Good morrow to the all, and welcome. History is often regarded as a realm of dusty sepulchres and weathered scrolls. This thought is mostly shared by those who couldn't even bother themselves to reach tenure at the University of Altdorf, and while we can safely disregard the thoughts of the uneducated rabble, it is true that history, and indeed the retelling and performance history, need not be simply an endless litany of chronological events.
In rare instances it can transform into a captivating tale. On this occasion we shall regale thee with a narrative that has been bestowed upon me by a trustworthy informant, from the word of one Robert Earl, hailing from the obscure and misty shores of Albion, but now keeping home Altdorf.
To ensure its proper rendition, we have enlisted the aid of the indolent Ruffians from the Altdorfian Thespian Union, a troupe of players or the like, who did not even attend Altdorf University, I might add, to aid me in the retelling of this chronicle. It was market day, and Altdorf's rat-run of streets was swarming with people. Kerr, his body wedged in against the beam of an inn, watched them as they bustled past.
Not many of them watched him back, not many of them even noticed him, which was just how he liked it. Over the years he had made an art of appearing insignificant, so that now everything from his stance to his clothing helped him to merge into the background. Nor was this his only talent. Although barely fifteen, Kerr studied the stream of passing humanity with a seasoned professionalism, a hard-eyed calculation that belied his tender years. Some of the crowd he dismissed as soon as he saw them.
These were the tradesmen and merchants, men whose characters had been shaped to fit into the crooked byways of the city. Some of them may have been old or lame, but they were no fools. Kerr knew that they would offer steel before they would lose coin, and he respected them for it. Then there were others who he marked for later. These were the thugs who swaggered about the town in search of women and drink.
Whether they called themselves men-at-arms or house-calls or just plain mercenaries, Kerr knew them for what they were, which was killers. Not that that was necessarily a problem. Later some of them would be too drunk to kill anybody or even to defend themselves. On occasion Kerr had been lucky enough to have found such victims alone, and to have found them before anybody else had. On another day he might have decided to follow one of them, much as a hungry fox will follow a dying wolf.
But today there was no need for such patience. Today the streets were full of easier, plumper prey. Kerr did everything but lick his lips as he watched them. These were the farmers. Yeoman, who knew everything about the hardness of the land but nothing of the cruelties of the city. Kerr could tell them by their wooden clogs, their healthy faces, their slow pace and wide opened eyes. Then he saw one who wore his purse outside of his tunic.
Scarcely believing his luck, Kerr pushed himself off of the wall and slipped into the flow of bodies that was carrying the fool along. He gained on him gradually, being careful to not to catch anybody's eye as he did so. Ahead an alleyway branched off from the main thoroughfare. Kerr planned to cut his victims purse-free when they reached it. The alleyway was an escape route he'd used before, an almost invisible path that led into a perfect confusion of hovels and shanties.
His heart started to patter as he drew nearer to his prey. The man was almost twice as big as him, his muscles hardened into oaken lumps by a lifetime of toil. And so he moved slowly. Kerr watched a messenger bump into him and apologize as he slipped past, eager to be about his business. The farmer didn't even notice. He was too busy gawping up at the gables which overhung the street and the brightly-coloured shingles that swung beneath them.
Kerr smiled as he felt for the razor he'd used to cut the purse-free. He could almost taste the stew that he'd buy afterwards. At the tingle of adrenaline his mouth watered at the thought. It had been days since he'd last eaten, and that had only been half a loaf of bread. A moment later and his anticipation had turned to irritation, the flow of people was slowing down as some obstruction ahead blocked their progress.
Soon the crowded street hardly seemed to be moving at all, and the stink of the bodies grew riper as they were pushed together. Kerr looked around impatiently. He was seized with a sudden suicidal impulse to take the man's purse here and now. In the crush of bodies it would be easy enough to do so without him noticing, but on the other hand, if anybody did see him, then escape would be impossible.
Contemplating the maiming that that would be the punishment for his crime, he forced himself to be patient. He let others do the pushing, allowing them to steer him ever closer to his victim. Eventually the crowd started to move again, and the farmer was seized with a sudden sense of direction. He elbowed his way through the melee so that he could stand and gawk at what had caused the blockage. Kerr, sidling up beside him, saw that it was a conjurer's street show.
The performer was dressed in a billowing cape. It was as bright as it was shapeless, a great rainbow patchwork of rags that flapped and billowed as he gesticulated toward his audience. He also wore a pointed hat, which added almost a foot to his height, and a smear of makeup that made his eyes seem even wilder than they were. Despite the crush, he had managed to carve out a little semicircle of space around him which he filled with a constant swirl of movement. And as he moved, so he spoke.
Or at least so he babbled, screeching and gibbering in a tongue of his own devising. There was no way of knowing if his words contained an ounce of sense, but that hardly mattered to the onlooking crowd. It was the tone of the old charlatan's voice which fascinated them, the terrible cadences of a man who supposedly consorted with demons. Kerr thanked the shades of his long-departed parents for the distraction.
