THE STORM WEAVER & THE SAND

(Third Book of The Change)

by Sean Williams

Copyright © 2002 by Sean Williams.

Published by E-Reads. All rights reserved.

ISBN-10: 0-7592-8532-2

ISBN-13: 978-0-7592-8532-3

The lines quoted in Chapters 4, 5 and 6 are from the poem

“The City In The Sea” by Edgar Allen Poe.

For Sebastian

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

Part One: Floating

CHAPTER 1 A BAD BEGINNING

CHAPTER 2 IN THE WILDERNESS OF GLASS

CHAPTER 3 THE CURL OF A LIP

CHAPTER 4 ECHOES OF THE DEAD

CHAPTER 5 FATE’S INK

CHAPTER 6 AMONG FAMILY

CHAPTER 7 A BAD ENDING

Part Two: Falling

CHAPTER 8 IN THE FACE OF THE VOID

CHAPTER 9 TRUTH AND LIES

CHAPTER 10 SHADES OF LIBERTY

CHAPTER 11 THE DEEPEST DARKNESS

CHAPTER 12 A SMALL AMOUNT OF LIGHT

CHAPTER 13 TERMINUS

Part Three: Drowning

CHAPTER 14 THE OLDEST WAR

CHAPTER 15 WAKING IN PIECES

CHAPTER 16 THREE GOOD REASONS

CHAPTER 17 IN A DEADLY EMBRACE

CHAPTER 18 SUBMISSION TO THE FUTURE

CHAPTER 19 A POWERFUL NEED

CHAPTER 20 THE POWERFUL SOLUTION

EPILOGUE: LIGHT AND HOT WATER

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

The list is getting longer, not shorter. Thanks for services rendered go to James Bradley, Lyn Jacobs and Nick Linke. My agent, Richard Curtis, has been a rock, as always. The Australia Council, the SA Writers’ Centre and the Mount Lawley Mafia continue to prop me up. It simply wouldn’t be possible without HarperCollinsPublishers Australia behind me: Stephanie, Brian, Shona, Linda, Vanessa, Aleta, Darian, Theresa, Ian, Lisa, Jim, Fiona, Janette, Sylvia, Mel, Christine, Kaye, Anthony, Graeme, Paul…Shaun Tan’s art makes it all worthwhile.

Family and friends have been enormous support during the writing of this trilogy; in particular: Katherine Brooks, Rob & Claire Brooks, Stella Brooks, Simon Brown, Bill Congreve, Shane & Nydia Dix, Terry Dowling, Rob Hood, Anna Jackson, Nick Linke, Kelly Manison, Anna MacFarlane, Keira McKenzie, Peter & Mariann McNamara, Garth Nix, Robin Pen, Bronte Ramsay, Tom Russell, Frank Ryan, Evelyn Schiller, Kim Selling, Cat Sparkes, Jonathan Strahan, Heather Williams, and Richard Wiseman. For patience alone they’ve earned my unending gratitude.

Every novel I’ve written in the last two years has been under the splendid influence of Steve Roach, three of whose titles I was tempted to steal for this book (“The Magnificent Void”, “In the Catacombs (again)”, and “Infinite Shore”). For more information on his music, please visit www.steveroach.com.

Last of all, my thanks and love go to Kirsty Brooks, who has read, edited and critiqued every word in this trilogy at least twice over. All the mistakes are mine, but a lot of the good stuff I owe to her. It is a credit to her determination and good taste that this story has concluded the way it does.

Part One:

Floating

CHAPTER 1

A BAD BEGINNING

The storm was coming.

Far away—across the sea and the sand, across the scrub along the coast and the fields inland, across the Ruins and the settlements, and the many places where humanity had failed to retain their claim upon the earth—from beyond the Divide, with its dark watchers and restless shadows, along age-worn valleys and flattened hills, out of the depths of the desert where it was called, the storm gathered speed and power and swept unchecked from the north. Like a living thing, a creature of untameable will, it rolled on its thunderous belly across the land, scouring hills bare with its furious winds, stabbing tongues of lightning at anything daring to stand upright, smothering all thoughts of resistance beneath the weight of its shadow. In its wake it left a trail of destruction.

It was coming. It couldn’t be turned back. Indefatigable, unstoppable, relentless, its purpose was simple and its destination plain.

The storm was coming for its maker.

Sal jerked awake with a gasp. The storm! It was coming for him! He had woken it from its rest in the dry wastelands surrounding the Nine Stars. They had to get away before it reached the caravan…

He blinked.

A cursory glance at his surroundings revealed that he was no longer in the caravan at all. He was sleeping on a real bed, clutching thin sheets in his fists and surrounded by stone walls. There was a single, wide air vent with a metal grille across it in the high ceiling, and the floors were made of polished wood. A mirror glowed on one wall, as though reflecting starlight, buzzing faintly with the Change. Under that silver glow he had fallen asleep almost as soon as his head had hit the pillow.

It came back to him in a rush: his arrival in the Haunted City in the middle of the night, full of dread at what awaited him. This was the place where his parents had met, but he harboured no sentimental thoughts concerning that. It was also the place where his mother died and where his real father lived. The thought of meeting Highson Sparre—a man he knew nothing about except that he had hunted his wife across the Strand, stolen her away from her lover and child, and imprisoned her against her will so she died of a broken heart—sent waves of apprehension through Sal’s body.

