed ‘The Fall’.
Those first colonists never expected to be deprived of all technology for a millennium - nor did they doubt that all the established laws of Earth science would hold true on Nuome. Their scientifically trained minds could never have grasped the significance of the subtle differences which the planet was concealing, holding in store for their descendants....
Some might possibly have called the results ‘magic’.
But they wouldn’t have called it heresy.

A thousand years ‘After The Fall’, Adrell, a young warrior and thief, assembles an unlikely gang in an attempt to steal a shipment of gold being transported through Singlehill. His gang includes Dorrak, an intellectually challenged strongman; Vordan, a wandering assassin plagued by a conscience; ‘Thales’ an unconfident and inexperienced journeyman Thaumaturge - a ‘magician’ who is determined that his art is really science; and Attria, an orphaned printer’s daughter and childhood friend of Adrell’s.
The story of their adventures is told through the eyes of the feisty young Attria, who records them as a series of six chronicles. Attria is an intelligent but naive girl who describes the world, their journey through it and the events that befall them in her own particular style, combining a mixture of curiosity, wonder, wit, pathos and horror. Something of the nature of society and the so called ‘magic’ of Nuome is gradually revealed as she does so. At the same time Attria begins to be troubled by the first clues that all in their company is not as it appears to be.
Their inept and bungled attempt to steal the gold leads the gang into a series of increasingly dark and bizarre adventures in which they are chased across the length of the inhabited world, while desperately attempting to dispose of the ‘tainted’ gold, (which due to a thaumaturgical accident now smells very much like a particular girl’s urine), on the way. They attempt to rescue a kidnapped goldsmith’s daughter, to operate a ‘sting’ upon the fearsome Riverlord Jakyde, to rescue a merchant from an unjust assassins’ contract, and to recover some stolen coin dies from a gang of river pirates in a haunted cave. Finally, at the city of Firstfall, they embark upon the ultimate crime - and suffer the ultimate consequences. The first book ends with a surprising - and horrific - twist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Graham Buckby
• Release date: Oct 31, 2013
• ISBN: 9780957407756

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

Gold

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

ISBN 978-0-9574077-5-6

Contents

Prologue - The Fall

Prelude 1: The Prophesy.

The First Chronicle: The Scent Of Gold.

The Second Chronicle: An Acolyte of Ryadur.

The Third Chronicle: The Riverlord of Delarke.

The Fourth Chronicle: Speech of the Waters.

The Fifth Chronicle: The Treasure Of The Shyara Mantra.

The Sixth Chronicle: The Oracle Of Colldex

PROLOGUE - The Fall

The Starship ‘Good Hope’ was the largest and last of the colony foundation ships to leave Earth. Built in orbit, she was the size of a small moon, and carried a crew of ten thousand hand-picked colonisers travelling in suspended animation. She brushed the speed of light as she hurtled in pursuit of an earlier robo-probe, heading for a distant star with a solar system containing a planet which came within the probe’s definition of ‘Earth-compatible’.

The task of the crew of the ‘Good Hope’ was to establish base colonies in preparation for the expected fleet of colony ships. They would build settlements, establish industries, rear domesticated Earth animals from frozen genetic material in biological engineering labs, and modify different types of crop to enable them to grow in the alien soil.

The Good Hope’s own probes confirmed that the planet’s atmosphere was indeed breathable, and that the climate and flora were Earth-like; but, like the original robo-probe, their instruments failed to detect the lack of any native fuel sources more power efficient than wood, and didn’t register the strange vagarities in the planet’s powerful geomagnetic field.

Most of the colonists and their equipment were dropped to the planet’s surface in cheap and simple ‘one-shot’ craft, in an operation nicknamed ‘The Fall’.

Back on Earth, scientists tracked the ‘Good Hope’s automatic signals as she sped away. Years passed. The signals suddenly faded and were lost in the distant background of star noise. No further signals were ever received, and the ‘Good Hope’ entered the annals of space history as the greatest ever space disaster, 10,000 souls ‘lost in space’.

From the surface of the far planet which they called Newhome, the colonisers faithfully beamed their signals, watched the sky, and waited... and waited....

Within a very few years they began to split into factions; those who 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 colonisation fleet; and others who 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.

Those first colonisers couldn’t have foreseen how society would progress - or regress - when deprived of power - and thus of technology - for a millennium. They never even doubted that all the established laws of Earth science held true on Nuome. Their empirically trained minds could never have grasped the significance of the subtle elemental differences which the planet was still concealing, holding in store for their descendants....

They might possibly have called the results ‘magic’.

But they wouldn’t have called it heresy.

Prelude 1: The Prophesy.

‘Never?’

There was a crashing silence in the crowded chamber.

The magician swallowed hard and glanced nervously up at the glowering face of Lord Galdrid, Protector of Singlehill, Keeper of The Gates, Guardian of The Waters, Lord of The Sands, and sundry other titles. The young lord was plainly furious with his answer, so the magician hurriedly looked away, returning his attention to his portable brazier, adding powders that produced impressive explosions of red, blue and yellow smoke. The magician muttering his enchantments determinedly and concentrated his gaze on the strange patterns and colours that formed where the three smokes mingled.

The volumous Great Hall of Singlehill Castle was wreathed in silence... and also in a growing haze of brownish smoke which was gradually filling the chamber from the ceiling downwards.