Not only had the ranting performer caught the fat-pursed farmer in his spell, but the space he'd cleared was right in front of the alley that Kerr would use for his escape. A cut and a rush, he decided. I'll be down it as safely as a rat down a drainpipe. He swallowed and wiped his palms on the worn cloth of his britches. Then he edged a little closer to his target, his fingers closing around the handle of his razor. There would only be one chance, he knew. One cut.
After that, successful or not, he'd have to start running. But even as he lifted the purse, oh so gently away from his victim's belt, he paused. Something else had caught his eye. Something a lot more valuable than a few copper pennies. The hat lay on the floor beneath the conjurer's swishing cape. It was a battered old leather thing, the upturned brim of it frayed with use, and inside, winking at Kerr as invitingly as a tavern girl at a merchant, it was a spill of coins.
Some of them even seemed to be silver. Kerr released the yokel's purse and licked his lips nervously. It scarcely seemed possible that the conjurer would leave his collection right there on the street, with only himself to guard it. Usually even the meanest performer would have an assistant to sit beside his meagre tribute club in hand. Winking his teeth together with indecision, Kerr scanned the crowd. Almost all of them were farmers.
Their eyes were wide as they watched the performance with the rapt attention of cows in a field. And then he saw them, the conjurer's lads. They were scarcely older than he was himself, but they were no less capable. They were almost invisible as they drifted through the spectators that stood opposite. Kerr watched as practice maneuver by practice maneuver, they singled out their prey. The smallest lifted a purse as neatly as Kerr would have done himself, and his companions stood by to help.
They seemed to have forgotten about their master's collection in their eagerness to make their own. Kerr saw the lick of a blade as it cut into the leather of a bystander's purse. He saw the coins that waited in the hat on the floor, and inspiration struck. Thief! he cried, pushing past the farmer he had meant to rob himself, and gesturing towards the lad with the purse in his hand. Stop! Thief! he pointed an accusing finger as the youngster dropped the purse and flitted away into the crowd.
Then, as all eyes turned to the confusion there, Kerr darted forward, grabbed the hatful of coins, and bolted past the conjurer and into the alleyway. Too late the performer saw what was happening. In his excitement he forgot to speak gibberish and swore as only an altdorfian knows how. He snatched at Kerr as he sped past, but as he did so he tripped over his own robes and fell into a heap. The crowd roared with laughter.
They laughed even more when the conjurers, two assistants, trampled over their master's prone form, eager in their pursuit. Kerr didn't share their good humour. He had expected the crowd to turn on the two cut purses, not share them on. As he skittered down the alleyway he could hear the patter of their footsteps scampering along behind him. He risked a quick glance over his shoulder.
The ragged shape of the conjurer, unmistakable in his scarecrow robes, was framed by the crooked angles of the alleyway. But what worried Kerr wasn't the old charlatan but his two apprentices. They raced through the gloom with the lethal speed of whippets after a hair, and a jolt of terror exploded within Kerr's slender chest as he saw the steel in their hands.
He put on a burst of speed as he reached the end of the alleyway and skittered around the corner, ahead of him the road weaved back and forth, little more than a track between the hovels that infested this quarter. He sprinted along it, comforted by the feel of the familiar cobbles beneath his worn soles and looked for the opening. And there it was. There was a turn in the road, and there sandwiched between two doorb-covered huts was the splintered wooden fence of a pigsty.
Kerr grabbed hold of it and vaulted into the filth beyond. The old sow within grunted with surprise as he splashed uninvited through her domain and grunted again as he dragged himself over the fence on the other side. An old woman sat in the dirt of the little courtyard that Kerr landed in. In both looks and temperament she could have been a sister to the animal behind him. She was hardworking, though. Even as she watched Kerr she continued with her work.
Arthritic fingers busily unstitching what he supposed was a stolen coat. "'You have not seen me,' he told her, and tossed her a couple of coppers from the stolen hat. The crone caught them with a surprising agility and looked away as he slipped through her hovel and into the street beyond. He paused there, gasping for breath and listening for any sound of pursuit. It wasn't long in coming. This time the sow, roused by his own intrusion, was ready to deal with the trespassers.
She squealed her outrage as they splashed through the mud, and Kerr heard one of his pursuers squeal back as she snapped at him. He allowed himself a last quick glance through the hovel and was just in time to hear the crone speak. "'He's through there,' she said, pointing directly at him. He swore and took to his heels. Although this street was as crooked as a broken back he knew that there were no bolt holes along it and he cursed himself for pausing.
He could already hear the cries of his pursuers as they gained on him, their longer legs more than compensating for the adrenaline which fizzed through his veins. For one wild moment Kerr considered dropping to his prize, anything to avoid the knives which even now sliced through the air behind him. But then the last kink in the road jerked him around into the wider thoroughfare of the Prince's Avenue.
