28

Parley and Parlance

The Mester glanced at Candle who held up two fingers. The Mester nodded distantly. She seemed undaunted by the knowledge that there were two demons present. Pasco and Locryn, however, shifted uneasily beside her.

The Mester did not need her, Candle realised, as she looked at the pair before them. The man and the woman before them were making no effort to hide their depravity; they flaunted their demon-possessed souls for all the world to see. Both their eyes were a vivid, unnatural blue and their unkempt hair shot through with wild white streaks. There, the similarities ended, for the woman was a white-skinned Teurek, while the man, from countenance and dress, was the leader of the barbarians. He was a large, well-built man dressed in silver plate and brushed velvet. His hair was short and his skin olive brown. He seemed remarkably jolly for someone deep in the grasp of a demon. Candle wondered if he was drunk. His men, however, seemed not to share his good humour. The barbarians surrounding them kept their weapons down, and their eyes alert.

The shaman was barely out of her teens and dressed in a ragged white dress that might once have been fine. She wore a necklace of teeth and bone around her slender white throat. She had daubed woad on her eyelids in the manner of the tribes to the west. The paleness of her skin and the white of her hair made her look unearthly like she was dead already. Her hair was wild and knotted as it fanned out behind her in the wind, glowing where the white streaks caught the sun. Her face was split in two by a scarlet gash of a smile that chilled Candle to her very core. It was possible, she realised suddenly, that the shaman's demon had long since claimed her sanity. The shadowy presence behind her was just waiting, to claim her soul, with the patience of the great undead. It was not a comforting thought, for it meant they were trying to treat with a mad woman. Looking up at Pasco's face, she knew he was thinking it too. There would be no talk of peace here.

The shaman approached the Mester, a sneer on her face. She was swaying gently: drunk, moonsilver addict, or just absolutely sunk in her madness? Candle couldn't decide.

"If it isn't Eisheth Dantalion, the famous traitor," she said, her voice rasping and coarse. "The damned apostate! The butcher of the faithful and destroyer of kings! We meet at last! I'm surprised it took you this long to crawl out of your stone tower." She laughed and stumbled, grasping at the man next to her like a drunkard, reaching for him to steady herself. The man laughed merrily and pushed her upright. She smacked his hand away, without tearing her unnatural eyes from the Mester's face. "Did your prudish masters hold you back? I am disappointed. Your reputation seems to have been... exaggerated."

"You have the advantage of me," said the Mester, her face carefully neutral, "for I do not know your name. But whoever you are, you cannot play your war games here. This place is protected."

"Is it?" asked the shaman, looking up at the ruins of Sterlester with an arched brow. The Mester stood impassive, her face like marble. Locryn clenched his fists besides Candle. Meanwhile, the leader of the barbarians grew tired of the conversation he could not understand, and the smile slipped from his face. He spoke angrily to the shaman who leaned over to whisper coquettishly in his ear.

"He wants to know of what we speak," she said, over her shoulder to them. "I told him it was nothing of import."

"Please tell him," said the Mester, "that we are representatives of the Kenning, the leaders of this land and we request an audience with him. We are a peaceful nation and have no interest in revenge or bloodshed. I'm sure we can come to an accord. Can you please translate for us?"

"I can," said the shaman, distracted by a ragged nail which she picked at, looking bored. She looked up again, as if surprised to see them still looking at her. "I could. But make no mistake, these men are my creatures, body and soul." She slapped her companion's chest and giggled, nearly falling over.

"What is your name and your clan?" asked the Mester, trying a different approach.

"Mammon, is my name and I have no clan and if I say the word," she said, happily, "they will kill you the same way they killed those filthy villagers. The Lochlanach," she stopped and rubbed her eyes as if she was about to fall asleep. "The Lochlanach, that's what they call themselves," she repeated in a sing-song voice, "the Lochlanach... these fine juicy pigs, consider magic to be an abomination, a scourge upon the earth. Your Havi, your Kenning might wish to live in peace with them... but I do not think you will find the sentiment returned. But enough talk."

The man beside her spoke again, and she held up a hand. "Unless you come to sell him moonsilver," she corrected. She smiled her overly wide, lopsided smile. "Do you come to bring us moonsilver?" she asked, with exaggerated politeness. She looked at Pasco. "No? Not even you, my fallen brother?"

Pasco of course, said nothing, merely meeting the gaze of his ex-countrywoman with icy calm.

"Does the Loryow King know you are here?" asked the Mester.

"My brother knows," said Mammon, "he was pleased to get rid of me."

"Mammon," said the Mester, her manner almost kindly. Candle realised she knew Mammon had but a tenuous grip on her sanity. "Please tell the leader of the ...Lochlanach? That we wish to talk peace."

"No," said Mammon.

"What do they want with moonsilver?" asked the Mester, casually changing the topic, without apparent rancour. She seemed merely politely curious, as if the manner of their conversation was of no import. They might have been two ladies discussing the decorations for the next festival at the spring equinox, if it were not for tension in the air and the amount of weapons bristling from every side. The Mester was up to something, Candle realised, as her form lit up with subtle veins of magic. The magic flowed down her arms and twined around her hands in starry incandescence. Candle wondered what spell she was working. There was no outward evidence of anything, and her face remained bland and unconcerned.

