Princess of Blood

Book 0: God Fragments

by Tom Lloyd

Genres: Fantasy; Contemporary Fantasy; Epic Fantasy

Synopsis

There's a new card in the Mercenary Deck - one Lynx isn't sure if he's happy to see or not. The assassin Toil now wears the Princess of Blood on her jacket, and even Lynx would admit she's a woman cloaked in chaos and bloodshed. Their new mission is to escort a dignitary to the pious and ancient city of Jarrazir - beneath which lies a fabled labyrinth. Having barely survived their last underground adventure the mercenaries aren't keen for another, but Toil has other plans. Under threat of siege and horrors rising from the labyrinth, even the Mercenary Deck may have to accept that Jarrazir's prohibition laws aren't their biggest problem.

Release date: July 27, 2017

Publisher: Orion Publishing Group Limited

Print pages: 320

Sample

Once, Lynx was a soldier – an idealistic young man in the warrior state of So Han. As a commando lieutenant he was at the spearhead of So Han’s war of conquest, but refused to engage in the atrocities being committed. After killing his commanding officer in a duel he was sent to the brutal To Lort prison and forced to labour in the mines there.

Eventually the Hanese conquest imploded and To Lort prison was taken over by a foreign governor called Lorfen, who saw something of himself in Lynx. He taught the damaged young man the philosophy of the Vagrim brotherhood – a nebulous group of war veterans who had found renewed purpose in helping and protecting others – and released him.

Years later, an older, wiser and slightly more rotund Lynx arrives in the town of Jangarai. Hoping to find more work as a bodyguard, he meets Kas, a woman of Anatin’s Mercenary Deck, and with his welcome in town fast running out Lynx agrees to join her company for a rescue mission.

On the way the company encounters a group of Knights-Charnel of the Long Dusk – one of the most powerful of the militant religious orders on the continent. They are escorting a young half-Hanese woman who appeals to Lynx for help and when he confronts them, Lynx learns she is a mage. The power of the Militant Orders stems from their control of mages and fragments of the five shattered gods, which they use to create magical cartridges that every gun across the known world uses.

When the smoke clears, the Knights-Charnel lie dead and Lynx has a new ward, Sitain. Matters become further complicated when the rescue mission turns out to be covering the escape of an assassin called Toil from the city of Grasiel. Their flight turns into a street battle after Lynx and Sitain are betrayed to the Knights-Charnel by one of the Cards, Deern, and they are pursued from the city by the Knights-Charnel’s elite Torquen regiment.

Toil persuades Anatin to leave the road and head across the wilds surrounding Shadows Deep, an ancient Duegar city-ruin where elementals and monsters reign. Forced underground, the outnumbered Cards are beaten to the only bridges that cross a miles-deep canyon blocking their path. To even up the odds Toil awakens a huge dragon-like creature and in the ensuing chaos Lynx ends up luring the monster out on to the main bridge where he and his comrades manage to bring it down. Leaving any surviving Charnelers lost in the darkness, the Cards escape to the surface and don’t look back.

Midwinter in Su Dregir brings a festival of costumed revelry and Lynx arrives at Toil’s apartments to escort her to the Archelect’s ball. There he discovers two corpses in strange costumes instead of one living Toil. Before he can work out what’s going on, a watchman appears and an assassin attacks. The watchman dies and Lynx flees.

Following a clue left by Toil, Lynx goes in search of her. More costumed assassins ambush him and despite the efforts of his comrades, he is captured by Toil’s enemies. Toil meanwhile has discovered a plot to upturn the balance of power in the criminal gangs of Su Dregir. After preventing a massacre she goes to rescue Lynx and, with the assistance of her employer’s bodyguard, turns the tables on the remaining assassins before killing the traitor.

‘So a pederast, an assassin and a convict walk into a palace.’

‘Shut up.’

Lynx sighed. ‘What? I’m bored.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘No one’s listening.’

Toil’s voice lowered to the whisper of a razor being sharpened. ‘What part of “I don’t care” confuses you?’

‘What’s the harm in passing the time with a joke?’

‘Because if you don’t shut up I’ll rip your kneecaps off and use them for earmuffs to block out your bloody whining. You’re not standing here for your health, we’ve got a job to do, remember?’