The magician glanced upwards, partly pleading for the Skygods to deliver him from his rather rash promise to foretell the future of Lord Galdrid, and partly wondering whether, if his compounds stained the gilded stonework of the ceiling, he might be required to scrub it clean - probably from the end of a short rope. Then he refocused on the brazier, staring at the shifting interface of smoke. He chanted determinedly. There was the great hall of the castle, the figures moving about, a magician hunched over his brazier, the lord tense in his throne. The picture was moving in real time, linked to the actual scene around him. He did the unforgivable thing. The picture flickered, dark - light, faster then the beating of his heart. He kept his eyes focused on the high table in the picture. Always Galdrid sat there... alone. Absently he shook his head, allowing the picture to dissolve into smoke, then quietly responded to Galdrid’s question.

‘My lord, the Skygods reaffirm their answer, they show me that no children will be born...’

Damn them! Not unless you keep them in the dungeon. He hurriedly shifted his thoughts. Thinking of dungeons was not a good idea.

Galdrid scowled and clenched his hands round the ornate arms of his throne till his knuckles showed white. ‘Cannot the future be altered?’

Of course not! the magician didn’t say. He prevaricated.

‘My lord, time is like a river, it flows from its source in the past until it reaches the endless sea of the future...’ Not an apt simile for Singlehill, he realised. Here the waters of the eternal springs simply sink without trace into the desert sands. ‘To view the surface of the sea is my art, my lord, not to distinguish which portion of it flowed from what river.’

‘Cannot a river be channelled, even dammed?’ demanded Galdrid.

‘Indeed my lord, but however its course may be altered...’ Which is precisely why I am not supposed to do this! ‘...the water still flows from its source to the sea.’

Galdrid fumed... impotently, the magician noted.

An apt word in his case. I should have lied, damn it, but tis too late now. This is why foretelling the future is proscribed by the Guild... he swallowed hard ...upon pain of death; but he did offer me a spectacular sum of gold, and how was I to know that he is about as fertile as his poxy desert? Damn it!

‘If there is no heir, then what will become of Singlehill? Tell me that, magician!’

The magician could guess most of the answer - factional strife, noble cliques vying for power, intrigue, assassination, rioting, mayhem... the usual things. However, he dutifully cast the powders into the brazier and called upon the Skygods again.

The Skygods decided to be unhelpful. The smoke refused to form however frantically the magician chanted. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and tried again with the same result. The magician knew exactly what that meant. Somebody was playing with the future - and he had a nasty suspicion that he knew exactly who that was.

At this point most practitioners of the magical arts would have been tempted to give up and guess - or lie. This magician was more pragmatic and less inventive than most.

‘There is no future, my lord.’

‘What? Are you telling me that Singlehill will fall?’ Galdrid exploded.

‘Oh, no, my lord,’ the magician hastened to explain, ‘tis simply that no single future is yet assured.’

‘But you said...’

‘Oh, indeed, my lord,’ the magician hurriedly corrected himself, ‘the future as a whole is indeed fixed, yet details of it may depend upon events which may or may not happen, by accident, or chance...’ ...or by meddling with it like this! ‘Several streams may form, but which stream will become the source of the river and direct its route to the sea is not always apparent, and may not be foreordained.’

‘Then tell me what possible futures exist.’

That had been a command, the magician realised, of the type that summoned images of necks and axes if refused.

He worked determinedly on the smoke, chanting furiously, his intonation and metre now subtly changed, conjuring an image, an illusion, at the interface of the smokes. There was the white cone of Singlehill set in a sea of sand. Without breaking his chant, he breathed a mental sigh of relief that it was still there, and concentrated on tightening the image until it was focused on the castle set on the pinnacle of the cone, then again, until it focused on the highest tower of the castle, and on the blazon flying from it. Then the tower began to flicker, faster and faster, day - night, day - night.

Now the blazon also began flickering annoyingly with a plethora of alternative devices which included most of the major noble houses... But what was that? The magician tensed, staring hard, and his eyes widened. Yes, there amongst all of the other alternative blazons was Galdrid’s White Dove, and the more the magician stared at it the more often it flickered into existence.

But that is impossible, the magician mused, Galdrid will have no heirs...

He faltered in mid cogitation, recognising that a non-sequitur had sneaked in from somewhere. He cursed under his breath and produced more smoke to hide his flush of embarrassment.

Damn me, he said children... not heirs! So where the pox can this heir have come from? He certainly never sat at the high table with Galdrid...

He shifted the image back to the high table, moved it forwards till Galdrid disappeared, and tried to conjure an image of the heir... and failed. The figure was vague, shadowy, he could not even tell if it was a man or a woman; and, worse, as he tried to follow it backwards, it had an annoying habit of dying - or more accurately of being killed - in an impressive variety of inventive and unpleasant ways.

The magician abandoned his attempts to define the figure and concentrated on finding the path which kept it alive. It proved surprisingly complicated even to get the heir into the cradle alive... and then keeping it alive became steadily more and more complicated on a mathematical progression. What was worse, as the magician had feared, it all began here, now, in this room, with a disturbingly familiar figure hunched over a brazier. Each time that figure raised its head and opened its mouth the future changed, and whenever the figure didn’t speak the heir invariably died.

The magician nervously avoided looking at what happened to himself.

At length the magician paused in his work, exhausted, and gazed intently up at Galdrid through the thickening fog of smoke.

‘My lord, there is a chance of your line surviving.’

Galdrid stiffened.

The magician hurried on before Galdrid had a chance to speak and thereby kill the heir. ‘An heir, one heir, will be born, an heir who could rule Singlehill under your blazon, but that depends upon decisions which you must make now.’

‘What decisions?’

‘The first one is to clear the hall of people...’ the magician peered into the smoke again ‘...and to place a guard upon the door.’ He looked around Galdrid’s personal guard and checked with the smoke. ‘That man to be precise,’ he said, pointing.