He darted between a couple of porters and almost ran into the carriage that was clattering towards him. Kerr was drawn by four broad-chested horses, and the thing itself was a carpenter's dream of smoothly fitted joints and oiled hinges. It bounced along on sprung suspension and perfectly turning wheels. Kerr panicked, blossoming as he heard the cries of his pursuers staggered to a halt as the carriage rattled past.
His mind raced faster than the great-spoked wheels as he tried to think of an escape route, somewhere he'd be able to reach before his pursuers reached him. There wasn't one. But then, as though sketched by the snap of the driver's whip, he could see the perfect way out. He dropped onto all fours and raced after the retreating carriage, catching up with it as it was slowed by a knot of drunken porters.
He ducked beneath the great trunk that was strapped to the back, slid beneath the bottom of the carriage itself and looked up. And there, the carpentry as perfect as if he had designed it himself, was the chassis. Two long sections of timber, the holes in them a perfect fit for his trembling hands, ran between the two sets of wheels. Stumbling along beneath the suddenly accelerating carriage, Kerr shoved the hat full of coins down the front of his tunic.
When it was secure, he snatched upwards, seizing two handholds and pressing his chest against the underside of the vehicle. For a moment his heels dragged painfully along the cracked stone. But with a grunt of exertion, he lifted them into the gaps between the running boards. Trying not to think about the cobbles that blurred beneath his head, he concentrated on his hold, tightening his grip, even as the driver used his whip on horses and pedestrians both.
And there, hanging beneath the rattling carriage, Kerr started to laugh with relief. His arms started to hurt after the first minute. And after that, as the jolting of the carriage twisted his muscles like fraying rope, they had started to burn with a slow, constant agony. The vehicle rattled on, and Kerr's sense of triumph melted in the furnace of pain that wracked his body.
It took every ounce of his will to keep his fingers and heels locked tight as he swung back and forth from his precarious perch, and soon his whole world had shrunk to a little hell of burning muscles and rattling timber. It took perhaps half an hour for the carriage to reach its destination. Through the fog of his pain Kerr felt it slow, then saw the sudden patch of shadow as it passed through an archway.
The sound of the wheels squeaking to a halt was one of the most beautiful he had ever heard. He dropped onto the flagstones like an overripe apple, his body bruising just as easily. He was beyond noticing such petty discomforts, though. Instead he lay on the cold stone in an ecstasy of vanishing pain, tears of relief dampening his eyes. When the feeling returned to his fingers he crawled back to his feet, scrabbled out from beneath the carriage, and looked around him.
The courtyard they were in was a cavernous place. No sunshine reached the depths of its floor, although it did warm the top of the stone walls that rose up on every side. Kerr gawked up at a row of gargoyles who basked in it, their carved features alive with the interplay of light and shadow. There was a thump from behind him, and he turned to see that the driver had dropped his passenger's trunk off of the carriage.
Kerr, stung back into action by the sudden awareness that he was a trespasser here, grabbed it, and hoisted it up onto his back. It was a disguise he'd used before. Nobody ever questioned porters, and the case itself was big enough to hide most of his body as well as his downcast face. Nor was it as a disguise he had adopted a moment too soon.
Even as he staggered beneath the weight of the trunk, trying to balance its weight on his scrawny back, the driver clunked a stool down beside the carriage and opened the door. Here we are, manier." He told his passenger with a brief bow, �Ah, we've arrived already, have we? Good.� Kerr looked up from beneath the trunk like a crab from beneath its shell. The man who stepped down from inside the carriage, a great leather-bound book grasped in one hand, wasn't just fat. He was enormous.
Rolls of blubber supported his neck like a collar, and the thrust of his belly was big enough to have contained Kerr himself. His dress exaggerated his size even further. The fashionably padded shoulders of his velvet tunic made a rectangle out of the vast pair of his body, and the salt and pepper beard that framed his wobbling jowls lent them a width that reminded Kerr of the orc mastiffs that fought in Altdorf's bear pits.
And yet, despite the pampered softness of his body, there was a hardness about his face that Kerr immediately respected. It was something about the way that his dark eyes glittered like onyx buttons above the fat of his cheeks, and the way that his back remained poker straight despite the pillows of padding that sagged from it. Kerr dropped his eyes as the man looked at him. �A servant, eh? That was very thoughtful of you, Sir Achal.
Your comfort is our only concern, menier.� The driver weedled, his hand half outstretched for a tip. �Hm. That is nice to know.� The fat man said, and, seeming not to notice the driver's anticipation, he stretched his back and waddled off. Kerr, without needing to be told, staggered along behind him. The fat man led the way up a set of wide granite steps.