Lynx shut up and looked around at the grand hall of Jarrazir’s Bridge Palace once more. It was magnificent, he had to admit. Jewelled light shone through a long bank of stained glass windows running almost the entire length of the hall. Dancing motes of emerald, blazing orange and glittering sapphire washed over the assembled crowd of Jarrazir’s nobility. A spray of red carpet surrounded the pair of thrones at one end, all canopied by pristine white cloth bearing the symbols of the city and prayers stitched in red. Flanking them was a battered pair of stone urns that bore only fragments of faded glazing. They looked strangely out of place there until Lynx realised they were Duegar artefacts.

After an hour of the sight Lynx felt it was all very pretty, but lunch was fast intruding on his thoughts as the scents of spices and roasted meats hung thick in the air. As a portly and tattooed ex-soldier of a nation everyone hated, he was very aware how noticeable he was at the best of times and right then the great and the good were out in their finery to notice and be noticed. Unobtrusively sidling over to the buffet probably wasn’t an option.

Swan-necked maidens with bare shoulders stood like serene statues, or perhaps well-behaved cattle, while watchful matrons in silk headscarves fussed at their side. Prowling around the girls displayed like goods were knots of young noblemen, searching out both marriageable flesh and offence. Several had more than one glove tucked into their belt that did not match their clothes, proof of a duel to come.

Official delegations studded the throng, obvious by their matching clothing and uniforms, while members of the priesthood stood out even more clearly. Just ahead of Lynx were the starkly austere priests of Insar, in plain white robes with heads cleanly shaved, while red and grey figures displaying the intricate braiding and geometric patterns of Catrac’s cult loitered near the far wall. Lynx looked down at his own clothes. Fortunately the grey and green of Su Dregir’s Lighthouse Guard was as understated as he could have reasonably hoped for. The fact he was in any form of uniform was a detail he remained unhappy about, but now wasn’t the time for that discussion so he contented himself with not looking like an utter tit. This was Toil’s business and he was just window-dressing for the hour.

Lynx felt a nudge from the man beside him.

‘Tell me the joke instead,’ Teshen said. ‘Distract me from the urge to fire a burner into the roof.’

Lynx glanced up at the huge pale beams, so high the grain of the wood was invisible. Flags of every colour fluttered in the slight breeze, representing each of the city-state’s several hundred noble families, while the beast emblems of Jarrazir hung over the empty thrones.

‘It’d stop the boredom,’ he conceded. ‘Maybe even cook a dove or two if one is lurking up in the rafters.’

‘You’re not still bloody hungry are you?’

‘I could eat.’

Toil turned around, eyes flashing with anger. Ahead of her stood the Su Dregir Envoy himself, chatting to a doughy old lady wrapped in purple silk like a child’s sweet. The captain of his personal guard stood just behind them, but if either man had heard the conversation over the general hubbub they chose to ignore it. Lynx doubted it, given the pederast comment was aimed at one of them.

‘Both of you, shut your traps right now,’ she hissed. ‘At least try to look like real guards.’

‘Sounds like someone’s a little on edge,’ Teshen whispered primly once Toil had turned back. The tone didn’t exactly match the man’s dead-eyed killer look, but joining a mercenary company had forced Teshen to develop a light-hearted side, even if he remained firmly in the alarmingly lethal category.

‘It’s the dress,’ Lynx said. ‘Maybe the heels. They don’t look comfy.’

‘Oh, I like the heels,’ joined in Payl from the other side of Teshen. ‘The poor bugger who had to buff her feet to make them presentable, however – now they have cause for complaint.’

Lynx smirked over at Payl. The woman was usually calm and professional – as second-in-command to a lazy, roguish drunk she had to be. That she’d joined in was a testament to the sheer boredom of standing amid that crowd and waiting for the city’s ruler to finish whatever was taking so long.

‘Was it you, Lynx?’ Teshen asked. He was a burly man with long pale hair and under normal circumstances wore the Knight of Tempest as his badge – Lynx’s direct superior – but today he was just another Su Dregir guardsman.

‘Well, I don’t like to brag,’ Lynx said. ‘But I reckon I’ve a certain deftness with a pumice stone.’

It was just possible he could see the tips of Toil’s ears turning scarlet with fury, but he knew she wouldn’t give them the satisfaction of turning around again. Toil – ruin-raider, assassin, agent of Su Dregir, plus half a dozen other unsavoury things – had scrubbed up remarkably well, he had to admit. A layered silk dress of the Archelect’s green and grey ran from calf to neck, following the Jarraziran form of leaving arms and feet on show, with her dark red hair in a complex triple braid down her back.