Prelude 2: The Prisoner.

Light flickered in the gloom, flaring brighter as someone drew closer along the dark passage.

Heart thudding, the young prisoner blinked repeatedly and squinted to see, frightened of what this might portend.

The light stopped moving, hovering beyond the bars of the cell door, casting eerie shadows that flickered across the cell while keys rattled and the lock grated unwillingly open.

The prisoner pressed back against the angle of the rough stone walls, cowering in the furthest corner of the cell.

The door squealed open and a tall, cloaked and hooded figure entered the cell. The cloaked figure turned towards the door.

‘Guard, light the torch in the wall bracket...’ a pause while the command was obeyed ‘...now take the gaoler beyond the outer door and lock it. Let no-one pass. Wait for my call.’

Footsteps receded. A silence descended within the cell. At length satisfied, the cloaked figure turned back to face the prisoner.

The prisoner nervously peered into the darkness where the cowl of the hood hid the face of the visitor.

‘I have awaited this meeting for a long time,’ the hooded figure observed, his voice sounding bemused, ‘and I must have imagined how it would progress... oh, a thousand times. Yet, now I am here, I find myself at a loss as to what to say. I think that, except for one word, whatever else I may say will count for naught, that tis the act of this meeting itself that is critical.’

The prisoner felt thoroughly confused. How could anyone have foreseen this meeting and thought it through a thousand times? The arrest had happened only yesterday.

The visitor drew back the hood of his cloak.

The prisoner gaped in disbelief, then knelt hurriedly.

‘You recognise me then?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘You cannot imagine why I should deign to visit you, a common thief, can you... thief?’

‘No, my lord.’ The prisoner decided it was wisest not to protest that nothing had been stolen.

‘Yet this meeting was foretold before you were born.’

The prisoner stared incredulously at the lord. This made no sense at all!

‘You are familiar with a poem called ‘The Prophesy’?’

That had sounded more like a statement than a question, the prisoner decided, perplexed, but answered anyway.

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘This meeting is foretold in that poem: ‘When right be wrong, and arrant just’. You, who are undoubtedly arrant, are about to become just; and your imprisonment, which is undoubtedly right, I am about to declare wrongful.’ The lord shook his head in disbelief. ‘You are scarce what I expected, but the very future of this lordship depends upon you, and upon you alone. That probably does not arouse your ardour, thief, yet with one word I will ensure your total obedience to my commands, however strange they may seem.’

The lord paused and smiled drily. ‘You doubt me, thief? Then listen carefully.’

The lord bent forward, until his mouth was next to the prisoner’s ear. Very softly he whispered just one word - a name. The prisoner looked up sharply.

The lord straightened and stepped back. ‘That person is... special... to you?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ the prisoner retorted hotly.

‘Much of The Prophesy is writ about that person. Obey my commands precisely and that person shall live, and ultimately prosper more than you can ever imagine, as will you; disobey them but once, in even the slightest detail, and you will sentence that same person to a most terrible death.’ The lord paused. ‘What say you, thief?’

The prisoner rose in a rattle of chain and straightened, standing tall. ‘That I am yours to command, my lord.’

The First Chronicle

The Scent Of Gold.

The gold came into the city of Singlehill late in the afternoon. As is the way of such things, everyone knew of it beforehand, especially since, some hours earlier, a captain of warriors from the travelling company had galloped straight through the town to the castle. Thus there was scarce a window hole or length of wall without its proper allotment of avaricious eyes.

They came in across the endless sea of sand that surrounds Singlehill, along the Southern Trade Road, shimmering in the heat haze, a gaudy merchant caravan surrounded by their own guards and also escorted by a full troop of tough looking mercenary warriors whose Bakkomite guild standard is notoriously more functional than decorative. They might be carrying ritual Oldlore firestocks at their hips, but their spears and swords were honed sharp and they were riding fearsome malhorns. No-one was going to attack that company upon the open road.

No-one in their right mind was going to attack them in the castle either. Everyone knew that the gold would be stored in the castle dungeons for security. True, the merchants would be feasting and drinking their fill with Lord Galdrid, and their guards would doubtless be scattered around the city’s brothels and alehouses; but, even if one discounted the daunting stone walls of the castle - and Lord Galdrid’s own guards - those Bakkomite guild warriors would not be swayed from their duty. They would be defending the gold as if their lives depended upon it which, indeed, they probably did.

The inner council of the Guild of Labourers - most often referred to as the Thieves’ Council - had met, debated the gold at great length, and, amidst much sad sighing and shaking of heads, concluded that any attempt to steal the gold by stealth or force was foredoomed, and would lead to massive retaliations anyway. Thus they forbade any such venture, declaring caustically that the desert brigands could throw away their lives attempting something stupid if they wished, but that the gold was proscribed while it was within the city walls.

I had watched the arrival of the caravan with a mixture of idle curiosity and envy, and then reluctantly returned to the tedium of my work. Though I did not yet know it, the arrival of that gold was about to change my life for ever, imprinting the events of that day upon my mind with a special clarity.

Who am I, you wonder? I am Attria, the orphaned daughter and only child of Pendarn the Printer. That means naught to you? Of course it does not, for I am but another face lost in the cheering crowd at some sport, or passing you by unnoted in the street as you go about your business. I am nobody. Or, at least, I was nobody... till that day.

I was not thinking about the gold at all when Adrell wandered into my uncle’s printshop, and was too preoccupied carefully inking penscript in my neatest hand to even notice his arrival.

‘Well, what business have you here?’

The sound of my uncle’s gruff voice startled me, and I glanced up, and smiled shy greeting at Adrell. He smiled back at me.

