The Third Book

By GJ Kelly

Book Five of the series finds Yarmian Eventyde in Brenneth, lovely in Albionus' day, and not looking too shoddy in Mister Yarren's either. The young WIzzen welcomes the prospect of wintering in his new and comfortable surrounds, but alas, the fleeting moments of pleasure his stepfather warned about have led Yarmian into making a terrible error... searching for the elusive third book in the Permanentus Permanentarium trilogy, and very publicly at that.

His search has drawn him to the attention of a suspicious one-armed character, Iarnus of Brenneth, and this in turn leads Yarmian far from the comforts of a warm pub, a warm bed, and something warm in it...

The Third Book seems to promise a journey from which there can be no return, and the first steps of that journey leads Yarmian from The Black Horse to a distant mountain range, and to a benighted town held in thrall to a mad warlord, Morrok-Han, and his ancient sorcerer, Gurnan...

• Language: English
• Publisher: GJ Kelly
• Release date: May 12, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005469948

GJ Kelly

GJ Kelly was born near the white cliffs of Dover, England, in 1960. He spent a significant part of his early life in various parts of the world, including the Far East, Middle East, the South Atlantic, and West Africa. Later life has seen him venture to the USA, New Zealand, Europe, and Ireland. He began writing while still at school, where he was president of the Debating Society and won the Robb Trophy for public speaking. He combined his writing with his technical skills as a professional Technical Author and later as an internal communications specialist. His first novel was "A Country Fly" and he is currently writing a new Fantasy title.He engages with readers and answers questions at:http://www.goodreads.com/GJKelly and also at https://www.patreon.com/GJ_Kelly

Book preview

Prologue

"I! Am! A! Wizzen!"

The voice screaming from me was barely recognisable as my own, and the snow began to melt around us, she supine on the ground, gazing up at me in terror, and me, standing, stick in hand, a creature of Izen, filled now with understanding of its limitless possibilities. All I had to do was imagine a thing, and mould the Izen to its form and function… this was the third book, and it had opened within me…

No, that was simply twoddle-bollocks, just my mind clutching at straws and trying to avoid giving birth to the nascent bubble of smug I knew was lurking within and hoping to be released…

Worse still was the nascent bubble of fear I knew was lurking in there too. I should not have been able to do what I had done.

I really shouldn’t.

oOo

1. The Black Horse

My arm ached, and there was a strange sound, rising and falling, like a child trying to learn how to whistle. Still, I was warm and snug… apart from the achy arm. I tried to stretch it, and felt a heavy resistance, which was a little confusing until I opened my eyes and saw a heap of tousled brown hair inches from my face… oh yes, that’s right! Trinnie, the lass with the beaming smile from the bookshop opposite Ranquin Dutt’s messenger’s office in Broad Street, Southerton, Brenneth… I smiled.

Of course. I was in my bed, in my room at The Black Horse, and that breathy whistling sound wasn’t Trinnie’s breathing, it was the autumnal wind hissing through the cracks in the window; I thought I’d managed to seal them all with bits of rag and paper, but obviously not. Or perhaps the gusts had blown some of the seals out, I didn’t know and didn’t much care given the warmth lying beside me. Brenneth had been lovely in my stepfather’s day, and it wasn’t looking too bad to me either, except for the aching arm.

It was still dark, so I didn’t really want to wake my new friend by moving around too much, but well… an aching arm is an aching arm and slowly, very slowly, I shifted position, feeling the blood rush into my veins after easing Trinnie’s head rather more onto my chest and left shoulder. Hurrah, she didn’t wake up. Good; it gave me time to enjoy the pre-dawn quiet, the warmth, and the deep feeling of contentment which held me in its smiling embrace.

What was it now? October 20th? Yes… yes it must be. Wednesday. Poor Trinnie would have to get up soon, get dressed, and head off to work in that bookshop in Broad Street, where’d I’d met her. I’d been looking for the elusive third volume of the Permanentus Permanentarium to complete my collection, and had called in to mooch along the shelves and ask the proprietor about the third book.

Well, the proprietor was Trinnie’s father, a kindly fellow with poor eyesight from a lifetime’s immersion in books, and although he was fairly certain he didn’t have a copy of the tome I was searching for, he valiantly descended into the cellar to search his stock, and later took himself up into the attic to do likewise. Foolishly leaving me alone in the shop with his youngest daughter, lying now beside me.... Lucky, lucky me!