Puffing under his own weight almost as much as Kerr was beneath the weight of the trunk, he strode imperiously through the wide doorway at the top. He paused there for a moment, wheezing heavily. Then he led the way into the lantern-lit hall beyond. His footsteps echoed against the vaults of the masonry, and so did the voice that rang out at their approach. �Men here, brah!� it said, the tone so nervous that at first Kerr mistook it for outrage. �Sir Achal?� the fat man acknowledged his name.
�Thank you for your consideration.� He waved a podgy hand back towards Kerr. The Seneshal, a grey-haired man with a worried expression, looked past him in confusion. Then he shrugged and turned back to Braha. �Your chambers have been ready for your presence, Men here.� He said, rubbing his hands together and falling into step behind the fat man as he waddled away.
�If you have need of anything, just send your servant to me.� �Thank you, Seneshal.� Braha replied, not daining to turn back to look at him. �Good-bye.� �Good-bye, Men here.� Kerr was impressed. Whoever this Braha was, he knew how to make his flunkies jump. They followed their echoing footsteps down the hall and turned off into an arched corridor. It ended in another flight of steps, and Kerr fought the urge to curse as he was led up first one flight, then another.
By the time they reached Braha's chambers, both of them were dripping with sweat. Kerr followed the fat man into what appeared to be a study, and gratefully slid the trunk onto the floor. �You did well to carry that.� Braha flushed himself after his own exertions gestured towards the chest.
�Thank you, Men here.� �I must say, it makes a pleasant change to have found such a conscientious servant, especially� He continued as he eased himself down into a wooden chair that sat before the empty fireplace. �For a man in my profession, people talk a lot of nonsense, but then I suppose you college porters have more sense, eh? �Oh, yes, Men here.� Kerr said. He nodded his head emphatically, even though he had no idea what Braha was talking about. �Good, good.
Tell me, do you have any other duties to perform whilst I'm here?� A dozen lies suggested themselves, but Kerr decided on the easiest. �No, Men here. I'm here to look after your... your requirements.� He smiled to himself, pleased to have remembered the word. �Well, then� Braha said, getting back to his feet. �Get this fire going, and then you can go down to the kitchen and tell the chef to send me a paplata.
I'm going to have a quick nap, but you can wake me when it arrives.� �Yes, Men here.� Kerr said, scarcely believing his luck. �Him, a servant.� He'd often dreamed of such an easy life. He could hardly bring himself to believe that it had come true. But then he'd always counted himself as lucky. As Braha lumbered into the next room he slid the stolen coins into his purse, then busied himself with the fire, thrusting the conjurer's hat in deep into the kindling. �Men here. Men here, Braha.
Your snack has arrived.� Kerr pushed open the door of his master's sleeping chamber in time to see him struggling up into a sitting position. The solid oak of the bed beneath him squeaked as he moved, and the thick mattress curled up at the edges. �Good. Put it down over there.� he said, rubbing his eyes. Kerr carried the silver platter obediently over to a table and set it down.
The cold meats and candied fruits that were piled onto it would have fed a family for a week, even though Kerr had already exacted his tribute. �There's also somebody to see you men here, a messenger.� �Send him in, then.� Braha grumbled, easing himself off the bed and lumbering over to the tray of food. Kerr bowed in what he hoped was a courtly manner and went back out to where the messenger was waiting.
�Come on, then.� �He'll see you now.� The servant, who was little older than Kerr himself, nodded unhappily and followed him back into the bedroom. The sight of Braha eating seemed to make him even more nervous, and he rung his velvet cap between his hands. Kerr winked at him reassuringly. He couldn't see why everybody was so afraid of his new master. He seemed pleasant enough, and even if he did turn out to have a nasty temper, he'd be easy enough to outrun.
�Men here, Braha.� The messenger bellowed, nerves lending his voice the volume of a sergeant on a parade ground. �My master, the Signor Baladitio, requests that you come to the Eastern Library at your earliest convenience.� �Baladitio, eh?� Braha said, tearing the meat from a chicken leg in a single bite. He tossed the bone back over his shoulder and belched. What does he mean by earliest convenience? �I think he means now, Men here.� The messenger said, his voice now tightening into a squeak.
�Bloody cheek.� Braha mumbled, and started to smear marmalade onto a slice of ham. The messenger paled, and for a moment Kerr thought that he was about to make a run for it. But with an obvious effort, he pulled himself together, cleared his throat, and waited. Braha finished his morsel, and then with a last regretful glance towards his snack, hoisted himself to his feet. �Very well, tell Baladitio I'll be down directly.
I assume that all is ready.� �I don't know, Men here.� The messenger admitted. �You don't know?� Braha repeated. �A typical Baladitio. Well you just go tell him that I'll be along, at my earliest convenience.� �Yes, Men here.� The messenger said, and Albert bolted from the room. Kerr followed to see him out of his master's chambers. When he returned, Braha was just finishing off another slice of ham. The great leather book he had brought with him now clasped under his arm.