What could he see? I suppose that may be of some interest to you. He could see what I suppose is properly called a young woman, for I am in my twenty first year, though I am slight of build and not overly tall, so I am most commonly addressed as ‘girl’. I have the almond skin and jet black hair of one desert born, and eyes to match my hair. I have need of neither a sand veil nor paints to hide my face, for the Skygods have not been unkind to me. A leather thong tied back my hair into a waist length pony tail for working that day, and I was wearing a loose, well bleached, linen tunic and breeks under my leather printer’s apron. I scarce looked like a lady!

‘I wish to speak with Attria,’ Adrell informed my uncle calmly, wandering up to my desk and casually shifting some drying papers with his fingers.

Eeek! I hurriedly grabbed the papers before he could smudge them.

‘She has already wasted half of the day, and is busy with her work...’

‘Alone,’ Adrell added firmly, his other hand coming to rest casually upon the hilt of his long fighting dagger.

Some call Adrell a coward for quitting the Warriors’ Guild, but he is young and tall and strong - not to mention handsome - and my uncle knows his match, so he glowered some, but reluctantly retreated to the back room, muttering darkly under his breath.

‘You will make trouble for me,’ I scolded, trying to keep my face straight.

Adrell shrugged. ‘Tell me and I will solve it for you.’ He started to idly twiddle the ink pots as he studied my writing. ‘Your writing is even neater than I remember it.’

‘Don’t!’ I exclaimed, grabbing the ink pots before he could spill ink upon the parchment. ‘It should be, for I am acknowledged a craftswoman by the Artificers’ Guild now,’ I informed him rather proudly, for articled craftswomen are few and far between. I also peered up at him suspiciously. ‘What do you want, anyway?’

‘Er...’ He seemed to be having a lot of trouble working out how to begin, which was most unlike him. ‘You remember when we were children?’

‘Tis not so long since,’ I chided him.

In fact I remembered very well. Throughout my childhood, since my earliest memories, Adrell and I had been inseparable. Though he had been three years my senior, there had always been a special affinity between us, perhaps in part because we were both orphans. We must have made an odd couple, he twice my size and weight, like big brother and little sister, but he had protected me as one; and, when he had been in trouble, I would launch myself upon his assailants with the reckless ferocity of a terrier attacking a hunting hound. This had earned me the most unladylike nickname of ‘The Sandrat’ - all claws and teeth.

In this fashion we had gone everywhere together, and done everything together. But Adrell was always getting involved in some escapade - ‘adventurings’ he called them - and I had tended to follow him into them. In truth, I had never actually been reluctant to take part in any save the wildest of his childhood schemes, for a most unladylike taste for excitement is a particular failing of mine.

Thinking of that brought back a wave of vivid - and mostly fond - memories.

‘Well, I was wondering if you would be interested in a little... er... adventuring now?’ He coughed. ‘I know you are no longer a child, but this is no childish adventuring...’ He hesitated, frowning. ‘It could be rather dangerous,’ he added awkwardly.

Dangerous? At that point any sensible woman would have commanded him to leave. Not I. Instead I was intrigued, for an over-abundance of curiosity is another failing of mine.

‘Tis not scrumping from Galdrid’s fruit grove then,’ I reminded him, ‘nor defacing his blazon.’ I shuddered at the memory of the consequences of that particular ‘adventuring’. ‘So what is it?’ I asked doubtfully, my curiosity rising.

And why ask me? I didn’t add, for this was the first time he had invited me to take part in one of his adventurings since we had grown up.

Adrell and I had been forcibly torn apart when he had suddenly - and most unexpectedly - been selected to join the Warriors’ Guild in his sixteenth year. I suppose I had been infatuated with him then, for the world had seemed bleak and empty without him, and I had even cursed his good fortune with adolescent selfishness. I had known his apprenticeship would keep him apart from me for many years, yet only three years later he had left the guild amidst murmurings of cowardice. He had fled the city for near four years. Since his return he had spent the last year upon the fringes of the most notorious parts of the Labourers’ Guild, and involved in every type of dubious scheme; but, though we had passed each other in the street, and had smiled at each other and bade each other well, somehow a distance had grown between us, and it had been hard to find anything to say.

‘That must remain a secret for the moment,’ he apologised, ‘but there is the prospect of considerable financial reward, I can say that much. If you will meet me at The Three Crowns at dusk, I will explain it then.’

My heart fluttered. The Three Crowns is one of the more disreputable alehouses in one of the most disreputable quarters of the city.

‘Maybe,’ I said, trying to sound haughtily disinterested.

So why did I become involved in this? As I say, I do have this taste for excitement, and enough curiosity to kill several cats, and a loathing for spending all of my days copying interminable tedious tracts. I suppose, in truth, I also rather enjoy following where Adrell leads; even though he had once led me to a very uncomfortable and embarrassing session in the public stocks, and me at an age when most other girls were busy airing their self-conscious adolescent maturity.

Besides, when my father died, his printshop passed through the male line to his brother as is the custom, and I had naught to look forwards to, saving a lifetime of scrivening for him. I had always rebelled at that.

Perhaps there was also another reason why I joined this scheme, but the memory of it is so dark that I try to avoid even thinking upon it, let alone committing it to paper.

Anyway, suffice it to say that, as dusk fell, I found myself hesitating at the door of The Three Crowns, smoothing back my waist length cascade of raven hair and adjusting my cloak around me over my best linen tunic and breeks whilst I nerved myself to enter.

