“I knew those bones were my Lisitsa’s. Without magic, she’d died and decayed in magic space. Her bare bones had fallen out into that wood. Because of the pet name I’d given her, do you see? That name anchored her magically to that bit of our world. So that’s where she skidded to, decomposing, nothing to sustain her or guide her.” Brant wiped a tear from his other eye. “Mount up, me lad. It’s the last leap for us.”

  We ended up in a woodland of giant oaks. A solitary rift in the leaf canopy showed top-heavy anvil clouds, fast darkening. Brooding heat and gloomy stillness threatened an imminent outburst of lightning, a concert of thunderclaps. I hopped down. We were standing beside a rutted roadway.

  “Yon storm should blow over,” said Brant. “I smell nothing magical about it. Let’s picnic.”

  We sat against a great trunk and ate cold chicken which Brant had brought. We washed it down with beer and brandy. The air grew stickier and thicker. Thunder crashed deafeningly. Flashes illuminated the forest. Wind whipped wildly through the upper foliage. Water sluiced upon the green umbrella, ripping holes in it, dripping downwards, rinsing the air clean and cool.

  Brant stood up; I followed suit.

  “You’d best be off, lad. Once you’re in Chorny, if you cry havoc I’ll leap to your side. Nothing gets in the way of a knight whose dander’s up. Mind you take care of yourself, now.”

  He hugged me then shoved me gently in the right direction.

  As Brant had predicted, by the time I cleared the forest the weather was fair. The road took me out of the trees, then down through sheep-cropped vales to the dark, barge-bearing river Vada. There, the rural road joined a highway leading south. This highway soon entered a small town with the big name of Kalkoz Gorodok.

  What shall I say about the enemy population? Darker skin and black hair predominated; otherwise they looked much like our own population. Their speech presented no problems. It was the magic, not the common language which varied.

  I found a jewellery and pawnbroking shop where I disposed of one of my thick gold rings in exchange for a handful of zolat coins of the realm. Brant and I were carrying our gold in the form of rings. It’s always plausible to pawn or sell a wedding-ring.

  Supplied with cash, I visited a bar-restaurant where I ordered hot beet soup with ham bones. Nobody accused me of being a stranger. Obviously I had an accent, though not an outlandish one. Within a few days I ought to conform to Chorny tones of voice.

  I walked on southward along the highway amidst fields of wheat stubble, sometimes alongside the broad, winding Vada. Peasant carts, pulled by stocky nags or donkeys, were using the road. Occasionally a speedier rider cantered past. Once a small detachment of cavalry pranced by; my heart skipped, but the soldiers paid me no attention.

  Evening was already drawing in. I toyed with the idea of finding a bed in some rural hamlet. Goose- down pillows, perhaps! It would be wiser to curl up in the corner of a pasture; and not unpleasant. The storm had swept away the previous oppressive heat. Warm tranquillity reigned. I visualized myself lying like a happy dog in a nest of grass, listening to crickets and nightcrakes and to an owl hooting somewhere in a nearby coppice, watching the southern stars slowly revolve overhead.

  Evening notwithstanding, the road remained busy; so I pressed on. As night fell I found myself in the town of Garodskoy-where I was amazed to encounter a new means of transportation.

  Peasants with baskets of cheeses or cages of chickens were flocking like moths towards a long platform of black marble lit by bright lanterns hanging from an ebon canopy, which was supported on columns of wrought iron.

  A gravel track stretched away into the darkness. Iron rails bolted to baulks of timber were bedded in the gravel. Upon these rails there stood a row of long, open-sided carriages linked to one another by iron couplings. The carriages were lamp-lit. At the head of the row I saw an iron chariot with two tall chimneys. One chimney puffed grey smoke; steam hissed from the other.

  Painted in silver letters along that chariot were the words: ROYAL CHORNY RAILWAYS. Below: THE QUEEN BABULA. Two powerful lanterns, located like eyes, focused beams of light ahead upon the track.

  I made enquiries and found that for the cost of a mere half-zolat I could buy a ticket to ride all the rest of the way to Chorny. I would arrive at the capital within thirty minutes-just as the city was getting into the full swing of night.