As difficult as it was for me to believe, it seemed the lovely Trinnie regarded Brenneth with much the same disdain as I’d once viewed my old hometown of Dulluston; she thought Brenneth small, provincial, and above all, boring. It wasn’t a real city, she said, not like places such as Thellesene, Dorcane, Garroon or Wenneck. Not like Farakand or Kallasta or Coldharbor over on the east coast of the Carpidian Sea. And once she’d learned that I’d actually been to some of those places, well… one thing had led to another. As I said, lucky, lucky me…

Now here I was, safely ensconced in a reasonably respectable pub with a small stable in the courtyard, the comforts of which Pandan now shared with a noble carthorse by the name of Gertrude. And the stable was comfortable, too; I’d made sure of that. Pandan had weathered the wilderness and brought me safely here to Brenneth all the way from Wenneck, some three hundred miles to the north. The journey had taken longer than the nine days I’d expected, and though my old mate Porky Norm would be disappointed to learn that I’d not once been waylaid by bandits along the way, I did have adventures out there.

Mostly, they were uncomfortable adventures and involved me trying to obtain food for myself, while my long-eared mulish companion gazed at me in astonishment while affording me the courtesy of laughing silently at my efforts instead of out loud with that breathy braying of his. Suffice to say, I had not impressed either Pandan or myself with my wilderness survival skills and I was bloody ravenous (and probably didn’t smell very nice) by the time we arrived at a traveller’s inn on the north side of the bridge, over which we later passed to attain our new comforts in Brenneth proper.

It’s a strange place, is Brenneth, though I could see something of the charms which had endeared the sprawl to my late stepfather, Albionus. For some strange reason, buried now beneath the dusty mounds of ages past, Brenneth still thinks of itself as a collection of independent little towns, each with its own mayor, courts, guards, and administration offices. The fact that over the years these disparate little towns have all expanded and sort of merged into one big one seems to have eluded the residents, hence The Black Horse pub being in what’s known as Southerton; it’s the southernmost ‘town’ and closest to the lower of the two great tributaries which merge to form the River Brenn.

There are of course other –tons, these being easter-, wester-, norther-, and middle-, upper-, lower- and so on. Bizarre, I know, but it all seems to work, somehow. There is a Port Lord of Brenneth, but, as the ancient title suggests, he is in fact lord of the small port which stands on the riverbank there at the confluence itself, situated to the east of the town, where the waters are strangely calm, like a natural harbour. He’s actually kind of a glorified harbourmaster, then.

The River Brenn itself is, fortunately for everyone, a rather sluggish river, broad and fairly deep, and vessels (barges, mostly) have little trouble sailing upstream from Jakarla, which is a city some seventy to eighty miles east and slightly south of Brenneth.

The land in the delta formed between the two tributaries is rich and verdant, and it’s said if you spit out an apple-pip out there in those rich farmlands, you don’t have to wait too long before you’ve an apple tree. Food, therefore, everything from fruits to grains, is in ample supply, and the excess produced by the many farms to the west of the town is Brenneth’s principle export to Jakarla. Because of that, the general opinion in the distant coastal city is, apparently, that this place is full of nothing but yokel farmers. It’s not really true, but in my short time here in the town, I’d got the impression so far that Brenneth isn’t particularly sophisticated, except where the production of quality booze is concerned.

Yes, not all the excess fruits and grains grown in the verdant delta outside of town travel downriver for sale in the markets of Jakarla. Wines, spirits, and beers are produced here too, and I’ve had a tough job politely refusing the landlord’s proud and enthusiastic offer of a free tipple of this or a sip of that lovingly crafted by some of his relatives. If I’d accepted all of those offers I’d be blind drunk for a month, and probably accidently set fire to myself and Brenneth because of it.

Indeed, happy-looking red-nosed flush-faced characters are commonplace here in Brenneth, and practically all of the drunks I’ve met have been jolly, beaming folk, and very few of them violent, aggressive, or disagreeable. But then, I haven’t been to all the something–tons yet, and I’ve seen a few town guardsmen about the place that wouldn’t be so visible if they weren’t actually needed for some reason or other.