The Three Crowns is a haunt of those who owe fealty to no particular guild, so, as I expected, I found the long, dingy, smoke-filled chamber full of rough and disreputable characters. What I was not expecting was to find three such characters at Adrell’s table. I was piqued by that. I had thought this to be some adventure for just the two of us.

Adrell beckoned me to join them, then turned to his companions. ‘Allow me to introduce Attria, an old and trusted friend, and an essential part of our company.’

‘Not so much of the ‘old’,’ I muttered under my breath as I studied the others. Dorrak I recognised.

‘Good day, Attria,’ said Dorrak, beaming happily at me.

‘Good day, Dorrak,’ I responded glumly.

Dorrak was another childhood companion of Adrell’s, and was notoriously long on strength and short on imagination. The ‘adventurings’ which had included him were of the type which I had tended to decline as simply too harebrained, and which had frequently ended in disaster. Plainly he was included for his bull strength, and possibly because he had the loyalty of a herd-dog, and about the same measure of intelligence; but, to me, his inclusion in this scheme boded ill.

‘This is the Percussor Vordan.’

I smiled weakly at Vordan. Even if I had not known the meaning of his formal title, his long black cloak told me exactly what his craft was. Vordan was an assassin. His hook nose, cold deep-set eyes, and swarthy complexion fitted the part overwell, and he made me feel uncomfortable. I gulped and looked away. An assassin as well as Dorrak? That boded very ill indeed. Inside me something squirmed. The only reason I could think of for including an assassin in this scheme was that people were going to get killed; and that was not my idea of an ‘adventuring’ at all. It was time to find a half decent excuse and take my leave, I resolved.

‘This is Thales.’

Thales? I mused. I seemed to vaguely remember coming across that name in my work, as the name of some minor Oldlore god or spirit or suchlike. That is truly his name? I doubted it.

‘Thales’ was different, a rather pleasant looking young man. He had the pale skin and long blond hair of a southerner, very different to the deep desert bloom and raven hair of us Singlehill born. His garb was nondescript and gave me no clue to his craft, but he had more the look of a poet than a warrior.

He smiled shyly at me. ‘I am honoured to meet you, Attria.’

‘I can’t see what use a tart will be,’ Vordan stated coldly, addressing himself to Adrell.

‘Tart yourself!’ I snapped, reddening.

I felt my muscles automatically tensing ready to kick his shin, but controlled the urge, and clenched my fists hard. Kicking assassins is not a clever thing to do. Instead I turned sharply upon my heel. I was sure that I no longer liked the idea of this particular ‘adventuring’ anyway. Here was my perfect excuse to stalk off in righteous indignation... Eeek!

Adrell had grabbing my arm before I had chance to commence stalking.

‘Attria has two very useful attributes, and is essential to my plan,’ he replied. ‘And I don’t like you insulting her,’ he added coldly.

The two men glared at each other over their tankards.

‘What is the plan?’ blurted Dorrak hurriedly. ‘All you told me was that there would be lots of silver.’

Adrell broke the confrontation with Vordan. ‘Actually I was imprecise. What I meant was lots of gold.’

Eeek! And ouch!

Adrell had absently tugged me down onto the bench beside him. He is stronger than me... a lot stronger... pox him! I thought of complaining, or struggling, or some such; then decided it was less far embarrassing to give in with good grace... or at least a pretence of it. I could always do the stalking off thing... and kick him... later, I resolved. Besides, my ears had pricked up at the mention of gold. My poxy curiosity was telling the more sensible bits of me to tarry some more.

‘Gold? The gold?’ Vordan snorted derisively and drained his tankard. ‘Then you’ve wasted my time. The thieves here have vetoed any attempt. How can you hope to succeed where they dare not even try?’

Oh, good! That was the briefest of adventurings then, I mused, and made to rise. Ouch!

Adrell pulled me back down again. I did some more good grace. I was fast running out of it now.

‘Because I have something they don’t,’ replied Adrell evenly, ‘I have Thales.’

We all looked at Thales. He smiled uncertainly.

Adrell bent forwards. ‘Thales is a thaumaturge,’ he hissed quietly.

We all looked at Thales again. I had never met a practising magician before. Since before I was born, Lord Galdrid had proscribed them from practising their arts in Singlehill, shortly after one had left the castle with undue haste following some unfortunate incident, the details of which are still clouded in obscurity. Moreover, Thales was a Thaumaturge. I have laboriously copied tedious scripts from every religion and sect, and most of them still adhere to the Oldlore principles of the Bakkomites, even if they vilify their other beliefs.

Acceptantists, and even we Nuomers, treat much of Newlore Philosophy with caution... the bits we can understand. Thaumaturgy is Digressionist, and about as Newlore as you can get.

‘Actually, I am not properly a thaumaturge, not a... em... mage,’ Thales admitted, ‘and probably never shall be. I am a journeyman, and satisfied with that. The... er... rites involved in admittance to even the outer circles of the Mages’ Council are... em... decidedly hazardous.’

‘So, only a journeyman?’ muttered Vordan. ‘You think your... skills... sufficient for this venture?’

Thales shrugged. ‘I believe so. Adrell has explained his scheme to me, and I have all of the knowledge required, but knowledge and experience are separate things. However, if you want the gold, then I must suffice, for you will not get it without my special... er... talents. And you will find no other thaumaturge willing to embark on such a... em... venture, certainly not before tomorrow night.’

‘Tomorrow night?’ asked Dorrak, confused.

‘The merchants are sure to set their stalls in the market tomorrow, and to be on their way the next morning,’ explained Adrell. ‘We can do naught tonight, so tomorrow night is our only chance.’

‘Why are you here at all?’ queried Vordan silkily, peering at Thales.

