The Broken World, page 13
And then the circus master was bringing his tale to an end, and Benfro almost missed his cue. He had to rear back, beating his wings hard against the air to slow so that he could land in the right place. Wind from his wings rocked the tent, swinging the lanterns so that the shadows danced and whirled. The audience was poised between alarm and exhilaration, and in that one instant before the applause began Benfro saw something that sent a chill through his hearts.
They stood silently like sentinels, invisible to all but him. Benfro realized now that he was seeing the Grym and the aethereal superimposed upon the mundane world, that state of perfect perception Sir Frynwy and Meirionydd had tried so hard to teach him. It was the key to understanding the subtle arts, the interplay between the forces of Gwlad and every living thing. He recognized the magic now too. It was the very first spell he had ever learned from Ynys Môn. The spell of concealment. Only this was far more powerful, far more pervasive than anything the old hunter had ever shown him. It was no surprise that the people filling the tent could not see what was hidden. What was truly astonishing was that it was men themselves who worked the magic.
Benfro swept his gaze across the whole of the tent, turning slowly as if to accept the applause that he had hardly registered. With a feeling of utmost dread he realized that he was completely surrounded by silent, invisible warrior priests.
‘Go on, get out of here. If you’ve not got a ticket, you’re not getting in.’
Errol stared at the small crowd of people clustered at the gap in the temporary wall built around the circus. Palace guards flanked the entrance, and he knew they were posted all over the site, keeping unauthorized people away from the great tent and the king. He had watched Ballah arrive earlier, welcomed in by the circus master himself. Seeing the old man surrounded by his soldiers, Errol had felt a moment’s terror. He had imagined the king singling him out from the crowd, capturing him, torturing him. But the moment had passed as swiftly as it had come upon him, and he understood it was all part of Ballah’s magic, a projection broadcast to his subjects to keep them in awe of him. Now the king was inside, no doubt enjoying the show, and Errol was stuck outside, unable to find a way in.
Something brushed past him and he turned, hand instinctively going to the purse that hung at his belt under his cloak. The festival attracted every thief and pickpocket in all of Llanwennog, or so it seemed, and he had learned quickly to trust the instinct that told him someone nearby meant him ill. But this time there was no one close.
Errol stood in the shadows away from the flickering torches arranged along the roadside as it speared from the city gates. He had chosen the place as somewhere he might watch the entrance to the circus without being noticed, hoping that after a while the guards would lose interest, or perhaps that the crowd of hopefuls might disperse and he could try to charm his way in. After all, if Tegwin had fallen for his disguise, then maybe a palace guard would too.
Again he felt the sensation of someone brushing past him. Errol started and turned. Once more there was nothing. And yet he was sure someone had been there. It was a familiar feeling, the pull of the Grym when powerful magic was being performed, and it brought back memories of Emmass Fawr.
Thinking of the Grym was enough to bring it to his eyes. The lines defined the shape of the land, lighting it so that he felt he could walk confidently through the camp even if it were in total darkness. He felt the background murmur of their power, saw how the soldiers of the palace guard tapped them, constantly alert. And there was other magic around, indefinable against the noise of so much life, so many people gathered together in one small place. It chilled him; there was something wrong about it.
Errol drew further back into the shadows, trying to block out the noise and focus on something useful. He knew the immediate area was full of people, but it was a dragon he was looking for, and they cast a completely different sensation over the Grym. Tentatively, he reached out along the lines, looking for that telltale feeling, that sense of familiarity that he felt sure he would recognize from Benfro.
There was nothing.
He looked once more at the wooden boards painted with the images of two dragons. In the flickering torchlight they moved as if dancing. He knew that they must be inside somewhere. Loghtan had talked up his show endlessly. Everyone wanted to see it. Even the king had come. There were dragons; there had to be. So why couldn’t he sense them?
Closing his eyes, Errol tried to will away everything but the Grym. He centred himself, as he had been taught by the quaisters at Emmass Fawr and earlier still by Sir Radnor, then felt his way along the lines once more, searching all the while for Benfro or any dragon at all.