Yes, Brenneth has its many charms, but in the four days I’d been here (not including the overnight stay at the Bridgend Traveller’s Rest when I first emerged from the wilderness), I hadn’t personally witnessed any unpleasantness. Quite the opposite, in fact, especially given the cause of my formerly achy arm whose pins and needles were at last fading.

The Black Horse suited me perfectly, I thought. It’s only a short walk to Ranquin Dutt’s affiliated messenger’s office in Broad Street, the birdmaster therein a jovial fellow by the name of Silvester Greenfinch, and the pub is small enough not to be too rowdy of a weekend. Indeed, there are only three rooms available for guests, located above the bar, kitchens, and the dining room (which also has a small bar and serves as an overflow for customers on a busy Saturday night). Mine’s the quietest, above the dining room.

It’s not an inn, it’s a pub which makes a little extra by offering rooms to travellers who can’t afford a more upmarket inn, and also to those too drunk to make it back to their homes after accepting all those free samples offered by Perrybone, the garrulous landlord.

And yes, it turns out that he really does have a large extended family, many of whom are busy in the local Southerton distillery and brewery crafting new and potent spirits, ales, and beers in competition with all the other -tons. (Brenneth’s wine makers are all to be found out on the outskirts of Outer Westerton, apparently, so the grapes and other fruits don’t have so far to travel).

So, here I was, safe and warm and cosy in Brenneth, so too dear old Pandan, who was like a rare and trusted friend to me now. To think he might’ve spent his days plodding around the streets of Skandia makes me shudder; hence my satisfaction with this generally quiet, peaceful pub, with its quiet, peaceful stables. Good cheap food, good cheap accommodation… yes, Brenneth really wasn’t looking too bad at all.

Which was something of a worrying thought, since if anything carp is going to happen, it usually happens to me wherever I am and whenever I turn up there, wherever there happens to be.

It was starting to get a little lighter in the room, but not much. Dawn approaching, light starting to penetrate the rather old and threadbare curtains. I’d have to wake Trinnie soon; I didn’t want her to be late for work on my account. For why? For because her father had said he’d keep his ear to the ground and put some feelers out to try to find a copy of that elusive third volume of the Permanentus for me, so staying on Trinnie’s sweet side was in my best interests for more than the blindingly obvious reason snuggled up against me.

I’d made up my mind the moment I’d settled here in the Horse that I’d winter in Brenneth. My pathetic adventures in the wilderness had served to remind me of my limitations where the great outdoors was concerned, and I’d quickly learned that no, buzzapping a large bird or small animal with my stick did not count as hunting, and served only to put tiny bits of scorched feathers or fur into a pot. I’d learned (again) that I was carp with a shepherd’s sling, especially one hastily fashioned in desperation from an odd bit of tent-cord… my wanging of stones (as Stazia would’ve put it) was more likely to see Pandan behind me felled than anything I was actually aiming at.

No, nuts to venturing into the wilds in winter. Here I would rest after nearly four months of non-stop action and adventure since leaving Dulluston behind me back in early June. Besides, even if I didn’t acquire the third book I was looking for, I still had the Permanentus volume two to continue my studies, and winter would be an ideal time for that in such cosy surroundings as I now found myself in. That was the plan, anyway.

Yes, I’d kept my Izen-nose open, no I hadn’t caught a whiff of anything nasty hereabouts, and no, there didn’t seem to be anything untoward going on in Brenneth. Which was odd, because it’d make a bloody good starting-point for any Lesser mystic bent on dominion of a city such as Jakarla on the coast. But, hey-ho, worry about that later.

Trinnie?

Nothing.

Trinnie. And a squeeze.

Hmm?

It’s time to wake up. Dawn’s breaking soon.

Noooo…

Yes. Sorry, but you did say you wanted to get home for work before your father was up and about.

Oh… poo…

I know. Sorry.

It’s still dark though? she yawned, and snuggled closer.

Yes. And windy. Might be rain again today as well.

Poo. Still dark though. Still time…

Time for wha… oh!

!!!

