Sara was staring in amazement. “We would travel there together?”

  “You see, there’s a resonance between us. There’s congruence; sympathetic vibration.”

  “If the two of you could kindly postpone your courtship till a later occasion? I should like to know more about this ‘certain knight’. Such as his exact whereabouts at this moment.”

  “Honestly, I’ve no idea.”

  “Honestly, indeed. I’ll rephrase my question. He’s lurking somewhere in our kingdom, right? You would hardly have travelled here without any back-up. From what you say you must recently have hitched a ride through magical space. Bellogard’s mounting an attack; isn’t that so?”

  I said nothing.

  “A single knight isn’t sufficient. Prince Ruk or Bishop Veck must also be involved. Kindly tell me.” Lovats jerked the noose but slackened it before causing too much discomfort. “You planted yourself in the Planetera, Squire. Presumably I’m the main target. Am I supposed to feel kindly disposed towards you?”

  “Bishop Lovats isn’t evil.” Sara spoke pleadingly, as if it was I who held a dagger to the bishop S throat.

  “If somebody’s backing me up,” I said, “and if I tell, you would want me to lure them. How could I ever do that?”

  Lovats sighed. “There’s no advantage, whoever wins. One gets so very tired at times! The endless struggle, the knowledge of doom. One yearns for the final day. Are you feeling sick of existence, Squire?” The blade touched my throat.

  “It might be possible for a few of us to escape magically into some other universe.”

  “I do believe you’re trying to seduce me from my solemn duties. Enough of this prevarication! Answer me.”

  I had no chance to answer, or not answer. The door crashed open. Surrounded by black militia, a wiry, wily, bitter figure hobbled into the chamber, a crutch tucked under his armpit. I recognized Prince Feryava.

  “Well captured, Bishop! Well captured, indeed.”

  The prince’s eyes were black coals but they also burned feverishly. A slim drooping black moustache framed his mouth.

  “You mustn’t keep him to yourself, Bishop! King Mastilo will enjoy interrogating this whelp. I shall escort him to the palace.

  “How did you know about this so soon, Feryava?”

  “We don’t have personal secrets, do we, noble Bishop? We are on the same side, aren’t we?”

  “Aye, that we are-by destiny! I suppose a militiaman tipped you off. I wonder which one?” Lovats patted me upon the shoulder. “You’ll have to go with the prince, young man.”

  “No!” cried Sara.

  “No?” Feryava echoed sarcastically. “Did I hear a squire of Chorny speak? Has your stay in Bellogard corrupted you?”

  Lovats said to Sara, “Obedience. Loyalty. Patience.” He stressed the last word. “The final battle may be imminent. All may soon be over. Nothing much will happen till nightfall. We wouldn’t wish to disturb Their Majesties’ rest, eh, Feryava?”

  “True.”

  “You had best use the time to question Mr Augusti, Sara. Wake him up. Don’t let him snake out of answering. See that he paints a true picture for us.”

  “Oh yes. I will.”

  Dared I hope?

  I was gagged again and led out. Several curtained carriages waited outside the Khram, their horses sneezing and snickering in the unfamiliar sunlight.

  Twenty minutes later I was hustled out of a carriage into the deep, shady well of a palace courtyard. Torches were lit, and I was shoved through a stone doorway. Worn, narrow steps, forty or fifty of them, led steeply downward.

  Into the bowels of an enormous vaulted dungeon.

  I didn’t like what I saw. Two obese, hairy-chested gaolers snored on straw pallets. A brazier glowed, with a branding-iron resting in the charcoals. A set of stocks was riveted to one roughstone wall-at least three metres from the ground so that any prisoner locked in that contrivance would have to hang upside-down by the ankles. Worse, his feet would be fixed horizontally. How long could he keep his knees bent to ease the strain? Ten minutes? While his twisted ankles, gouged by rigid iron loops, took his whole weight. Ankles might snap. The victim would hang by broken bones with his own bulk dragging dreadfully.

  There were other vile devices. A rack. Hoists and pulleys. An iron maiden. Thumbscrews.

  This was Chorny? The city of gaslight and science and the railway? I felt utterly sick. Faint with fear. Feryava hadn’t come downstairs. The militia roused the gaolers, who chained my wrists behind my back, and added a leather gag. Barechested, dressed in open leather waistcoats, with leather skirts like butchery aprons cloaking their great thighs, the brutes stank of body odour.