It was a confusing mess of thoughts and images. He pushed aside petty arguments over sleeping arrangements, drunken anger boiling over to violence, the inconsolable anguish of a child lost in a crowd, the eager anticipation of an audience waiting for the main act to come on. And then he felt something – the merest hint of dragon thought, dragon empathy. It was something he had felt before, and he reached for it instinctively.
There was that curious vision of an infant child snuggling alongside a tiny dragon hatchling; of Father Gideon, his face etched with worry and sorrow; of the dead Princess Lleyn, her skin soft and pale, not tanned and leathery. In the instant Errol recognized the touch of Morgwm’s jewel the world outside seemed to slip away. The gentle breeze that had been rustling his long hair disappeared. The noise muted, softening as if he had stuck his head in a box. The burned-grease smell of the torches changed to a more delicate mixed scent of polished woods, dusty linen and stale sweat. Opening his eyes, he saw that he was no longer in the shadows outside the circus, but standing in a darkened room.
For a moment Errol was confused, but it didn’t take long for his mind to catch up. He had sensed Morgwm’s jewel and in that instant stepped to the place where it lay. It didn’t take a genius to work out that he must be in one of the wagons that the circus people used as homes, most probably Loghtan’s own. Suppressing his excitement at having once more walked the lines, even if he was still unsure quite how it was that he did it, he set about searching the small wagon for his stolen bag.
Pale orange light filtered in through a pair of small grubby windows. Already accustomed to the dark, Errol could make out a narrow cot bed built into one wall, its sheets thrown back untidily, the pillow crumpled and stained. Directly in front of him a small table was strewn with bits of paper, plates of half-eaten food and two empty pewter goblets. Beyond it a large wooden cupboard with wide drawers at its base had been built into the end of the wagon. Errol opened the cupboard doors to release a stench of stale sweat that made him gag. Holding his breath, he went methodically through all of Loghtan’s dirty clothes. There was nothing that hadn’t been repaired many times before; even his boots were patched and re-patched. But neither was there anything resembling a large leather satchel of money with two dragon jewels wrapped in cloth at the bottom.
The drawers beneath were filled with all manner of junk, some of it probably quite valuable but so dirty as to be unrecognizable. There were broken bits of harness, goblets set with jewels that might have been valuable or might have been coloured glass, greasy rolls of parchment, their edges frayed and cracked with repeated mishandling. Errol pulled one out, squinting in the dim light as he tried to read the words scrawled upon it in looped handwriting. As far as he could tell, it was a spell of location, though from what he could read, he wasn’t sure how it could possibly work. He put it back, rifling quietly through the rest of the contents of the drawers and turning up nothing.
Looking around the rest of the wagon, he couldn’t see where anything might be hidden. It was a bare place, quite without ornamentation. Then his eyes fell once more on the bed. It was a raised wooden construction, about waist height off the floor, and the space underneath the mattress was blocked off by a plain wooden board. Errol felt around the edge of the bed, seeking a latch. He found a small hole just large enough to hook his fingers through and pulled up. Mattress, sheets, pillow and bed board lifted on well-oiled hinges to reveal a dark space beneath. There was even a hook and eye to stop it all from falling back down again.
At first Errol thought it was only more junk, a similar jumble to that in the drawers. But when he lifted out a dented metal jug its weight and lustre told him that it was gold. He put it back carefully, feeling in the darkness for something more familiar. Soon his hands grasped a thin cloth strap he was sure he knew. Gently he pulled out the bag that he had made back in Corwen’s clearing. And by the weight of it nothing had been taken from inside.
And then the strap slipped in his hands, the bag crashing back into the junk with a noise that must have been heard on the other side of the city. Errol froze, his heart hammering away in his chest, his ears ringing with the noise as he listened for the sound of feet running to investigate. None came, and after a minute or two, still shaking but a little more composed, he reached back inside to pull out the bag again.