Oh yes, Brenneth wasn’t looking too bad a place after all…

oOo

2. Brenneth Jumpers

My delightful new friend was long gone by the time I made my way down the rather rickety staircase to the dining room and ordered breakfast. There was really only one breakfast served in the Horse, and that was a full cooked and splendid affair which was simple and wholesome. So too all the other hearty meals Perrybone’s lady wife, Ivee, rustled up for herself, Perrybone, the bar staff, and anyone else who popped in on their way to or from work (and there were indeed some of those already in the dining room when I’d come down).

Yes, food was cheap here in Brenneth thanks to that fertile delta out to the west of town, so much so that working folk could easily afford brekkie at The Black Horse and thus enjoy a few extra minutes in bed which cooking their own would otherwise consume.

Indeed, so plentiful was food here that there were many avuncular fellows with red noses and bulging waistbands to be found all over the large and sprawling town. Since I didn’t want to become one of them, and since I’d recovered from my privations out in the wilderness, breakfast had become my ‘main meal’, and thus lunch and dinner were considerably lighter than the usual morning feast that Perrybone’s good lady served up. I do love bacon, but four rashers besieged by three eggs, tomatoes, fried potatoes, black pudding, white pudding, sausages, and mushrooms is probably a rasher too far, even for me.

By the time I’d finished my assault on the feast and supped the last of my tea, the dining room was empty; off to work had gone the workers, stomachs filled with this good hearty fare. Time for me to be off, too. I stood, donned my new heavy winter cloak (purchased only three days ago), and stick in hand, I left the Horse with a brief wave to Perrybone behind the bar. Outside in the street it was windy, as expected, but thus far, the rain had held off, for which everyone was probably grateful.

It was chilly too, hence the new cloak, purchased with money made from wooden coins neatly sliced up from a broomstick by a carpenter’s young apprentice. I’d found him on the outskirts of town not far from the bridge over the northern tributary which I’d been obliged to cross on first arriving in Brenneth; his master was away on some job or other, repairing a roof damaged by gales I think the youth had said, and the boy was happy for the work. He was even happier for the money he received, and I got the impression that most if not all of it would stay in his pocket when his master returned to the workshop.

So, I’d replenished my stock of materials for making money, expecting to have to part with a princely sum for bed and board through winter’s dank dark months, but no, deep joy, the local amenities were cheap as chips, and it was only imported goods which were expensive; like the cloak I now wore, which had apparently been made in Dennhai and had come upriver from Jakarla. It was the cloak, or more likely its distant origins, which had first drawn Trinnie’s eye… Aaah Trinnie… no, no time to think of that! Open your Izen-nose and do some work!

Well fair do. So far, I’d detected only faint traces of Wizzenry here in Brenneth, and had learned from mister Goldfinch, the trusty birdmaster in service to Ranquin Dutt’s trading network, there had been three Wizzens hereabouts; one here in Southerton, whose work my ‘nose’ had detected, one in Easterton on the fringe of the port on the river, and one out in Westerton who travelled a lot and mostly serviced the outlying farms.

I was, it seemed, the only Wizzen now in Brenneth, those three others having seemingly evaporated once word of the purge had arrived; and of course it had arrived via Ranquin Dutt and his faithful messenger, Goldfinch. The reason for the wealthy entrepreneur’s interest in Brenneth? Bespoke Brenneth booze, particularly the delicately flavoured strong spirits which fetched a pretty penny when dispensed from Dutt’s warehouses over in Farakand. Some of the artisanal spirits were extremely classy stuff, or so Goldfinch had informed me, and graced the cabinets of the wealthy in cities all around the Carpidian Sea. For why?

For because of the consistency of flavour of fruits grown in the fertile delta, whose groves were well watered all year ‘round and were not, therefore, subject to the vagaries of weather like other plantations elsewhere. And also because of the skill of Brenneth’s master distillers, of course. Have you tried our apricot brandy, sir, he’d asked me with a smile, and I think I’d sunk a little in his lofty estimation of me as an officer of Dutt’s organisation when I replied that I seldom drank anything stronger than light ale.

Perhaps one day I might try a thimbleful of the stuff, just to see what all the fuss was about, but in the meantime, my obvious interest in maintaining contact with Ranquin Dutt was purely to keep abreast of any news which he might send to me. Dutt knew I was a Wizzen, and indeed suspected me of being a Retributioner, young as I am. He knows me as ‘Master Ye’, and it was he with his immense network of business contacts who’d discovered the whereabouts of Evrard, the Master of the Beldane Robe who’d murdered my stepfather, Albionus.