I didn’t like Vordan’s tone. ‘Why are you here... assassin?’ I interjected.

Vordan glowered darkly at me, then toyed with his tankard in Adrell’s fashion, something I find very annoying.

‘We don’t like the term ‘assassin’, tart. We Percussors are an ancient and honourable profession...’

‘You kill people!’ I interrupted.

Vordan glared at me. ‘Sometimes. And sometimes we include annoying little tarts...’

Eeek!

‘...but mostly we enforce laws and so preserve the common peace. Some might not like our style of enforcement, but it’s better than casual murder, blood feuds, vendettas and war...’

‘So why are you here then?’ I persisted.

Vordan glared some more. ‘If you really must know, I had a... disagreement... with my guild, so I left Hasgarth. I found employment pursuing a thief,’ he grimaced, ‘our most common - but least financially rewarding - employ. I tracked him to here and reported him to the local Percussors’ Guild. They’ll deal with it from there on. Now I’m at a loose end, and require more funds to travel further.’

‘They’ll assassinate him?’ I blurted, horrified.

Vordan glowered at me... again. ‘The word is ‘terminate’. Why should they? He’ll probably be tried, his property seized, and if that doesn’t repay his theft, which it almost certainly won’t, he’ll be sold into slavery. His victims will eventually receive all or most of their silver back, and he certainly won’t be doing any more thieving, so they have an appropriate degree of vengeance.’ His scowl darkened. ‘That’s why we don’t like the term ‘assassin’, tart! It’s not what we are.’

Tis what everyone calls you...

He scowled at me. ‘But, as you raise it, what of you, tart?’

He knew how to make me bridle, and was doing it on purpose. Again I had to fight the urge to kick him, and that effectively shut me up while he continued.

‘Adrell’s here because he needs a new beginning. Dorrak’s here...’ a depreciating sneer ‘...because Adrell asked him. You and the magician are less obvious.’

In truth, I was there because Adrell had asked me, but I was never going to admit that now. Thales beat me to a reply. His face had reddened appreciably.

‘I am no poxy Oldlore magician!’ he protested loudly - then stopped himself and lowered his voice, remembering where he was. ‘My art is pure science and, in all parts, is philosophically validated,’ he hissed as he calmed himself. ‘I spent my apprenticeship watching my mentor debasing his arts to satisfy the whims of the rich, and making rich mine owners even richer,’ he explained. ‘It rankled. Even this is better than that.’

Now all of them were looking at me, and I was stuck for an answer.

‘Attria also wants an escape,’ said Adrell softly, ‘but a less obvious one than mine.’

He can be astonishingly perceptive - for a man - on occasion.

‘And we craftswomen don’t like the term ‘tart’, assassin,’ I added haughtily, determined to get in some sort of riposte.

Vordan looked daggers at me. I gulped. I was glad it was only a look. I decided it would be best not to call him ‘assassin’... not much more.

‘She is also vital to the plan,’ observed Thales. ‘I can get us inside the castle itself, and Adrell knows the way to the dungeons, but only she can get us past the curtain wall.’

‘How?’ asked Dorrak.

Yes, how? I wondered.

‘Your two attributes,’ Adrell answered me. ‘Firstly, you can write in any script, a pass to the castle, for example. Secondly, you look very like someone who has access to just such a pass, the Lady Sarrina.’

Adrell can also make me bridle. ‘I look naught like that raddled whore!’ I exclaimed indignantly. ‘She has breasts like milk-ripe udders.’

‘You have big... Ouch!’

I kicked Dorrak on the shin, hard.

Well, I had to kick someone!

They were all watching me, waiting. I blushed deeply. ‘Never!’ I said firmly.

* * *

Still cursing myself, I waited for Adrell in the deeply shadowed street outside Sarrina’s chambers as dusk fell the next evening.

Adrell had explained it all at the alehouse. On occasion he found employ as escort to Sarrina upon her not infrequent visits to the castle. Thus, with me in disguise, the two of us could pass the gatehouse in the curtain wall.

Now I glanced nervously over my shoulder at the castle looming dark and menacing above the jumbled roofs of the tenements behind me. The sight of it perched high upon the steep upper layers of the rock pinnacle of Singlehill made me shiver. In pity’s name, what madness was I embarked upon? The curtain wall alone is dozens of paces in height, and much of it is solid rock. Thales was most adamant that his magic would be useless against that, but that he could gain us secret entry into the castle proper through the garderobes, a prospect which none of us viewed with any relish, for who will willingly climb up a sewer? His method was something he was very secretive about.

Adrell reappeared at the door surprisingly quickly, making me jump.

‘Come on!’ he hissed, beckoning.

I followed him. From the opulence of the outer chambers it was plain that being the Lord’s whore had some advantages. I was still puzzled. Adrell had been very quick, and there hadn’t been any noticeable noise.

‘What took you so short?’ I whispered.

‘She didn’t struggle much.’ He coughed. ‘Actually I think she got the wrong idea, and rather enjoyed it.’

Sarrina’s bedchamber can best be described as over-opulent; it was choked with hanging drapes of silk and satin, with a bed large enough for a small orgy. The whole place reeked of perfume. Sarrina was tied naked to the bed, spread-eagled and gagged. She was writhing about happily till I entered, then she looked puzzled, indignant and intrigued, in that order and in rapid succession.

‘Her dressing chamber is through there,’ said Adrell, pointing.

‘Don’t look,’ I warned him.

‘Muuum, mumm?’ complained Sarrina, thrashing around some more, her breasts flapping.