As he did so, he noticed a soft glow from something beneath it. Curious, he lifted out a small cloth drawstring pouch lit from within. Opening it revealed a perfectly round glass ball, like a child’s marble. White fire burned inside it, although the ball gave off no heat. As his fingers touched its smooth surface, the light changed, swirling to form a picture. Errol stared into the orb and almost dropped it. Two tiny dragons sat in the middle of a packed-earth arena, surrounded by people. He looked over at the grimy window of the caravan and the great tent beyond. Was he seeing Benfro in there? And who was the other dragon?
A roar came from the tent, shocking Errol back to his senses. This was not a safe place to be. He dropped the orb back into its pouch and put it into his bag before lifting the whole thing out. Only then did he discover that the strap had been cut, so he had to reach underneath to take the weight.
Something brushed the side of his hand, and he felt a shock of familiar feeling run through him. It was like Benfro, like Morgwm, only different. Another dragon or something to do with one. Errol explored with his fingers, fetching out a small rectangular wooden box. It was no bigger than his hand but exuded a power that made it feel as heavy as a boulder. Putting it down on the table, he opened it to reveal a dozen small red jewels.
He snapped the box shut, remembering all too well the fleeting touch of Magog’s unreckoned jewel. Bad enough that Benfro was shackled to one; how would he, Errol, survive under the onslaught of so many more? And yet there was something different about them. They should not have been here, should have been reckoned and laid to rest. He was filled with an urge to find the dead remains of whatever poor beast had yielded them up and … What?
Errol shook off the strange feeling and turned back to his bag. He dumped the whole thing on the table and opened it up, feeling around for its precious contents. Both jewels were still there, tightly wrapped in their cloths. He transferred them to the pockets in his cloak, along with the mysterious orb in its cloth pouch, and sorted through the gold coins, adding a few of the smaller ones to the money in the leather purse at his belt. He put the damaged bag back with the rest of the hoard and dropped the bed back into place.
It was as he was stepping over to the door that Errol heard the noise of keys being jangled on a chain, one slotting into the lock. He backed away, looking for somewhere to hide even as he knew it was too late, and saw the small wooden box still lying on the table. Before he could do anything, the door was open. A lantern held aloft cast yellow light over the interior of the wagon, and over the leering face of Tegwin, an odd smile on his lips.
‘Thought I heard a little mouse in here, didn’t I. Daddy got hisself a bit of slap and tickle fer afters, eh? Well, Tegwin don’t mind sharing.’ He threw the bunch of keys on to the table, hanging the lantern from a hook in the ceiling as he pulled shut the door with one hand, the other going to his belt.
Melyn watched the solid aethereal forms of his warrior priests move through the city like foraging ants. He sat in a comfortable chair in the distastefully opulent study of Master Cheldrum, the merchant who had for many years been his most reliable eyes and ears in Tynhelyg. He could see the ornately carved wooden panelling, the gilt-framed pictures of dour-looking men and women, the bow-legged table upon which sat a gold wine jug and several goblets worth more than a soldier might expect to earn in a lifetime. And he could see further still, throughout the house, the street, the merchants’ quarter of the city. He could even see Frecknock, though she was standing behind him. Her presence was reassuring now, an anchor from the pull of the book open in front of him.
It was without doubt a thing of great power. Perhaps equal to Brynceri’s ring, the artefact that linked him directly to the Shepherd. Melyn knew he could spend several lifetimes studying the Llyfr Draconius and not even scrape the surface of what was contained within. Its magic had brought him and his army unseen across the central plains of Llanwennog to Tynhelyg in a day, a journey that should have taken a week at least, if not longer. It had shown him how to hide even more completely from sight, so that King Ballah’s personal guards, trained as well as any warrior priest, could not see him or his men even though they walked right past them. And now it allowed him to watch as his plan unfolded, delivering the city into his hands.