�Ah, there you are, boy.� He said when Kerr returned. �Get my trunk and follow me. I'm surprised you didn't tell Baladitio's idiot servant to stay and help you. Follow the man to hire such a damn fool.� Kerr said with an enthusiasm he hardly felt. �I can manage.� So saying he returned to the trunk and, giving it a look that a pit-fighter might have given an old adversary, he fell upon it and started wrestling it up onto his back.
Braha wandered past him and back out into the corridor where he headed straight for the first flight of stairs. Kerr cursed to himself as he staggered along behind, and for the first time he started to wonder if being a servant was such an easy life after all. By the time they finally reached their destination he knew that it wasn't. His tunic was soaked with sweat, and his muscles, already tender after his carriage journey, were screaming with pain.
Braha, waddling ahead into a vast chamber, seemed to remember him for the first time. �Just put it down there on that table.� He said, pointing to a massive lump of oak that rested on a dozen solid legs. Then he turned and opened his arms in greeting to the man who was approaching him. �Baladitio, my old friend, what a pleasure it is to meet you again.� Kerr squatted down and let the trunk slide off of his back.
Resisting the temptation to sit on it he staggered over to lean against the nearest pillar instead. As he got his breath back he gawped up at the heights of this great hall. The vaulted ceiling was almost lost in the gloom above, and the light that came in from the line of small windows that ran along the top of the walls cut through the darkness like so many bars. The only other light came from a cavernous fireplace that yawned at the other end of the hall.
Its flame sent shadows dancing across the flags of the floor, and the burning wood lent a sweetness to the stale air. But what really impressed Kerr were the book-shelves which climbed the walls. In the twilight gloom of this echoing space the ancient tomes and stained timber looked like some strange fungus, an organic growth that had covered the granite with an ivy embrace.
Here and there Mason's ladders rested against the shelves, and Kerr watched a servant clinging to the top of one as he struggled to free a book from its neighbours. Really wondering how much one of these books might be worth, Kerr turned his attention to the other inhabitants of the library. There was his master, of course, the fat man boomed with laughter as he embraced the dark-skinned man called Baledecchio.
And behind him, lost in their own conversations, half a dozen more of his colleagues were gathered. Each of them differed in complexion, in dress, in build. They spoke with varying accents and affected different mannerisms, and yet despite this, Kerr recognized the one thing that they did have in common. It was their arrogance. This was something that Kerr usually associated with Eltdorf's merchant princes, and for a moment he wondered if Braham might indeed be one of these rare creatures.
But somehow he doubted it. The man seemed as unconcerned about gold as he was about his waistline. He also seemed quite happy to move around without the usual gang of bodyguards who accompanied even moderately successful merchants. Kerr watched his master waddle around, shaking hands and clasping shoulders, and began to wonder exactly who he was. There was something of the aristocrat about him, although that wasn't it, either.
For one thing he had no title, and for another he spoke without the tortured vowels that the imperial elite effected. Then suddenly, with the shocking speed of a breaking limb, Kerr realized exactly what his master was. He staggered back towards the wall, clinging to it with dampening palms. Terror beat within his bony chest as if seeking release, and he felt his throat tightening into a scream. But no, no, he wouldn't scream, he wouldn't do anything.
Kerr took a deep breath, and with a self-control honed by a lifetime on the streets, he made himself relax, made himself think. So old Braha was a sorcerer. It was obvious enough, really, the fear that he inspired amongst others, this strange palace of books and bare walls, the massive tome that he kept gripped in his hand. Kerr felt his panic starting to return and fought it back. So Braha was a sorcerer. So what? One has to make a living, with a last deep, shuddering breath.
He flexed his neck and wiped his palms on the cloth of his britches. Then he slipped unobtrusively into the shadows, the better to remain unnoticed, while he watched exactly what it was that sorcerers did. There was no way, he decided, that it could be as bad as the stories made it out to be. No way at all, he'd just wait and see. Then and only then would he decide what to do next. He didn't have to wait long.
The sorcerers' greetings turned out to be as brief as they were, effusive, and they were soon gathered around the mighty oak table beside which Kerr had dropped Braha's chest. As Kerr watched, the sorcerer placed his book on the table and opened it. His movements were as slow and his face as solemn as that of a priest revealing some relic. And his back straightened in unconscious pride as he leafed through the vellum pages. His colleagues made no attempt to reflect this dignity.
Instead, they crowded around him, hunching over the book with the tense enthusiasm of gamblers over a dice-table. When they finally began to speak again, their words remained polite, but their voices were strained with nervous excitement. Kerr, torn between curiosity and the urge to remain inconspicuous, edged a little closer so that he could hear what they were saying. And you are sure that the College of Magic won't mind us casting this? The one called Baladesho asked.