‘Almost fell over with shock when I saw her,’ Teshen said. ‘Who’d have thought under those hobnailed boots was a pair of feet like that? Probably best Anatin didn’t come with us; man’s got a thing for a well-turned ankle. I know I’m new to this, but I’m guessing elite guardsmen shouldn’t have a hard-on.’

Lynx had to agree, the feet really had been a surprise. Toil wore thin sandals – straps of grey silk exposing neat, uncallused heels and pristinely groomed, painted toenails.

‘Are all you fighting women like this?’ he whispered to Payl. ‘All with your little beauty secrets?’

Payl snorted. ‘My feet look like they got chewed on by feral dogs. Just as well I’m tall. No man ever bothers to look that far down.’

‘I’ll tell Fashail to report back next time he’s hard at work down there,’ Teshen said.

‘The boy knows he’ll get his nuts cut off,’ Payl said confidently. ‘As scary as you are, Teshen, he ain’t that stupid.’

‘It’s the arms that get me, I reckon,’ Lynx said after a moment’s reflection. ‘So she’s secretly a delicate little princess when it comes to her feet, now we all know, but it takes real skill to pull off the arms.’

‘Not so much,’ Teshen said dismissively. ‘I’ve seen Reft do it easy enough.’

‘I meant, pull off that concealment.’

‘Ah.’

While almost every woman not in fighting dress had bare arms, none sported the number of scars Toil did. A lifetime of fighting and clambering about the pitch-black caverns of Duegar city-ruins had done little to support today’s role of bookish secretary to Su Dregir’s official Envoy.

It had required a complex variety of ribbons, torcs, bracelets, painted charms and rings to distract from the battering Toil’s arms had received over the years. Close scrutiny would catch her out still, but with luck few would be getting that close. Toil was a distractingly beautiful woman for those who would be distracted and physically imposing for those who wouldn’t.

‘How about you, Aben?’ Teshen asked the last of the group serving as guards to the Envoy. ‘Anything you’d like to add?’

Aben was new to their number, a bigger man even than Lynx, with tanned skin, an easy smile and neat black curls spilling out from under his official cap. Currently his face was scarlet and he seemed to be having some sort of silent shaking episode, possibly a coronary.

‘You okay there, friend?’ Lynx said with a nudge. ‘Looks like something in your head just burst. Was it the feet? Does a well-turned ankle do it for you too?’

Aben’s eyes swivelled in their sockets as though seeking an escape. He’d worked for Toil for several years now. She was the boss to him, a ruthless and remorseless figure within the Su Dregir underworld. She wasn’t a person to be joked about in her earshot and was someone with a long and enthusiastically vengeful memory.

‘Hey, look, more people come to join the vigil,’ Payl commented. ‘And of fucking course it’s the last bastards we want to see here, there or anywhere else.’

Lynx turned as Teshen voiced the words they were all thinking.

‘Bastard shitting Charnelers.’

‘Least all those who chased us will be dead by now,’ Payl added quietly. ‘Don’t fancy getting recognised by anyone after Grasiel.’

‘So – an assassin, a convict and a whole boatload of pederast shites walk into a palace,’ Lynx muttered.

Toil spun right round, cheeks now spotted pink with anger. ‘If they’re here, you lot keep your mouths shut, understand? No jokes, no witty asides, no …’ Her eyes narrowed as she focused on the Charnelers and Lynx saw anger turn to murder in her eyes. ‘Godspit and the shitting deepest black!’

Without warning she started off, shoving Payl out of her way. In his surprise Lynx barely noticed her slip a dagger from Payl’s belt as she stalked forward.

‘What? So it’s all right for her to swear?’ Teshen commented in a mock-hurt voice.

‘I’m going to fucking gut you like a fish!’ Toil roared across the great hall.

Lynx and Teshen exchanged looks while Payl and Aben started off after the spirit of vengeance. Ahead of Toil the crowd erupted into chaos.

‘Well, that’s the boredom part sorted out,’ Lynx said.

‘Should we …?’ Teshen nodded after the others.

‘If you like, but they can handle it I’m sure. And I’m damn sure Toil can handle herself. Not like I’m keen for her to win friends here anyway, given what she wants to volunteer us for. More importantly I’ve just spotted a roast pheasant that no one’s watching. Reckon it’s near enough lunchtime.’

‘Is there beer?’

‘Round here? Fat chance.’

Teshen shrugged as shouts filled the air. ‘The sacrifices we must make … Lead on, my friend.’