‘I find it hard to believe that the city is so poorly guarded. I would never leave Queen Beulah with so few skilled warriors.’
‘King Ballah feels no need of men to protect him,’ Frecknock said. ‘He’s the most powerful magician in Llanwennog; his ability to read the minds of those around him is legendary. And this far from the border he feels safe. They’ve all gone to the front.’
‘Well, I don’t intend to spurn the Shepherd’s gift,’ Melyn said. ‘Come.’ He shifted his focus, no longer needing to go into the trance that would let him slip into his aethereal form. He had been watching his men all the while, but now he concentrated on those surrounding the barracks. Inside its walls several hundred palace guards slept, ate, tended their horses or played cards. Mostly he could see them as indistinct forms, undisciplined flames of life, but one or two were more robust. These would be the skilled magicians and the few who might be able to see his hidden warrior priests. But they would need to go into a trance, and at their ease, in the barracks, they would have no reason to do that.
‘Ah, here we go.’ He moved forward, imagining himself flying over a long low dormitory building. Warrior priests entered at one end and made their slow way along the beds towards the other. One by one the flickering flames of life, sleeping soldiers, winked out, a silent stiletto to each heart.
Melyn pulled back, watching the whole barracks now, looking for signs that the alarm had been raised. They never came. His men were well trained and knew how to sow confusion in the enemy’s minds. Soldiers wandered away from the mess hall and into unsheathed knives; they found themselves suddenly needing to go outside or wanting to be alone, and always there were warrior priests waiting. Aided by the book, the magic stolen from the Shepherd so many years before, they could hide the bodies from sight as well. At least until there was no one left to see them. It was all over in half an hour.
Melyn turned his all-seeing eyes to the palace and watched as a similar game was played out. Here there was a slightly different strategy. He had no desire to kill the servants, so their flames of life found themselves compelled to visit the festival outside the city walls, even though they should have been preparing meals, cleaning rooms or the hundred and one other things servants did. There were far fewer guards here, and they winked out of existence quickly. Satisfied that all was going to plan, the inquisitor pulled himself back to the mundane world, narrowing his vision to just what he could see with his eyes.
‘It’s time for me to go,’ he said, closing the book and standing up. Behind him, Frecknock turned to follow him, but he shook his head. ‘You must stay here.’
If she was disappointed, she didn’t show it, merely nodding as she settled herself back down on to the floor by the window. She didn’t really fit in the room, making it look tiny where in fact it was huge. At least it had large enough doors for her.
‘As you order, Your Grace. But please go carefully.’
Melyn said nothing, unsure quite how he felt about her concern. She had proved her value to him many times over, and he had to admit she had saved his life more than once. His god had hinted that she might have spurned the way of the Wolf and accepted the Shepherd into her heart, but even so Melyn was reluctant to trust her. A lifetime of enmity was not so easily overturned. And dragons had two hearts anyway.
A squad of warrior priests waited in the hall outside the study. Melyn closed the door firmly behind him, beckoning them over.
‘You two stay here and guard the house. If I’ve not sent for you by dawn, then you must assume we have failed. Take the book back to Andro at Emmass Fawr. And kill the dragon. The rest of you, with me.’
Outside the night was cool, stars pricking through gaps in the low cloud. They marched down the streets unhidden; there were few people out and about anyway and Melyn no longer cared that he might be seen. It wasn’t far to the city wall, and the gates were thrown wide, unguarded as if Tynhelyg had already fallen. Perhaps, he thought, it has.
Ballah was at the circus, that much Melyn already knew. As he approached it he could see a great crowd of people clustered around the entrance, no doubt trying to get in. He ignored them and the palace guard holding them back, walking instead alongside the wooden wall that separated the circus from the rest of the vast tented city spread over the plain. Around the back there was a small entrance for the circus performers, and it too was guarded.
‘You can’t come in here, sir. Not unless you’ve got a pass.’ One palace guard strode forward to meet him, the other staying back. Melyn noted their professionalism, for all the good it would do them.