Sitting in the public stocks had been far less embarrassing than undressing myself into Sarrina’s most provocative attire. The silvered breast cups were excruciatingly cold and uncomfortable, and, what was worse, they fitted... embarrassingly well! Fully garbed I was hiding naught of any significance and displaying everything else. My arms and legs were veritably laden with bangles and bracelets, and there were horrible little silver bells everywhere. I jangled more than a troop of armoured cavalry. I looked at myself in her mirror, and blushed - all over. It took an awful lot of willpower to squirm my way back into the sleeping chamber.

‘Don’t say anything!’ I warned Adrell.

He didn’t. He just looked. I kicked him anyway.

‘Mumm, mummm!’ said Sarrina.

She looked very disappointed when we left.

* * *

We rejoined the others in a dark alleyway within the very shadow of the curtain wall. Thales and Dorrak were carrying heavy backpacks. Whatever people say, thaumaturgy requires masses of equipment. Dorrak was simply laden with everything we needed, or thought we might possibly need. Vordan was carrying naught obvious save for a dark lantern, but we all knew that under his cloak was an assortment of knives, darts, and other evil devices which should, by rights, have made him jangle more than I was doing.

All Adrell was carrying was Sarrina’s cloak, which he was carefully holding at a distance away from me. He was smirking some. I suppose it was a revenge for me kicking him.

All of them ogled me, eyes wide.

I blushed and writhed, desperately trying to cover myself with my hands. ‘Well?’ I snapped.

‘Passable,’ Vordan conceded grudgingly.

‘Very... em... convincing,’ Thales agreed.

‘They fit,’ observed Dorrak, staring at the breast cups. ‘Ouch!’ he yelped. ‘What was that for?’ he asked plaintively, hopping on one leg.

Ouch! I had stubbed my toe. Stupid poxy whore’s flimsy slippers! I seethed, trying not to hobble.

At last Adrell proffered the cloak.

I shoved my decent clothes down hard into Dorrak’s backpack and thankfully slid myself into Sarrina’s embroidered cloak for the remainder of our journey through the streets. I gagged. It reeked of perfume!

‘Keep your temper hot, tart,’ said Vordan. ‘Better you be lashing out in anger than petrified with fear.’

I glared at him. If he called me ‘tart’ again I was going to kick him, assassin or not.

His cold, cold, eyes burnt into me. ‘You feel no fear?’ he asked.

I tested my own emotions. In truth, I was far too embarrassed to worry about being frightened. I shook my head.

‘And you, Adrell? Some say you lack courage.’

Adrell returned his gaze evenly. ‘If courage is drawing your sword and scratching a line in the dirt to defend with your life, then I lack it. I see no purpose in losing my life for the sake of my ‘honour’.’ He snorted and made a derisive gesture. ‘But to risk my freedom for gold...?’

He held up his hand and peered cautiously around the corner, studying the dark loom of the castle above him, then carefully kindled his torch brand from Vordan’s dark lantern. Vordan grimaced, but asked no more questions.

‘Await our signal here,’ Adrell instructed the others, and beckoned me to follow him towards the gate.

Although Adrell was marching at my side, torch brand raised high, free hand clasped around the hilt of his dagger, scowling suspiciously at anyone who came close - the perfect picture of a lady’s escort - I did begin to feel fear as I strolled out into the middle of the street and headed openly for the outer gate. I was sure that I was jangling too much, and knew I wasn’t flaunting myself properly; and my mouth was growing dry, and my stomach was beginning to churn. At that moment I longed to be safely wrapped up in the warmth of my own bed, and cursed my own stupidity, and swore to the Skygods never to do anything like this again... if only they would protect me just this once.

‘They change the guard at dusk,’ Adrell whispered, ‘so the new man will not know whether a messenger has been sent for you or not.’

I glanced at him. He grinned encouragement at me. I am sure he was only making conversation to bolster my flagging courage.

‘Your letter of passage is excellent,’ he continued. ‘I could not tell it from the real thing.’

‘We do work for the castle sometimes. I know the style, the signatures and the seal.’

I could hear the tremor in my own voice. I had been thankful that Lord Galdrid is nominally Nuomist, and thus favours penscript. Formal Bakkomite dotscript is frustratingly time consuming, and would have been even more difficult to hide from my uncle.

‘You did the seal well.’

‘Thank you.’ I was particularly proud of that.

Then suddenly we were in the arch of the gatehouse, and the guard was moving out to intercept us. I squirmed in sudden dread. The only time I had ever been into that gatehouse was when Adrell and I had been captured after the wildest of his ‘adventurings’. I had spent a long, lonely night in the cold darkness of the holding cells beneath that same tower, frightened witless, before I was sentenced to spend the next day in the public stocks. I shuddered at the memory. I had no desire to visit those cells again... ever! So what the pox was I doing here now?

‘The Lady Sarrina, summoned to the castle,’ Adrell stated, stepping forward to offer the letter, and breaking my thoughts.

I hung back in the shadow to hide my face, and at the same time let Sarrina’s cloak fall open to reveal her... er... undress.

The guard took the parchment and shifted back to inspect it briefly in the light of the wall brazier. His eyes ran up my leg... but never got any further than my chest. ‘Pass on,’ he said.

‘Hold!’

Eeek! My heart stopped. Another figure stepped out of the gatehouse, armour glinting in the torchlight.

One of the Bakkomite guild warriors escorting the gold, I realised.

‘This is usual?’ he demanded, taking the paper and scrutinising it suspiciously.

‘Aye, the Lady Sarrina is a frequent visitor here, and Adrell is often her escort.’

The Bakkomite warrior studied Adrell and I dubiously in the dim light. ‘Then the woman can pass. The man waits for her here.’