A dusting of snow lay on the ancient city of Jarrazir as five figures hurried through the still hours of night. Every stone and tile sparkled in the silver glow of the Skyriver, every curl and twist of the bay’s waters was limned in white moonlight. Statues of heroes and rulers watched from the great arc of the Senate wall, beneath which the Deep Market nestled. The market itself was a sweeping warren of walkways and arches, arcades and canopies, spread over three storeys in parts and bewildering in the detail and intricacy of its design.

The five figures kept silent as they wound their way towards the market’s heart, the three who led moving with the confidence of familiarity. Jarrazir was a city of old names and older customs, one of which was a prohibition on alcohol so the night-time streets were empty and silent. The Deep Market in particular was deserted – the cold of winter and its unsettling, unearthly design of both Duegar and human magery meaning even vagrants kept clear at night.

Had she been alone, Lastani would have been apprehensive at best. She had lived her whole life in Jarrazir; a childhood of tales and superstitions not so long left behind for more academic pursuits. Only the reassuring purpose of Mistress Ishienne ahead kept her focused on the task in hand.

No, not quite. Not just that. She suppressed a nervous giggle. There was something more bringing her here, to the oldest part of an ancient city where even the light of the Skyriver struggled to reach. There is the possibility of something quite wonderful too – a place in history perhaps, should we be successful.

Lastani bit her lip and kept on walking. She would not be the one to draw Ishienne Matarin’s ire this night, not at the culmination of all her teacher’s work.

Let Castiere do that. He’s incapable of keeping his mouth shut. Let him be the fool who sullies this night with some idiocy, I will be the perfect pupil at least this once.

As they rounded a corner and entered a small square cut through with jagged shadows, she glanced once at Castiere as the slender young man drew level in his haste to get to the market’s heart. He saw her looking and flashed Lastani a grin, his excitement bubbling close to the surface.

‘Almost there,’ whispered Mistress Ishienne, her voice carrying clearly in the hush despite the scarf across her face.

The words were unnecessary, perhaps an indication of Ishienne’s own anticipation. This might prove a breakthrough in her work, the fruits of years of translating and deciphering a script thousands of years old. Lastani could not fault this one crack in the detached calm that had been a constant of Lastani’s four years tutelage.

She looked around as they neared the Fountain, as it was called, though in truth it was the entrance to a labyrinth built before human civilisation. A mystery lurking beneath the city streets that had never been opened in recorded history, but was mentioned in texts from across the continent. Lastani had spent so many days here amid the bustle of humanity as wares were sold and all manner of services offered from dawn until dusk. Day after day of transcribing and sketching, measuring and dreaming – losing her purse twice, her heart once and her maidenhood along with it. But now it was alien and frightening here, scoured of life and the things of men. The stone mages who had built the Deep Market, hundreds of years before, had chosen the fountain itself as inspiration for their otherworldly craft and, by custom, only stone remained here at night.

There, where the stall of kind Uslien normally stood, only bare and empty stone. Here, dear Lefaqe’s tent of silks would be strung each morning – to see the space empty was to feel a curious hole in her heart though their affair had ended months ago. But no one would leave their belongings here, certainly not so close to the Fountain that was at the heart of it all. The Fountain which was no fountain and no crafting of a stone mage – at least, no human one.

They turned the corner and stopped, Lastani almost running into Mistress Ishienne as the Fountain itself came into view. It was a forbidding, squat lump of stone almost invisible in the darkness of shadow, but somehow all the more chilling for it. In the light of day she found it fascinating – the intricacy and otherworldly beauty of the ancient artefact breathtaking to behold – but now it was profoundly disquieting.

A nine-sided stone block the height of a man was set within a trio of fat, sinuous serpents of some unknown metal. The Fountain was Duegar-made and the finest example of that race’s artistry within a hundred miles. Every flat surface was covered with wind-scoured carvings of remarkable intricacy and complexity – a puzzle of knots and patterns that incorporated every face and facet of the Fountain into one vast mathematical pattern. A domed stone canopy stood over it, perhaps twelve feet above, and it was this that restored Lastani’s courage.

The Duegar script that covered the inner face of the dome was just as intricate as the decoration below, worked into a three-branched spiral that wound into the centre. And now, amid the blackness of night, the curling metal script was faintly glowing.

Lastani had always half-believed that to be nothing more than embellishment – a lie told in the assumption that no sensible person would visit at night to refute it. But there it was; the star-script of the Duegar now shining bright, almost as perfect and complete as the day that long-dead race had set it there. Two small pieces were missing. She had read the accounts of the enterprising thieves a dozen times or more, and the gruesome deaths that had found them before they could escape the market. Lastani was still staring when a figure stepped out from behind the Fountain and gave her such a fright that she squeaked in terror, breaking the reverential hush.