  Generally, a farmer’s day extends from dawn till dusk. If country dwellers wanted to do business in the capital, obviously they had to suit themselves to the nocturnalism of Chorny city. So a “railway” had been built to speed market-suppliers to the city and back home again. They needn’t remain awake all night as well as all day.

  I bought a ticket. Boarding one of the carriages, I squeezed on to a bench amidst burly peasant women wearing headscarves; and their hens, their trussed piglets, their strings of dried mushrooms. Soon steam squealed louder than any porker, the carriage jerked violently, and away we rattled through the night.

  Half an hour later I was staring out at the gas-lit streets of Chorny; we were soon entering Vauxhall Station.

  Vauxhall Station was a great, wrought-iron hall brightly lit by burning gas. Half a dozen sets of iron rails culminated here at half a dozen marble platforms. I spotted two more “trains” of carriages with engines named THE BISHOP LOVATS and THE PRINCE KRAY (after a nobleman killed long ago in the war). At a third platform open-top goods wagons stood engineless; porters were unloading mesh sacks of potatoes on to a succession of horse-drawn carts.

  Beyond the “ticket-barrier” travellers thronged around refreshment kiosks buying soup, hot sausages, and drinks which I later learned were mead brewed from buckwheat or alfalfa. Black-clad militia were patrolling in pairs, but I was soon deep in a crowd. I could congratulate myself on arriving inconspicuously in the very heart of Chorny.

  I went through an archway into Ploshad Square-one of many names I was to learn subsequently. Open- air cafes reminded me of Terga Square back home. This Chorny equivalent possessed none of the same piped-icing elegance. Ploshad Square was huger. Buildings were monolithic and flat-faced. Long black banners hung like shrouds or roosting bats, with royal features etched in silver reflecting the light of many powerful gas-lamps.

  Newly arrived peasants were flocking along Peryulok Prospect towards a bazaar. Southward, lit by incandescent globes slung on overhead wires, Glavny Boulevard swept towards the palace by way of Perehod Square and Most Bridge.

  I bought a copy of the Gazeta, and asked the vendor the easiest route to the address which I’d been given, on Zabludilsy Lane. This person regarded me suspiciously but advised that I head down Glavny almost to Perehod Square, then cut through Prakhoda Arcade on to Ulitsa Avenue and enquire again.

  This I did. I arrived in a busy warren of alleys and wynds between Ulitsa and the river. Further pleas for advice brought me to the lane I sought: serpentine, solely lit by light spilling from uncurtained apartment windows. No curtains were closed anywhere; I saw people cooking, washing, working.

  How abominable to decree a whole city of people to live by night, and never to enjoy the day! To compel all children to go to night-school! (I’d seen kids hurrying by with their satchels.) And to keep windows uncurtained by night! Any Bellogardian would have echoed my reaction. Besides, night was the time when naughty Seveno district came into its own. How could this be so, if everyone was busy working? The prospect of sin by day somehow seemed less satisfying.

  If I seem pedantic about places, names, and directions, that’s because I would need to familiarize myself swiftly to survive, and do so by darkness and artificial light. As I was to learn, it wasn’t exactly forbidden to wander abroad by day through the city, but you would draw attention to yourself. The militia would want to know why.

  Few tenements were named or numbered, but finally I located number 17, Zabludilsy. I pushed open the heavy front door, then... did not enter. Inside, the tenement was pitchblack. At least outside there was some light from windows.

  Here was yet another way in which Chorny controlled its citizens; which explained the news-vendor’s suspicions. Ordinarily people would only go to places they already knew well. I couldn’t conceive of a Chorny child roaming freely around town, the way I had roamed around much of Bellogard at a tender age. If you don’t roam as a child, how will you get into the habit as an adult?

  I had a box of lucifers and some candles in my scrip. I lit one; pushed the door again. The hall of the tenement was surprisingly clean. I’d expected to find piles of rubbish lying about. On the principle of “what the eye doesn’t see”, what impetus to tidiness was there?

  Come to think of it, the alleys had seemed neater than any back lanes in Bellogard. If you can’t see your course too clearly, it’s only good sense to keep the way uncluttered!

  I heard piano music from above. A nocturne, no doubt. Climbing to the next floor by candle-light, I banged on the door from which the music came.