From Dutt’s perspective, my destruction of Evrard in the woods of Roundvale, Kallasta, had not only satisfied my own oath of revenge against the wretched MBR, but also settled a long outstanding score of Ranquin’s own… Evrard had humiliated the business mogul, and had finally paid the price for that mistake. Believing that I was a Retributioner travelling the lands in service of the Philostrate and the Beldane Council on the Isle of Sinnock, Dutt was happy to use me as a roving contact, and I was happy to use him and his network for information, too. It was a mutually profitable relationship, and one I intended to maintain for as long as I could.

Farakand, where Dutt dwelled and ran his organisation, was some three hundred and thirty miles from Brenneth as the pigeon flies; I was waiting for a reply, or at least an acknowledgement, that Dutt had received my earlier messages informing him that I’d safely arrived here from Wenneck. Which was why I made my way down the cobbled street to the messenger’s office, and entered, the door’s bell jangling and a gust of wind gently shoving me and the door both inwards.

I managed to close the door against the gust before too many slips of message-paper had been blown from their box on the counter, and was picking them up when Goldfinch emerged from his back room. He was frowning, not having seen me, when I stood from stooping to pick up a few slips from the floor.

Ah! Good morning, mister Yarren! You rather took me by surprise.

Sorry, mister Goldfinch. The wind blew your slips about the place when I came in.

Bah. My fault. It’s long past time I put the box of slips on the desk here under the counter, on my side. Autumnal gales are frequent here in Brenneth, sir, the land being flat hereabouts and the river rather funnelling the easterlies into the town. Would you like a cup of tea, sir? Just brewed.

No, though thanks for the kind offer. I really just popped in to see if there was a reply for me from our mutual friend in Farakand?

Yes, there has been sir. I’d have sent it to The Black Horse but for its content merely being an acknowledgement of receipt of your own message sent to our friend.

Goldfinch passed me a slip of paper from under the counter, which I unrolled and unfolded. It was just as he’d said, a simple ‘message received’, and Dutt had kindly accepted my use of the alias ‘Yarren’ by addressing it accordingly. Well, his believing me to be a sneaky Beldane Retributioner probably made my use of an alias perfectly acceptable and understandable in his eyes, and I’d known he was astute enough to have cottoned on to it immediately.

I pocketed the slip of paper, and Goldfinch asked:

Have you had no success in the search for the old book you said you were looking for the other day, sir?

Alas. Though, mister Paige over the road is making enquiries on my behalf too.

Splendid. I have taken the liberty of compiling a list of bookshops which might aid in your search, here you are sir, though I fear it is of course incomplete. Most of the premises on that list are all to the east of Middleton, though there are two as you can see in Middleton itself.

This is very kind of you, mister Goldfinch, thank you so much!

Not at all, sir, only too glad to help an officer serving our mutual friend.

There were eight bookshops listed on the notepaper Goldfinch handed me, together with their addresses. I smiled, folded the paper and tucked it into my tunic pocket under my cloak, and after the usual parting pleasantries, left the messenger’s office. No, Goldfinch had no idea of the title of the book I was looking for, though I suppose he might’ve elicited it from Trinnie’s father who ran the bookshop on the other side of the street.

No matter. The third volume of the Permanentus Permanentarium was something of a rarity, and only studied by Permanentus Masters who wished to advance to the lofty rank of Beldane Robe. Becoming an MBR was a long and arduous process, so Albionus had told me, which probably explained why so few permie masters actually made that particular journey. Its rarity might well explain why an officer in Dutt’s business empire might be interested in acquiring a copy as an investment, at least as far as Goldfinch and Paige were both concerned.

Why did I really want that third book? Well, it would complete the set of three, given that I already possessed the first two (and had mastered the first, the Temparus, already and was making progress with the second). But mainly I believed it would give me insight into the powers wielded by the Robes, two of whom I’d gone up against: Evrard, and Kordellen, the latter being the Inquisitor sent out by the Isle to positively identify me.

I’d prevailed over both, though not through any vast powers on my behalf. No, Evrard had been weakened by the Wizzen Dantine, a former student of Albionus and thus marked for death in the current purge, and the latter, Kordellen, had been old and so long a denizen of the Isle of Sinnock he’d been almost a stranger to the Izenfight he’d foolishly instigated.