Mistresss Ishienne turned and fixed her with a stern look, unperturbed by the stranger’s sudden appearance. Lastani covered her mouth and ducked her head, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. They were there on an errand of momentous and grave scholarly import, not to jump at ghosts. Lastani felt Castiere’s patronising hand on her shoulder, the youth suppressing a laugh before he followed their mistress’s lead and bowed to the newcomer.

‘Master Atienolentra,’ Ishienne called through the still night, ‘you are well met again.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ the man replied in a deep, rumbling voice. ‘You, Mistress, continue to be a delight on the eyes.’ He paused. ‘Your pronunciation less so, however. Perhaps best just call me Atieno.’

‘My apologies,’ Ishienne said, inclining her head. ‘It seems I have spent too much time favouring dead languages over existing ones.’

With a start, Lastani realised she had seen this man before, or glimpsed him at any rate. At a meeting Ishienne had taken, just a week before. Lastani had been returning to the house when she saw Master Atieno leaving. Hidden from the faint shine of the Skyriver by his hood, she had only glimpsed the white threads of his neat, pointed beard, but it was enough.

With piercing light brown eyes against a dark face of crow’s feet and prominent cheekbones, Atieno would have been a handsome man but for the glowering severity he wore. His greying black hair was long and tied back, his worn clothes kept clean and neat. In his fifth decade at least, he remained tall and strong-looking – a marked improvement on the handful of suitors who had attempted to woo Mistress Ishienne during the time Lastani had lived in her house. Judging by Atieno’s words, the idea had crossed his mind too.

The last two figures of Ishienne’s group stepped out from behind Castiere and eyed the man suspiciously.

‘Who’s he?’ Bokrel demanded.

The mercenary fingered the rounded butt of his holstered mage-pistol as he stared at Master Atieno. Bokrel was a monkey-faced wretch with grubby cheeks, a scrappy beard and wandering hands. Right now there was a livid pink frost-burn down the back of his left hand, a testament to how slow the mercenary was to take a hint, but he was the brains of the operation compared to his rotund comrade, Ybryl.

‘He, Master Bokrel, is a key component of what we attempt tonight,’ Ishienne said sharply. ‘Try not to shoot him please. I doubt it would end well for you.’

Atieno pushed back his hood and gave the two mercenaries a stern look then seemed to mentally dismiss them. He carried a large walking staff that looked like a weapon in his hands, but like the mercenaries he also had a mage-pistol in his belt. With stiff movements that spoke of a lame leg, he walked around to the face of the Fountain that was, by common agreement, the front.

‘You believe you can do this?’ Master Atieno called.

Ishienne gestured to the swirls of script glowing above them. ‘I have seen it in the stars,’ she said with a small smile.

‘That, I have heard before. Rarely has it inspired confidence.’

‘The difference, I suspect, is that I’ve had to understand enough to teach my pupils.’

Lastani took a step forward. ‘Mistress Ishienne translated the Duegar script, but the riddle within has been something we have all devoted our lives to unpicking.’

‘The young say such things so easily,’ Atieno said with gentle mocking. ‘They’ve had less to devote thus far.’

‘I have given it enough years for all three of us,’ Ishienne declared, ‘and my assistants contributed several of their own on top. The sacrifice has been shared, and now we must see if it was in vain or not.’

‘Where do you want us?’ Bokrel asked abruptly.

‘At the edge of the dome,’ she replied, pointing to the arched gaps between the dome’s stone supports.

‘And then what?’

‘Keep guard,’ Ishienne said simply. ‘We must not be disturbed. Most likely you need do nothing to earn your pay, gods grant. I require you only to be awake and ready in case anything … unexpected occurs.’

‘Like what?’

‘If I knew that, it would hardly be unexpected. Come now, Master Bokrel, you led me to believe you were an experienced soldier and had explored Duegar city-ruins.’

Ybryl snorted at Bokrel’s side, causing the man to glare at her. ‘We ain’t explored the damn things.’ Ybryl chuckled, not noticing the look Bokrel gave her. ‘We ain’t that stupid.’

‘What then?’

‘Guard duty, escort,’ Bokrel explained reluctantly. ‘Let the other damn fools go underground an’ play with monsters.’

Ishienne hissed in irritation. ‘You have combat experience at least?’