The whine in his voice almost hidden beneath his forced hardiness. Oh, who cares what those idiots mined? If they were capable of properly studying their own medium, then they would have discovered this centuries ago. No, it is our duty as the Grey Order to set an example for the lesser orders. Here, here! A chorus of agreement rippled around the table, but the doubter was not so easily swayed. All right, but what about our own rules? Our own masters? Maybe we should consult with them first.
What do you mean? For the first time, Braha let his annoyance show. We have no masters in the Grey Order, only Brethren. Brethren who outrank us? Baladesho pointed out, but Braha wasn't impressed. Why bother them with every little experiment we undertake? When I formulated Braha's conjuration of the Chequenaires, I didn't tell anybody until it was perfected. The idea came to me when I… Yes, yes, yes. Another man who'd obviously heard this story before interrupted.
I don't really think we need to waste any more time talking about this. We all agreed to participate in today's experiment. Now, if everyone has brought their contributions, I suggest we make a start before somebody else comes along. But why should that matter? Baladesho asked sarcastically. After all, we've already agreed that nobody could possibly mind our operating in another courageous territory. But his colleagues weren't to be distracted.
With a shout, one of them sent the apprentices who had been lurking behind him off to fetch something that waited in another corner. Although they ran on their way over to it, they staggered on their way back, and no wonder. The bronze cauldron was huge, big enough to cook a man in, and it took all four of the lads to manhandle it to the spot the sorcerer indicated. "'Rat, then!' said Braha, rubbing his hands so enthusiastically that the empty cauldron might have been full of honeyed pork.
"'Let's get started. We should begin with the sulfur. I've a ram's hoard measured out already.' So saying, he waddled over to his trunk, unlocked the lid, and retrieved a stoppered horn from the depths within. He opened it and upended it over the pot with a flourish. There was a stream of yellow powder, a stink that reminded Kerr of an exploded corpse, and a grunt of approval from one of Braha's colleagues. "'Smells nicely refined,' he offered, and Braha nodded at the compliment.
"'Only the best, and I'm sure that your quicksilver is also well purified here, Grutus.' "'Of course!' the man nodded, and taking his cue added his own contribution to the cauldron. For the next few moments Kerr watched as one by one each of the assembled sorcerers took it by turns to add to the mixture. There were powders and liquids, nuggets of what might have been coal, and the reptilian pelt of a creature whose name he had never heard before.
It was only when Baladecia was asked to make the final addition that the spirit of cooperation waned. "'I'm really not sure about this,' he said, weighing something in his hand. A murmur of disapproval ran through his colleagues. "'What do you mean?' Braha asked, giving it voice.
"'What aren't you sure of?' "'I mean, why come your own triangles in particular?' The fragment you recovered mentions them, but maybe it refers to any coin that wears the same as they do.' "'No,' Braha said and pointed to his book. "'Look, it definitely says here three golden triangles from the fallen cities of the south.' "'So not necessarily come here after all, eh?' "'What else could it mean?' Baladecia shrugged.
"'Somewhere in Lostria.' "'Or the jungles below Arabia are here there full of treasure.' "'Ah, let's vote on it,' Braha snapped, his forced good-humour crumbling. "'All those in favour of our colleague making the contribution he agreed upon. And all against?' Seeing that he was defeated, Baladecia stalked over to the cauldron. Kerr watched as he opened his hand and dropped three pieces of metal into the mixture.
They flashed through the gloom like tiny comets, and instead of silver they were bright gold. The coins in Kerr's purse suddenly seemed as worthless as cobbles in comparison. He licked his lips and shifted uneasily. With a last regretful look into the cauldron, Baladecia turned back to table and joined his colleagues as they once more gathered around the book. Soon they had fallen to bickering again, but this time Kerr didn't hear a word they said.
All of his senses had narrowed to the invitingly open mouth of the cauldron and the ingredients which lay within. His fingers started to tingle as he sidled forward. His eyes remained on the sorcerers, but his mind was all on the gold, as transfixed as a rodent by a cobra's gaze. "'Right. That settled then.' Braha ended the discussion by slamming the book closed. "'We know the ingredients are right. We know the invocations are right.
It now only remains for us to prepare the conjuration.' He looked up in time to see Kerr retreating back into the shadows. "'Ah, still here, hey boy. Very conscientious of you. Better leave us now, though. Go, wait in the kitchens.' "'Yes, Menier.' Kerr said, bowing as he turned to leave the room. The other servants had gone already, fleeing from the hall like rats from a burning barn, and he knew that he should follow them.
He knew that it wouldn't do him any good to hang around here whilst his master got up to the god's new watt. And he knew that testing Braha's patience could be a dangerous game. But although he knew all of this, curiosity and the thought that there might be some more gold going to waste slowed his steps. There was a tapestry on the wall beside the door, a mildewed old thing with a faded pattern of crudely stitched figures.