  The piano fell silent. The door opened, spilling bright lamplight. A tall thin man scrutinized me through silver-rimmed spectacles. He wore a black suit with open wing-collar and loosened bow tie. What long slim fingers he had! But his knuckles were as hairy as an ape’s.

  “What is it?”

  Opening my scrip, I showed the edge of a star chart. “Matyash sent me.”

  “Inside, quickly.”

  Skripka had to leave in a few minutes to teach piano and violin at Shkola Gymnasium. He examined my star-coded credentials, then quickly set out a lavish buffet of salami, sardines, salad, pickles, bread, mineral water, and a bottle of peppery white spirit-perhaps I might be starving and dying of thirst? He sped me on a hasty tour of his apartment, pointing out every lamp and explaining any idiosyncracies, obviously another essential of hospitality in this murky city. Then he bade me farewell.

  I ate. Afterwards I wandered around the apartment, thankful that I hadn’t arrived outside Skripka’s door half an hour later to find no one at home.

  The amount of books on the shelves amazed me. This place was a veritable bibliotek, except that none of the volumes were blank. Many were musical scores. Others were works of musicology, philosophy. and fiction. What a large number of long, heavy “novels” there were. I flipped through a few. They all seemed to concern the daily lives of farmers or fabricators, fishermen or foresters; commoners all. Judging by the paragraphs I scanned, all these novels were highly optimistic in tone, full of constructive and aspiring sentiments.

  I’d been awake for hours on end, ever since discovering Matyash’s body in another country. I needed to rest. Leaving all lamps lit, I lay on a couch. and awoke to find Skripka looming over me. He had taught all night, and returned.

  Faint grey light was seeping through the windows, dimming the lamps. Skripka closed heavy black drapes throughout to banish this invading dawn-light. Then he replenished the buffet. We talked for two whole hours, then he insisted that we must put out the lamps and sleep till the sun went down again.

  I had learned a good deal from him. (He had learned less from me.) Zabludilsy Lane was near the bottom of Kholm Hill; and Kholm Hill housed the Planetera, the astrology observatory. The river Vada, south-flowing up to this point, turned sharply westward beyond Kholm Hill, between it and the Abrif Cliffs. The east and north flanks of the hill were given over to the Sahdi Gardens. Those sloped down to encompass the Khram, where Bishop Lovats lived.

  I had asked Skripka why there were so many “novels” about commoners.

  “Ordinary people, like me, read a lot,” Skripka explained. “We like to read about ourselves-as everyday heroes. The palace encourages this. They hope that everyone will struggle as hard as can be to make the kingdom strong and prosperous. Actually, here’s the Achilles’ heel of our ruling class. One night our people will realize that they don’t need the dictatorship of the court. The regime will wither away spontaneously.”

  “But.” I started to object. I shut up, and instead I enquired about the Chorny equivalent of our Seveno district, which was where I imagined I would need to hang out. Perhaps Chorny’s Seveno operated by day?

  I had to explain Seveno to Skripka. He stared at me, nonplussed.

  “Casinos? There’s no such thing. Not in any public building.! Houses of prostitution, where men buy women’s bodies for an hour’s use? There’s nothing of the sort in Chorny. Not openly! That’s a fact. Danger in dark streets? What danger? What cutpurses? That would be crime, and crime’s forbidden.

  The militia would stamp out crime in a single night.”

  I felt mildly embarrassed. “I hope I’m not giving you the impression that Bellogard is a totally rowdy, lustful, feckless town!”

  “Sounds to me as though it is.”

  “Those are just. aspects, which add spice to life. Some amusement and excitement.”

  “Which you defend? What a peculiar messenger for Matyash to send.”

  I improvised hastily. “One adopts protective colouration to pass oneself off in Bellogard.”

  “No need for that in Chorny! Everything’s black and white. Black of our city, white of our lamps. Our city, I hasten to add. The people’s city, not the royal court’s. King Mastilo and Queen Babula are hardly very moral in private, I fear. The king’s reputed to be secretly sadistic, and the queen indulges in many covert lusts.”

  “They sound a fine pair to impose strait-laced ethics and darkness on everybody else!”