‘Yeah, we’ve been in a few fights.’

‘Good – in that case keep your eyes open and your guns loaded, your mouths shut and your wits primed.’

Before Bokrel had a chance to object, Ishienne turned away and gestured to her two charges. ‘Come, take your places.’

Lastani and Castiere ducked their heads in acknowledgement and went to stand beneath the nearest two snake mouths, peering up into the dark, toothless maws that looked down on them.

‘And I?’

‘Just as you are, Master Atieno,’ Ishienne said, making her way around to the last of the snake mouths. ‘Yours is the most complicated of tasks I’m afraid.’

‘It always is,’ he said. ‘Firstly, your powers, though. What are they?’

‘Does it matter?’

‘It does.’

Ishienne frowned. ‘Very well, but I will be doing the sculpting of magic – you need but be the key around which I will fit the lock. I am a stone mage, Lastani an ice mage, and Castiere fire. Does that meet with your approval?’

‘It does,’ Atieno said with a nod. ‘There are powers that my kind will not work with. The risk is too great.’

‘And those are?’

‘Not stone, fire or ice.’

After a moment it was clear he would say no more on the subject so Ishienne gave a cluck of the tongue and went back about her task.

‘For the first stage, you are not required, Master Atieno,’ she informed him. ‘The job is ours alone.’

At her nod, Lastani stretched up to the mouth of the metal serpent above her and opened herself to her magic. A faint white haze appeared around her hand then she felt the bite of cold on her skin – not painful to her, just different, for all that it would freeze the skin off any other human in a matter of seconds.

A soft crackle from the far side told her that Castiere was doing the same, sending magic up into the mouth of the serpent with all the control he could muster. Ishienne was silent, but Lastani could just see her out of the corner of her eye and the woman was reaching up also. She concentrated on the task at hand, allowing the magic inside her to flow out through her fingers and coil up into the snake.

All this they had expected. The months of deciphering and research meant she could quote the words above by rote, but still Lastani felt a thrill at it working. The Fountain was drawing her magic, not greedily leeching off her but gathering all that she released to flow down the bodies of the serpents. Mistress Ishienne had described it as a votive offering, something that had made poor pious Castiere wince, but Lastani saw now how right she was. They were giving the Fountain something of themselves, a trace of their power, to prepare the way for what would come next – what they would ask of it.

The flow of magic steadily grew and Lastani began to be able to sense the others, the heat of Castiere’s magic and the cool weight of Ishienne’s. There was a balance in what they were offering and Lastani knew not to overtax herself in this initial stage, but still she freed a little more of the clean, cold bite in her bones to more closely match Castiere.

Their powers were to be most obviously in balance, as they often had been in Ishienne’s library while debating the grand puzzle of the Fountain, the labyrinth beneath and whatever was hidden at the heart of that. Whether by chance or consequence of their magic, the two thought in entirely different ways. Sometimes Castiere’s dancing focus would alight on the path, sometimes Lastani’s careful method would instead.

‘Enough,’ Ishienne called and the trio cut the flow of their magic.

Lastani stepped back so she could see her teacher’s face. Though the woman’s expression was hidden in the shadows, years in her company told Lastani that Ishienne was satisfied with the first step.

‘Now we wait,’ Ishienne added for the benefit of Atieno. ‘There is a precise order to this ritual that must be followed.’

‘You are confident in your interpretation?’ Atieno replied in a voice that betrayed neither scepticism nor belief. ‘Many have attempted to best this puzzle over the centuries.’

‘And many have got this far,’ Ishienne said. ‘This pause is the first test, your presence another, the details of the crafting a third. A plain translation of the text above your head will get you no further than this.’

‘And a mistranslation would see Lastani dead,’ Castiere added drily.

‘Now it is your confidence that concerns me,’ Atieno declared. The man leaned heavily on his staff as he spoke, but made no effort to move away from the Fountain.

‘Our confidence is well founded,’ Lastani found herself saying. ‘Otherwise I would not be so willing! The work is a puzzle, understanding that is the crux of Mistress Ishienne’s breakthrough. By mirroring the decoration on the Fountain—’

‘I’m sure Master Atieno isn’t interested in the details of our research,’ Ishienne broke in. Lastani couldn’t tell whether that was through a desire to preserve her secrets or impatience to be getting on, but she shut her mouth with a snap and tried not to picture Castiere’s smirk.

‘Research is not where I excel,’ Atieno agreed sombrely, ‘so I will take your w