  One gaoler nodded hopefully at those stocks upon the wall. The other grunted questioningly.

  “No,” said a militiaman. “Not quite yet. Stick him in a cell.”

  Tiny cells occupied one wall. I was crammed into one of these filthy little cages. In the adjacent cubicle of bars lay a ragged human scarecrow. Maybe asleep, maybe dead. The rest of the cells were empty.

  “Welcome to my pleasure chamber!”

  Thus King Mastilo greeted me. The king’s stout body was stuffed into a black uniform which did not quite manage to hide all his bulges. Red sash and sunburst and braid proclaimed him to be Generalissimo, or Grand Commander, or even High Admiral for all I knew. His legs tapered into incongruously dainty ankle-boots against which he tapped a furled whip.

  (“Is the wretch in the next cell your tailor by any chance, Majesty?”) No, I didn’t say anything of the sort. I had hardly shut my eyes all day. I was dizzy with terror and exhaustion.

  Freshly fed and puffed by bellows, the brazier glowed hotly. Flaming torches had been lit. Sharp, precise militiamen stood to attention, reminding me of slim black hunting hounds. The gaolers shuffled about, grinning smuggly and inanely.

  Queen Babula had accompanied the king into the dungeon. Black silk clung voluptuously to the generous curves of a somewhat overblown, overripe body. Exposed flesh was powdered to a peachy bloom. Red hair was piled high with a black lace snood netting it, baring a sleek strong neck. Scarlet rouge painted a cupid’s kiss smaller than her actual sulky lips. She held a bottle of scent or of drugs to her nose. Her dark eyes sparkled, dilated by what she inhaled. Purple kohl drew bruises of indulgence and depravity around them. She wore a dagger in a loose jewelled sheath.

  The king rubbed kid-gloved hands together. “First we shall provide a modest demonstration for our new guest. Gaoler! Haul out our favourite captive.”

  The other man-so gaunt and raggy and crumpled-had scarcely moved up until now. As soon as a gaoler unlocked his cell, the prisoner wailed and clung to the bars with demonic strength. The other gaoler had to assist at unpeeling the desperate man’s fingers.

  The man keened ever more shrilly as he was dragged to the rack. Once he was roped to it by wrists and ankles he fell silent, knowing his doom.

  Gloating, Mastilo positioned himself close to the poor man’s face. The gaolers started to turn handles.

  Soon terrible screams and wild gasping groans were being wrenched from the fellow as he was stretched unbearably. I could hardly bring myself to look-only an occasional, horrified glance. King and torturers almost blocked my view.

  Queen Babula sniffed her bottle more vigorously. Was that to dull her senses-or to enliven them?

  “And now,” cried Mastilo, “let’s brand his privates with the iron, and really hear him sing!”

  This was done.

  The excruciated wretch sang his way into insensibility. I vomited emptily. Gagged, I almost choked on what bile there was.

  The rack was slackened, the ropes loosened. The man was dragged back to his cell. He lay moaning like a creaky door.

  How had he clung to those bars with any strength whatever, if he was a frequent victim of such torture?

  When horror is extreme, perhaps a man can run on broken legs!

  “Now it’s your turn, Squire. What shall it be? The iron boot, with splints hammered in? The pulley, and dislocated arms? Or will you tell us Bellogard’s plan?”

  “Please, Your Majesty, I’m a prisoner of war.”

  Mastilo sniggered.

  I was dragged to the rack and tied to it. The handles were turned sufficiently to pull me taut. The king held a poniard to my heart as my gags were removed. My throat was raw from the bile. At Mastilo’s signal the rack-ropes were pulled even tighter. How long could I hold out while I was being strained out of shape, bones unsocketed, sinews stretching like elastic till they tore?

  I’m not ashamed to say that I began to babble out our plan of attack, before any actual agony could deform me. The ropes relaxed a little.

  Soon after, Bishop Lovats came hastening down into the dungeon. Sara followed, carrying something small. The bishop’s gaze flicked over the scene; he laughed barkingly, derisively.

  At me, in my terrible predicament?

  Wrenching my head up, I caught a fleeting glimpse of the previous torture victim. He was standing quietly by the bars of his cage, watching the rack and me in frank fascination.