"That reminds me," said Mammon, frowning. "I had forgotten about the moongate...but now you are all here..." her smile took in the whole group of them, from Candle to Pasco, all of them huddled behind the Mester. "Tell me again... how much blood I need to make it work?" She took out a wicked looking obsidian dagger and caressed the blade with one finger. "Does it need to be the blood of the traveller, or will any blood work? Let's find out."

She shouted something at the barbarians in their own language and walked forward. The Mester had to back up or risk being impaled. Mammon gestured with the blade for them to turn around. "Walk," she said, "let's all go to the moongate." She shouted again and instantly they were prodded by multiple weapons. The barbarians herded them up the slope, back towards Sterlester. Locryn grabbed Candle by the arm, pulling her along behind him, and she was glad of it. She felt like she might get trampled by accident.

"De," said the Mester, softly, so that only their group could here, "be ready." She released the magic she had been holding in her skin. Down by the airships, someone started shouting, and an alarm rang out. Everyone, Lochlanach and Havi turned to see what the commotion was about. Boiling great clouds of smoke were rushing into the air from the closest ship, the acrid smell of burning wood and metal filling their nostrils.

"Now, De" said the Mester, calmly, and the older man dropped a pair of smoke bombs with instant effect.

Everything was lost in shadows, and there was instant chaos. Locryn dragged Candle hard to one side, barrelling through the press of bodies. She ran with him, coughing and pushing. Someone screamed behind her, and she hesitated, but Locryn pulled her firmly on, her hand grasped firmly in his. Once clear of the smoke they sprinted away as fast as they could, not stopping to see if they were pursued, not stopping to see if the others were with them.

Candle realised with a shock that Locryn had glamoured them to look like the barbarians, disguising them in leather and silver. It wasn't a bad rendition, she thought, trying to look at him sideways as they ran. From a distance, he looked just like one of them. Close too it would not stand up to scrutiny; the clothing was rough and undetailed, the colours were blobs rather than cloth, and the feathers did not move in the wind. Still, she was impressed that he could hold together the visualisation while they were running. His face was twisted in concentration, and she could see he was having trouble holding the threads of the spell together. Fortunately, it was enough, and they raced up the stairway to the ruins of Sterlester unopposed and made for the ruined town square. Locryn ducked inside the wreck of what was once somebody's house, pulling Candle in after him. The glamour evaporated like mist under sun and Locryn leaned against the stone wall breathing deeply, his eyes closed.

"Let me catch my breath," he said, "and then we can make a run for the moongate."

"It's no good," said Candle softly, peeking around the corner. "It's guarded."

"Night take them all."

"I hope the others are alright," said Candle.

"Don't worry about them," Locryn said, "they know what they are doing. We need to move before they think to search the ruins. How many demons?"

"Two."

"Only two?"

"Two is plenty."

"Granted," he said, peering out of the door, "but more than just the freak show leaders had blue eyes."

"They did, didn't they," said Candle, thoughtfully. She hadn't allowed herself time to dwell on that fact and what it might mean for her, personally.

"I'll glamour us again," said Locryn, "and we'll try and get as close as possible to the gate. Don't run - it will attract attention but hustle those stupid short legs of yours, alright? Ready?"

The glamour slipped into place, and Locryn strode purposely through the ruins towards the moongate, Candle hurrying after him, glamoured to look like an exceptionally short barbarian. High above them, clouds were beginning to roll down the upper slopes of the mountain and the tang of salt intensified.

As they approached the solitary barbarian at the gate, he looked up at them, his eyes narrowing. He shouted something and raised his weapon towards them. He fiddled with something on the end, squinting as he looked down the shaft of it towards them. It exploded with a bang, and they both skidded to a halt.

"Night," growled Locryn, dropping the glamour as threw up a wall of air in front of them. Sweat glistened on his forehead. "What in the name of great, greasy demon balls are those things?" A large metal ball dropped out of the air in front of him, landing with a dull thunk at his feet. The Lochlanach barbarian shouted and dropped his weapon. Reaching to his side, he drew an impressive looking blade which he angled at Locryn. The metal gleamed in the sun. Looking back Candle could see another group of barbarians running up the track towards them. She backed away in the opposite direction, feeling vulnerable and helpless. The barbarian swung his sword at Locryn, who jumped back, ducking low and then darting in to sweep the man's legs from under him. He went down in a pile.

"The wall," Locryn yelled to Candle, and they both sprinted towards the westernmost boundary. It was the side that would take them in precisely the opposite direction to Gwavas, Candle realised with a sinking heart, but more barbarians were arriving every moment, blocking off the moongate and she could think of no other way to escape. Locryn shoved Candle over the wall and scrambled up behind her. Something hit the wall with a crash moments after Locryn vacated it, dropping to the ground next to Candle. They teetered for a moment on the brink. The steep slope before them narrowed into a leafy gorge that ran between the Old Man and his Head. Between the two peaks gleamed the vast southern ocean that stretched out towards the end of the world.

"Come on," said Locryn, jumping, and Candle tore her eyes away from the sea. She launched herself off the rise and crashed down the side of the gorge after him.