Know thine enemy; that was really why I wanted the volume three. Up there on the Isle were three MBRs vying for supremacy and to claim the title of Philostrate when the sickly incumbent finally died. One of those three had tried to have me killed by a gang of thugs in Thellesene. One, or perhaps even all three of those Beldane Councillors, Kurster, Arrapthane, and Norridus, was on my ‘list’.

I stuck my head in at the bookshop, and found Trinnie was nowhere to be seen. Her father was behind the counter though, and he waved and called:

I’m sorry, mister Yarren, no news yet!

Thank you sir! I called back. I’ll pop in tomorrow perhaps!

And then it was off I went, in search of the other bookshops on the list Goldfinch had given me.

It was an unusual feeling, this; ambling about town after my recent fraught time in Wenneck, where every woman might be a witch and every man a warlock. Here, the folk I did see out and about were being jostled by gusts of wind just as I was, and hurrying about their business. True, they smiled a greeting for the rather comical nature of the blustery gusts, which variously opposed us or shoved us onwards, and which then suddenly dropped, seeing all of us momentarily off-balance when those winds abruptly died. I doubted any of us would be smiling much when the inevitable rains came driving in on those heavy autumnal gales.

Still, I was in no hurry, and was warmly dressed, well-fed, and certainly not pressed for time. Which was probably just as well, since the streets, roads, and alleyways here were somewhat higgledy-piggeldy, all those small towns expanding into each other as they had in the past. No well-ordered lattice of thoroughfares here, no public gardens on the corners of neatly laid-out blocks of dwellings that had made Wenneck so charmingly efficient.

Often, I had to stop into other shops to ask for directions, and just as often found myself lost and asking passers by for more directions. And when I did find a bookshop on Goldfinch’s list, my search for the third book was invariably thwarted. Still, my roaming around Brenneth, or at least the streets to the south of the nominal centre, Middleton, gave me a feel for the place and the people dwelling here.

I felt I was beginning to understand why Albionus had been enamoured of the place in his youth. In his day, there may have been gaps between all those smaller towns, parks perhaps, or little copses and picnic areas, that sort of thing. Gone now, of course, after two hundred years or so of expansion, but that was only to be expected. No, what really made the place appealing was the general disposition of the population here.

It’s a funny thing, but when food is plentiful and above all cheap, and folk are well-fed, there’s no real urgency for anything. Time seems to move in seasons, not according to a dial or gnomon. There’s no need for hours or days of slavish drudgery to earn the wherewithal needed for a loaf of bread; when good food costs mere pennies, why bust a gut trying to earn silvers? True, good quality imported fabrics and clothing cost more than they would in the towns and cities where such goods are made, but there were sheep in Brenneth too, or rather outside of town, and so wool wasn’t rare.

Indeed, most of the folk I’d seen so far were wearing a style of high-necked plain woollen pullover referred to simply as a ‘Brenneth jumper’, which, though fairly rustic-looking and a bleached off-white colour as a rule, certainly appeared splendidly warm and were, Trinnie had told me, not very expensive at all.

No, there was no rushing around here, no whip-handed masters urging workers to produce more, faster, and demanding great profits. Things happened in their own good time, and people were content. I suppose if folk are happy to let great barrels of spirits sit in oaken casks for twenty-five years or more to produce apricot flavoured brandy which, Perrybone had assured me, slides down smooth like a liquid gold caress, well… rushing to make a hat, a pair of shoes, or build a wall might seem, well… unseemly.

That smiling lack of urgency and the air of general contentment probably explained why city folk in Jakarla thought of Brenneth as some kind of bucolic yokel backwater. And while it was true that it was charming, relaxing, and seemed to promise a quiet winter of contentment ahead of me, it was also rather worrying. Why? Because this really would make for an excellent place for an ambitious Lesser to rise up and commence to enslaving good folk.

And yet, I hadn’t found a hint of any such thing happening. Well, not yet, anyway. But I was looking for bookshops, not sorcerers disguised as alchemists, and nothing I’d learned from Goldfinch, Perrybone, or Trinnie suggested that people had been mysteriously disappearing, either down at the river port, or anywhere else.