If tis possible, my heart stopped a second time before it had recovered from the first shock. That would ruin everything! I thought frantically.

‘Then you can go to Lord Galdrid and explain why I do not attend upon him tonight,’ I shrilled, trying to imitate Sarrina’s piercing voice. ‘I shall not venture alone through your gang of ruffians. Come, Adrell!’

I sniffed loudly, stuck my nose in the air, turned upon my heel, and stalked off. I can do quite a good stalk, given half a chance. Adrell followed, bemused.

‘Wait!’ called the warrior.

I didn’t. There was a rapid clatter of armour behind us.

‘Your pardon, my lady. I meant you no insult. Pray take your escort with you.’

I beamed, but kept it inside me. Who will willingly annoy his host? I peered down my nose at the warrior, sniffed some more, and marched triumphantly back through the gateway with Adrell in tow.

Beyond the gatehouse the road zigzags steeply up the sheer face of the pinnacle, often climbing through dark tunnels carved from the living rock itself. My heart was still fluttering about in my mouth when Adrell came alongside me and awarded me an over-familiar pat upon my backside.

‘Brilliant, Attria, brilliant!’ he hissed gleefully.

Actually I was rather proud of my performance.

Adrell doused the torch before we came in sight of the main entrance to the castle proper, and led me through a dark, narrow, side passage out onto the wall walk.

I had never been this far into the castle before, and peered about me with nervous curiosity. Everything was lit vague and eerie shades of blue by the light of the moons. The parapet of the curtain wall was no more than a score of paces distant from the sheer face of the Castle, which towered high above us, moulded to the jagged contours of the rock pinnacle. It was awesome, and rather daunting - especially to a girl embarked upon such outright thievery for the first time in her life.

Between the parapet and the wall the ground is uneven, sometimes pitching away into sudden ravines, other times scooped more gently. Most of it is covered with imported flowering bushes chosen for their sweet scent. Lord Galdrid’s entourage can scarce be expected to endure the less delicate odours of the town, nor of his own sewage system. Thus criminals condemned to slavery toil perpetually in darkness at the pumps beneath the castle - and Galdrid has his flowering shrubs. I followed Adrell through the bushes.

‘Try to jingle less loudly!’ he hissed.

‘Tis not my fault! You wanted me dressed as a whore,’ I retorted hotly.

From time to time he darted from the cover of the bushes to peer over the parapet, checking our position. At length he signalled me to halt, and I squatted under the cover of some shrubs, the flowers of which had a sweet cloying scent rather reminiscent of Sarrina’s bedchamber, while he set about unbinding a long length of thin cord which he had carried concealed around his waist. He weighted it with a stone, and threw it over the wall.

I waited patiently while Adrell hauled up the climbing rope and secured it. I gazed up at the shining panoply of the night and sought out the bright light of the Western Star, which the Bakkomites call The Motherstar. They may claim that the Skygods fixed it there at the time of The Fall, and pray endlessly to it for the second coming, but, whatever the truth is, each night that star shines true west, and is of much value to travellers, which I was about to become, whatever the result of tonight’s escapade. That realisation made me shiver far more than the chill of the desert night.

Adrell glanced over the parapet as the rope suddenly went taut. ‘Vordan is on his way,’ he commented, then wandered off, peering closely at the castle wall.

My curiosity overcame my dislike of high places - which is another failing of mine - and I sneaked out to the curtain wall to watch Vordan climb.

Eeek! My head spun. It was a poxed long way down! I closed my eyes, steeled myself, and peeked nervously again, focusing determinedly upon Vordan. He was ascending the rope smoothly and silently, in a fashion which somehow made me think of a huge black spider.

‘It has been an uncommonly dry winter.’

Eeek! Adrell’s voice at my shoulder made me jump.

‘Too cursed dry,’ he mumbled, glancing down at Vordan then wandering off again.

Next came Dorrak. He climbed with all the subtlety and grace of a charging bullock.

‘It would not have mattered if it had rained a week ago.’

Eeek! Adrell made me jump again.

Pox it! Stop doing that! I seethed.

I don’t like jumping up and down next to precipitous drops.

‘Even a month ago would have sufficed,’ he grumbled.

Once more he wandered off, cursing under his breath. Why the pox was he talking about the poxy weather anyway?

Dorrak hauled up the backpacks, then together he and Adrell hauled up Thales, who had announced a sudden aversion to climbing ropes at the very last moment. We all huddled under the bushes.

‘You’d best get changed, tart, you rattle worse than a pedlar’s cart,’ Vordan stated.

I awarded him my fiercest scowl, but retreated further into the bushes and thankfully complied. Never had it felt so good to don tunic and breeks! I could hear Adrell talking quietly to the others.

‘There is a slight... hem... problem.’

They followed him to the castle wall.

‘Oh, shit!’ exclaimed Dorrak.

‘Precisely. Not enough damned rain,’ cursed Adrell.

‘Has anyone got a shovel?’ Thales asked plaintively.

A shovel? Puzzled, I shoved my disguise under a bush, and rejoined them, still lacing up my tunic. My eyes widened. The four of them were grouped round a large soft mound at the base of the wall, shovelling furiously with their hands and cursing constantly.

‘Shit! Shit! Shit!’ groaned Dorrak.

I clamped my hand across my mouth. There are times when tis best not to laugh aloud.

I fear I did not offer to help. A dislike for shovelling shit is yet another failing of mine. I have quite a lot of failings actually. Instead I faded silently back into the bushes, and occupied myself in lacing my tunic and wondering how many latrines must empty themselves down this one shaft to produce such an impressive pile of waste.

Eventually Adrell was able