  “Nonsense. Bishop Lovats guides the soul of this city.” “Lovats? Ah, tell me about him! Then please tell me about the other nobles. And oh yes, the squires. Especially the squires. Their behaviour, their habits.”

  For the second time within twenty-four hours I slept soundly. There was something protective and comforting about slumbering the daylight away, as though I were a sick child being cared for, so that nothing could harm me.

  That evening Skripka took me to the Planetera to meet the astrologer, Mr Augusti.

  We set off as dusk was thickening. Presently we were following a gas-lit path up Kholm Hill through the north end of the Sahdi Gardens. Silvery foliage shone in the artificial lighting, and the air was heavy with the nocturnal scent of nicotiana. Away to the north-east Skripka pointed out the floodlit rectangular bulk of the Khram. The black marble of the bishop’s residence presented a glossy mirror to the powerful beams of gaslight focused upon it.

  The Khram was where Sara might well be. Skripka had told me the names and ranks of the three surviving Chorny squires. Queen Babula’s personal squire was called Slooga. Prince Feryava’s pawn- squire was named Jigger. Sara was officially squire to Bishop Lovats.

  Might she sense my presence, through a sudden stab of migraine? If she suspected, might she try to seek me out solo? I was her cure, if she killed me.

  Squire Sara had only turned up at court in recent years, according to Skripka. Well, that was no mystery to me. Nominal rank notwithstanding, maybe she was assigned to somebody other than Lovats. It had not been Lovats who had swept down on Bellogard four years earlier in company with Feryava. It had been Bishop Zorn.

  The dome of the Planetera was, naturally, in darkness. When we arrived at the summit of the hill, and before we entered the observatory, I could see right across the Vada to the palace. Far huger than the Khram, the royal palace likewise was monolithic, black, and floodlit.

  Maybe Sara was there.

  What folly. Here was I, the bishop-slayer on an urgent, violent mission, and uppermost in my mind was love for an enemy squire, a love which might only amount to a concocted obsession. Here was I, wondering whether I could show her an alternative to war between us. whilst conspiring to kill Sara’s own bishop.

  As I stared across the river, it seemed as though the whole scene of spangled darkness was merely an evil duplicate of Bellogard. If I could view palace and Khram and river and city by day, naked under sunlight, I would at once know how very different this city and its buildings and the local topography were. To see Chorny by day when the streets were empty was the one thing I dared not do.

  “I wonder about you,” said Skripka. “I wonder if Matyash really sent you.”

  “The starmaps prove he did.”

  “Yes, yes, I know. You’re highly recommended.”

  We entered, and he lit a handy lantern.

  No tottering wooden scaffold met my gaze. An elegant wrought-iron tower reared up, enclosing a spiral staircase. We climbed to a broad, railed observation platform, open to the night air. The top section of the dome consisted of curved glass panels. These had been cranked apart, unfolding the window segments like the petals of some night-blooming flower.

  Mr Augusti sat ensconsed amidst an elaborate machine. A padded chair was slung at a tilt beneath a giant, sky-pointing tube resembling the muzzle of a great bombard. Wheels, flywheels, and levers were to hand to manoeuvre the machinery. Little mirrors and lenses surrounded his head. Candle-light fell on notebooks, pen and ink. The astrologer’s hands moved nimbly, instinctively, adjusting levers, shifting little discs and toggles. If the machine were a bombard, he might have been about to blast a ball of flaming pitch into the heavens, creating a new comet amongst the stars.

  “Skripka here, Mr Augusti! We have a visitor.”

  A head ducked out. A body followed: of a skinny, slight, angular figure. Augusti was a spider of a man. He scuttled, and froze in odd poses. His voice was high and squeaky.

  He heard Skripka out impatiently. Seizing Matyash’s star charts, he rushed to pore over them. I wandered to his apparatus to examine it.

  “Don’t touch!” he squawked, as soon as my hand strayed out. “You’ll upset the gears. You’ll warp the azimuths.” Like a spider he seemed alert to menacing movements from any quarter. I imagined him leaping suddenly from the platform to dangle by a silken thread.

  “Sorry”

  “Hush, fellow. I’m concentrating.”