  A hateful understanding dawned. The favourite victim was a hireling! He was an actor who only pretended to suffer grievous torments-agonies which were never actually inflicted! King Mastilo was as big a buffoon as our own King Karol. The one enjoyed blowing magic bubbles. The other revelled in mock torture scenes, sadistic masquerades.

  I did groan then.

  Babula mopped my brow with a frilly handkerchief reeking of patchouli. She stroked my cheek.

  “Aha, sweet little pigeon, you have guessed! But that alters nothing.”

  Another arrival in the dungeon: a bearded knight wearing black chain-mail. Sir Loshad, no less.

  Behind, came two armed squires who must be Slooga and Jigger. All the forces of Chorny had gathered except for Feryava who must have difficulty negotiating stairs with his injured leg.

  Babula called for order.

  “All persons without magic: clear off!” (Militiamen and gaolers hastily departed.) “The pigeon has sung, my dears! Sir Brant of Bellogard lurks in our woods, eager to gallop down on us. Prince Ruk hopes to leap all the way from Bellogard itself, so long as nobody gets in his way-and nobody will.

  “Jigger: upstairs to the armoury! Bring sabres-then be off with you to Feryava’s side. Here will be the field of penultimate battle. You and Feryava will cover the exit.” An obedient Jigger rushed away.

  “As soon as we’ve destroyed Brant and Ruk, we’ll set out for Bellogard. You, Lovats, carrying Sara. Loshad with Slooga. And me. Feryava and Jigger can stay to guard the king.

  “We shall easily destroy Bishop Veck and that quarter-queen of theirs. Sara and Slooga can cope with the Bellogard squires. We shall check and mate silly King Karol gloriously, with true panache.

  Shamatf

  Jigger returned with a clutch of sabres and was briefed. The assembled warriors (save for Sara) tested the blades, causing them to spark and flicker with the blue energy of magic. Jigger hurried back upstairs.

  Babula said to the king, “Would you kindly step aside out of harm’s way into one of these cells of yours?”

  “But, but, but!” blustered Mastilo.

  “No buts”

  Tamely King Mastilo shut himself inside a vacant cell.

  The queen waved a sabre in one hand, a dagger in the other. With the dagger point she pricked my bound hand stingingly.

  “Sing again, Pedino the pigeon! Sing the magic attack call!”

  I didn’t sing. “Come now, don’t be coy!”

  “My love,” the king called from behind bars, “all the instruments of pain genuinely work. Please let’s use them this once. This is a war emergency. It’s the first time we’ve caught a bravo from Bellogard.

  He won’t sing till you agonize him. Please let’s use the thumbscrew! Hee, hee.”

  The queen walked over to remonstrate; Lovats and Sara drifted closer to my side.

  Sara stooped over me casually. “You must cry the attack,” she whispered. She showed me what she held in her left hand. (A dagger was in her right.) It was a small picture, painted on glass, of a serpent coiling around a ladder. She had copied Augusti’s spectral astrological discovery.

  “Lovats and I will save you,” she murmured, “and ourselves too, if anyone can be saved. So do it.” She drew away.

  Mastilo was still trying to convince his wife that screws should be applied to my thumbnails. I didn’t wait to see whether he would succeed. Sucking in breath, focusing my power, I bellowed, “Opasnost po Zhivot!” My bound hands prickled with electric magic.

  Crying magic too, the queen and Sir Loshad immediately deployed.

  Some fifteen seconds later, Sir Brant appeared from nowhere, bleary-eyed but waving his broadsword. A hint of mail showed beneath his rustic garb.

  Brant didn’t stand much of a chance. He was still summing up dungeon and pain-machines and personnel when Babula challenged him. This was a mere feint. While Brant defended himself against Babula, Sir Loshad hacked his neck from behind. Blood spouted. (With her blade Sara slit the ropes tying my ankles.)

  Prince Ruk arrived magically a few moments later, wearing half-armour. He immediately attacked Sir Loshad who was still dispatching the staggering, blood-gushing Brant. Ruk disarmed Loshad with one powerful blow. Loshad’s sabre clattered away. Squire Slooga leapt in the way, twirling another sabre at Ruk’s face. Ruk hacked this weapon aside, savaging Slooga’s forearm. Babula bustled bravely in and spitted Ruk’s sword-arm. Ruk turned, still swinging his sword. Babula tried for his chest but the point of her sabre glanced aside. She retreated, weaving slashes in the air. Slooga, though injured, grabbed up a length of chain in his left hand, swung this, and by sheer luck caught Ruk around the neck, halting him in his tracks.