Kerr reached out to brush his fingers along the rich texture of the cloth, then pushed against it. Just as he'd hoped, the material swayed back into a gap that lay between it and the wall. With a last look over his shoulder, Kerr slipped around the edge of the tapestry and wriggled behind it. He took a moment to get comfortable within its mouldy embrace, then peered back out from behind the faded cloth. For once the sorcerers had fallen silent.
Apart from the distant crackle of the fire, the only sound in the hall was the shuffling of the old men's feet as they circled the cauldron. As Kerr watched, even that stopped. The men froze into position with a sudden precision of halberdears. If it hadn't been for the continued rise and fall of their breathing, they might have been petrified.
Turned to stone, perhaps by the very craft they sought to master, they remained that way for a dozen heartbeats, and it occurred to Kerr that they seemed to be waiting for something. He looked around nervously, wondering if there was anybody here who he had missed. It was then that Braha began to sing. His voice was a deep, rumbling baritone that would have been the envy of any troubadour, and the vaults of this great hall gave it an even greater depth.
But the way that he sung would have cleared an inn, not filled it. There was no emotion in his voice nor any real tune. He was merely repeating meaningless words, the richness of his baritone wasted on the charmless dirge. Soon another voice joined his, and then another. The sorcerers followed Braha's lead and chanted the same flat dirge, mouthing the words with a perfectly timed harmony that was completely at odds with their previous bickering.
Kerr didn't know what he had expected, but it wasn't this, the strange monotonous singing pulsed on as tunelessly as the grind of a mill-wheel. Soon he began to fidget. It was getting hot behind the tapestry. Sweat started to trickle down his back, and the first twinge of a headache started to throb in his temples. He shrugged off this discomfort, and tried to concentrate on the sorcerers instead. Surprisingly, despite the fact that they still remained unmoving, they had grown flushed as well.
Kerr saw sweat trickling down Braha's brow, beating on his eyebrows and shining on his chins. The man beside him was also flustered. He looked as though he had spent the last minute sprinting, not singing. Kerr winced as his headache burst into a sudden stab of pain. Risking the movement, he raised his hands to his head and massaged his temples. When he looked back to the sorcerers, he saw that one of them was doing more than sweating. He was crying.
The man's battered face was wrinkled into a grimace of pain, and although tears were streaming down his cheeks, he continued to chant, his voice never faltering despite his obvious pain. Finally Kerr realized how difficult it was to breathe. As the air had become hotter so it had become thinner as though all the use had been baked out of it, he began to gasp, and noticed, with something like horror, that the air that he sucked in now tasted warmer than the inside of his mouth.
He squirmed nervously and cursed himself for a fool. He should never have stayed here, never have. Kerr weak-pierced his thoughts, his attention snapped back to the ring of sorcerers, and he saw immediately that one of them had fallen. The man was curled up on the floor, writhing around as he slapped himself on the face. But although he hit himself hard enough to spatter blood from his nose, Kerr doubted if it was this which had provoked such squeals of pain.
The fallen sorcerer's colleagues hardly seemed to notice his plight. All they did was to close the circle with their bodies, and to avert their eyes from the stricken man. With a frightened curse Kerr decided that being seen escaping was better than not escaping at all. He stumbled out from behind the tapestry and lunged towards the iron latch of the door. It wouldn't lift, it wouldn't even rattle. Biting back a surge of panic he tried again.
But although his knuckles shone white with the effort, the mechanism remained frozen. With the latch and the door to which it was bolted might have been carved from a single block of stone. With a whimper of pure terror Kerr backed away from the sealed door, his eyes darting around the hall for another escape route. Seeing that there was none he scuttled back to his hiding place, there to think of a way out.
Even as he disappeared behind the cloth another one of the sorcerers reeled away from the circle, his chanting disintegrating into a jagged peel of hysterical laughter. And then, as if coalescing from the very heat and madness which greased the air, the emptiness above the cauldron began to twist itself into a shape. At first it was a liquid, flowing thing, this shape. Little more than the heat haze which flowed over Altdorf's tarred rooftops on a high summer's day.
But soon it had thickened into an opaque mass, a flickering shape which hung in the air like some melting bauble. The rolling contours of its surface blurred and flowed, twisting the light into sickly new colours. Kerr's eyes started to water as he watched it, and the room began to mist pink until he blinked his bloody tears away. On the other side of the hall the hysterical sorcerer's laughter had degenerated into screaming.
Together with his fallen comrade, the agony of terror in his voice rose ever higher, making a terrible counterpoint to the steady chanting which still continued. It was then, with a sound like tearing flesh, that the molten air burst into a ball of flame. And yet Kerr saw it wasn't flame. Not really, it was too solid, too alive. He fell to his knees as the shape of the demon grew, towering above the sorcerers. Its skin burned like coals, and its eyes were furnaces.