Nor was I sure that I should go traipsing around every one of the –tons to ask each of the independent guards’ administrators if they’d any records of persons going missing recently. Word would surely spread as word does, that a young bloke in a nice cloak and carrying a walking-stick was going from town hall to town hall making daft enquiries… and I didn’t really want to draw that much attention to myself.

The lack of a central administration was, in that regard, a trifle annoying. Dealing with numerous town halls, mayors, police chiefs… it was beyond the pale. One had been more than enough back in Wenneck.

Maybe, I wondered, approaching one of the other bookshops on my list, just maybe, Brenneth was exactly as it appeared to be, and entirely uninfected by Lesser mystics. I should probably just keep my guard up, my Izen-nose wide open, my stick close and senses ranging far, and let things happen in their own time as everyone else in Brenneth seemed to be doing.

oOo

3. An Invitation

When the rains came, Pandan seemed more than content to remain warm and dry in the stables, relieving me of any guilt I might have felt for wishing to remain warm and dry in my room. I’d have to keep an eye on his waistline as well as my own though, lest spring, when it finally arrived, found us both looking like all those rather corpulent and avuncular locals.

Nor did Perrybone or his staff find anything odd in my keeping to myself in my room during the heavy squalls which are apparently commonplace in Brenneth at this time of year. Not only had I used the alias ‘Yarren’ on arrival, I’d described myself as a student much given to the study of the import and export business and of the various laws and regulations concerning Carpidian trade. No-one I’d met so far had the slightest interest in the subject, and so my rather limited knowledge of the matter, gleaned from my encounter with Ranquin Dutt and of course my time aboard Tiresian’s ship the Idalina, was fortunately not put to the test.

Thus, they all imagined me sat at the small desk in my room, poring over a weighty tome filled with the dry legal language of treaties and contracts, and other incredibly boring topics. But no, I was in fact poring over the Permanentus Permanentarium, memorising and occasionally performing some of the permie wieldings the book contained. No cats around The Black Horse to protest when I tried my hand at testing my knowledge, hurrah!

Nor did I need to store my precious books in the strongroom of a local advocate, as I had before in Wenneck. An inquiry made of Perrybone concerning security had seen the landlord heave a heavy wooden and metal chest up those creaking stairs to my room, where it was shackled by a stout chain to an iron eyebolt which passed clean through a heavy floor joist. With assurances that not once in the past thirty-two years had the Horse been burglarised, Perrybone left me with the complicated-looking key to the chest. In that strongbox did I store my rather paltry collection of possessions, and especially my precious books, whenever I left the room for any length of time.

I felt that any Brenneth equivalent of the Corfian beauty Sylvee, who, I might add, still haunted my dreams from time to time, would be extremely disappointed on finding practically bugger-all inside the box should they sneak in through a window and defeat the lock’s mechanism. Books and a bag of wooden disks wouldn’t justify the risk, and nothing else I possessed was of any real value except of the sentimental kind.

Evenings were spent in the bar downstairs with Trinnie, and me regaling her with tales of Narrespoint (what little I’d seen of it), Farakand, Dorcane, Thellesene… I’d even told her about Dulluston, and to my astonishment she seemed to think the dull as ditchwater riverside town ‘exotic-sounding’ compared to Brenneth. She’s a dreamer, is Trinnie, with lovely doe-like brown eyes which gazed clean through me during my tales, seeing not me but those faraway places she’d only ever known from the books in her father’s shop.

I tried to tell her that the grass really isn’t greener on the other side of the Carpidian Sea, but even when I described the ganglords and thugs of Kallasta she could only see sparkling waters, pristine towers, rich gardens and fountains… I got the feeling that when she finally realised I wasn’t really as exotic a figure as she imagined me to be, it’d be back to her dreaming over those books in her father’s shop again. And I didn’t think it’d take very long for her to notice my feet of clay. Still, a fellow must make the most of any comforts freely offered, so of course I did; that’s not a bloody cabbage on my shoulders after all.

On the Saturday afternoon, October 23rd, the winds dropped to a gentle breeze, clouds parted, the sun came out, and apart from being chilly, the day looked to be a fine one. Pandan was delighted for the opportunity to wander around outdoors with me, and wander we did, taking in the