  The air crackled with blue fire. Loshad had recovered his sabre. He shouted a war-cry which distracted Ruk who was still being throttled by the chain. Babula darted in and chopped Ruk across the wrist. (While Sara cut my left hand free.) Ruk was doomed now. His sword fell uselessly. With his sound hand he plucked a dagger from its sheath. Uttering a magic curse he hurled this dagger, but the queen threw herself aside. The blade impacted instead in Lovats’ belly, doubling the bishop over. Babula pranced at the disarmed Ruk and slashed through his throat. Ruk collapsed, to join dead Sir Brant on the flagstones. (Sara cut my last bond. She held my hand in place, and I made no effort to move.)

  Lovats straightened up, keeping careful hold of the dagger. His face sweated pain as he trod slowly to the head of the rack. (Meanwhile Babula was ensuring that Ruk was dead.)

  “It’s a mortal wound... Leap a little way with me, my children. I uncheck you, Pedino. Both of you, help me.”

  I scrambled up from the rack. Sara had tucked her dagger in her belt, and the painting inside her black chemise. She and I held tight to Lovats.

  “On a magic count of three we’ll jump a pawn-span together, just as far as the Sahdi Gardens-”

  “But you’re diagonal-”

  “Jump en passant, idiot!”

  “What’s going on?” cried Babula.

  “Ahdyeen. Dvah, " counted Lovats and Sara.

  “Yehdan. Dvah," I counted.

  “Tri," we chorused. We each spoke journey-magic. And moved.

  We landed on a lawn in those silvery, gas-lit, scented gardens. Strollers on a nearby path took to their heels, perhaps to inform the militia. Lovats sagged against me, gasping. We helped him to lie down.

  “Wonder. if Babula and Loshad. will still attack Bellogard? They’ve lost me and Sara. Slooga’s hurt. Might carry Jigger along with them instead. leave gammy-legged Feryava to guard the king.

  “Quarter-queen, in Bellogard, and Bishop Veck. couple of able-bodied pawns. King Karol, mustn’t forget King Karol.”

  “Don’t talk,” begged Sara.

  “First they’ll kill Veck. he’s the real danger. With him out of the way they can easily take Queen Isgalt. then it’ll be ‘shamat! for old King Karol. and the world will end.”

  Lovats writhed briefly before he spoke again.

  “It’ll take Loshad a few jumps to reach Bellogard. rendezvous with Babula. Isgalt’ll be keeping an eye on her eidolons if she has any sense. she’ll know Brant and Ruk are dead, she’ll know I’m dying. ‘shamat! for me, ‘shamat! ’for everyone.”

  He began to ramble; with an effort he concentrated.

  “Leave me now. lurk in the city for an hour or two. when the world starts to fade or crack, leap out. Oh the shamat of the world.”

  “How can we leave him?” asked Sara. “Should we pull the dagger out?”

  “Of course not,” I said.

  Blood bubbled on Lovats’ lips. Or a froth of saliva-hard to tell which in the darkness.

  “Leave!” he barked. “I command you.”

  I suppose it was harder for Sara to walk away from Bishop Lovats. Until recently I’d only known Lovats as an enemy I was pledged to kill; Sara had known the bishop as a colleague and friend.

  When we abandoned him in the gardens I did feel a pang of guilt. I may have been transferring an unacknowledgable burden of guilt at the way I had led Sir Brant into an ambush of death. Not entirely, though. I regretted not having the chance to know Lovats better. I had much to regret.

  I had something to rejoice in also, did I not? Namely, Sara’s presence by my side? Just then, this did not compensate quite as much as it should have done. I felt emotionally numb. The world, the whole world, was about to end. The awful fire was coming; or the death of dust. With Bellogard defeated, with King Karol checked and mated by Babula, the war would be over. Both our kingdoms must decay, evaporate.

  And yet Queen Babula was launching that final attack. And we of Bellogard had provoked it. By what daemons we were all driven!