Dragon's wings sprouted from its back, although it scarcely seemed to need them as it floated effortlessly in the burning air. Incredibly the sorcerers who ringed it stood fast, even more incredibly they continued to chant. All except Braha. The fat man drew himself up to his full height and spoke, his voice booming through the bedlam of hysteria and control. Foul creature! he roared, pointing an accusing finger at the demon. It is we who have summoned you, and it is we who have bound you.
Take heed of the potion from which we have summoned your infernal substance, and know that you are bound to our will. The thing turned effortlessly to look at him, its body seemingly weightless. For a second to split-second Kerr looked into its face. It was a mask of shifting features, a nightmare carved of fire. Kerr felt a patch of wetness spread from his crotch, and realized that he had wet himself. He didn't care. Foul creature!
Braha boomed, meeting the furnace pit of the thing's eyes with his own stern gaze. I command thee to reveal thy name. Speak! But the beast didn't speak. Instead, moving as lightly as a dancing flame, it reached out a black-clawed talon and grabbed the head of the nearest sorcerer. The smell of burnt hair and charred pork immediately filled the room. The man shrieked once and then fell silent. The demon swung the lifeless corpse from side to side as its claws crushed through skin, skull, brain.
The man's fellows fell silent, watching his doom with a horrified fascination. It was Baladeshu who broke their silence. I told you it was a waste to use my coins. He said, and suddenly everyone was moving. Some of the sorcerers bolted, heading for the door. Others rushed over to look at Braha's book, like cooks who can't quite believe that their recipe has gone wrong. And one, his beard jutting out defiantly, produced a talisman from beneath his robes, the charm flaring with bound lightning.
It was he who the demon took first. With a hiss of burning air it lunged forward. A single talon outstretched to unzip the man's belly, he screamed and fell back. But not before the demon had grabbed a handful of his steaming intestines, it tore them from its victim as easily as a butcher, gots a rabbit, and left him to die in the stink of his own boiled blood.
Next it turned its attention to the men huddled around the table, and Kerr was sure that his master's life was going to end there and then. But the commotion at the door saved him, perhaps forgetting the petty magics that had half a dozen sorcerers beat upon the ancient oak, their nerves finally shattering into hysteria. The demon regarded them balefully, its eyes flaring with white-hot malevolence. Then it struck. Wimpering pityably, Kerr hid his face in his hands.
He felt himself sliding to the floor, too weak with horror to stand up any longer, too weak with horror to do anything but bite the inside of his mouth, holding on to this sting of pain like a drowning man to a spar, and all around him the crunch and splatter of the demonic holocaust raged on. He had no idea how long it took for the noise to stop. It ended with a smash of splintering wood followed by the echo of distant cries.
Kerr, teeth chattering as though the sweltering heat was the chill of winter, forced himself to open his eyes. As soon as he did, he knew that he would have to start moving. The towering ranks of books were already ablaze, the ancient parchment and desiccated timber burning merrily away as if in celebration of the slaughter below. Forcing himself up onto his wobbling legs, Kerr stumbled towards the scorched splinters that were all that remained of the door.
As he passed through, he accidentally looked at the remains of one of the sorcerers and struggled against the wave of nausea that washed through him. Screams and cries of alarm were echoing from the stone halls ahead of him. Avoiding the passages that they came from, Kerr stumbled along. Eventually he found himself stepping out of a small door that led to a walkway along one of the college's walls.
Below him, Altdorf spread away, the chaotic patchwork of streets and workshops and hovels punctuated here and there by the towers of other colleges. Kerr shuddered, took a lungful of clean air and looked down. He was just in time to see the demon as it exploded out from some hidden door and hurled itself upon the city. But even from this height Kerr could see that it was weaker than it had been. The solidity of its form was dissolving, fading into flickering flame and blurred edges.
Only its rage seemed undiminished. It smashed over a passing cart and lunged at the trapped horses. Too late, though. Before it could do more than scorch the hair on their thrashing bodies, its fire died. For a moment Kerr thought that he could see the heat-haze which had heralded its coming, but then even that was gone. He took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped his hands on his britches.
As he did so he felt an unfamiliar shape in his pocket, when he remembered what it was the first ghost of a smile played across his pallid features. With a quick glance over his shoulder he took out the golden pyramid, hunching over it so that he could study it properly. Strange patterns, faded by time, marked four of the five sides of it, but Kerr was more interested in the weight of it. It was gold all right. Solid gold. He grinned, as suddenly and brightly as the rising sun.
The day just kept getting better and better. He took another lungful of fresh air, then braced himself to return to the halls below. In the cries and the crackle of flames he could hear opportunity calling. And that's the end. What did you think? A cautionary tale or a manual for wrongdoing? Personally, I think it's scally-waggery as it tends to be with those from the poorer quarters and with wizards, I might add. Any magical attendees, please take this as jest.
I have no wish to end up a pair of smoking boots. A thank you to the Thespians Union and to those who attended this lecture. Farewell, my Sigmund, I'll walk with you.