The Syndic, his great-aunt, had him in her clutches now. He might have felt relieved that she had not been at the dock to greet him had he not been so weak from seasickness at the time. Her absence only delayed the inevitable.

He had been imprisoned the moment the solid door of the room had shut behind him as surely as though he’d been thrown into a cell. Not that he had felt free at any point during the long journey from Ulum. The band around his left wrist took care of that.

Sweat cooled on his skin, making him shiver. He forced his hands to loosen their grip on the sheets, still feeling the fury of the storm in his dream, the single-minded determination of it as it roared across the parched land. Three times in the last week, he had had the nightmare. If that meant anything, he couldn’t work out what it was. Why should he be afraid of something coming out of the Interior, out of the past, when what lay ahead of him was far worse? It was reality he should be worrying over in his sleep, not dreams.

He tried to go back to sleep, but even though he was exhausted his thoughts wouldn’t let him. It felt weird after such a long journey to be at his destination. The last stage had been a harrowing one as the bone ship, Os, had ferried them, and the caravan from the coast town of Gunida, to the island of the Haunted City. The sea had been choppy and Sal had spent most of the voyage leaning over the edge, throwing up. Riding the surface of the ocean being tossed up and down by the slightest wave was worse than he could have possibly imagined.

His initial impressions of the city were, therefore, far from positive. He’d glimpsed it, woozily, on the horizon at sunset, silhouetted against an orange-blue sky. Its towers shone faintly green in the fading light, glinting like a giant quartz crystal balanced on the edge of the world. Its countless towers sprouted from a bare, kidney-shaped island that bulged upward at the end pointing away from the mainland of the Strand. Steep, forbidding cliff faces held back the sea on all sides, except where the incessant pounding of waves had hollowed out caves and blowholes that hung open like giant mouths, their teeth hidden just below the waterline.

It was through one such cavern that Os passed. Within lay a magnificent dock, ready for the new arrivals. A small party of stern-faced Sky Wardens had waited patiently for them to disembark. While the wardens whisked him and his friends up a series of ramps and into the city, the caravan leader, Belilanca Brokate, remained behind to oversee the unloading of camels and wagons. She caught his eye as they ascended the first leg, and waved cheerfully. It didn’t look like a farewell, but Sal knew it could well be. He might never escape.

Sal lay down in the dark, his mind filled with foreboding. Staring into the void of the future was worse, in its way, than staring into the black emptiness of the sea. Who knew what would come out at him from the darkness ahead? He didn’t know, but he was working on it, trying to work out what to do next.

Behind every powerful solution, the Mage Van Haasteren had said, there lies a powerful need.

His need had never been greater. If there was one thing he had learned—

“Sal?”

He stopped in mid-thought, certain that someone had whispered his name. It wasn’t possible, though. The walls were too thick. The door had locked solidly behind him the moment it had closed, and there was no one in the room except him.

A ghost? he thought, somewhat nervously. That couldn’t be true either—but what else did he expect in the Haunted City?

“Sal!” The whisper came again, unmistakable this time. Its source was above him. “Sal, it’s me!”

“Skender?” Sal sat up, eyes bugging at the air vent. Two small fingers were wiggling at him through holes in the metal grille. “What—? How—?”

“Hang on.” More fingers appeared and curled around the grille. There was a soft click. With a shower of dust, the grille lifted up and away. Skender’s face appeared in its place, dirty but grinning from ear to ear.

“Surprise!”

“What are you doing up there?” Sal whispered.

“Exploring. What else would I be doing?”

“But—” The response, You could get into trouble, was obviously not going to make a difference. Skender’s exploration of the ancient spaces of the Keep had taken place with a similar lack of concern for the rules. “Aren’t you tired?”

“Exhausted, but there was no way I could sleep. We’re in the Haunted City, Sal. Think about it!”

“I am thinking about it.”

“Too much, probably.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve found a way out yet, have you?”

“Not yet.” Skender’s eyes gleamed. “Want to help me try?”

Sal shook his head.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded, even though saying it betrayed every instinct in his body. “Maybe another night. When we’ve settled in and they won’t be watching us so closely.”

“Your loss. It’s great up here, Sal. You can go anywhere. Who knows what I’ll find?”

Sal smiled at the boy’s smudged features. “A lot of dirt, by the look of it.”

“Pfft.” Skender waved in dismissal. “Okay, I can take a hint. I’ll let you know if I find anything useful.”

“What about Shilly? Have you found her yet?”

“She’s a couple of corridors across, out like a light.”

Sal had known that she wasn’t far away: the part of him that sensed when she was near had been tingling deep in his chest ever since he had been locked in. It was good, though, to hear that Shilly was safe and able to rest. “Has anyone come to see you, to welcome you?”

“Not a soul. Some reception, eh?”

“At least the Syndic’s going to let us catch up on our sleep before she does whatever it is she intends to do with us.”

“Sure. You’ll probably get a last meal as well.” Skender’s grin was undentable. “Lighten up, Sal. And remember what we decided. They think they’ve worked us out. If we give them what they expect to see, we’ll have a better chance of surprising them later on.”

Sal nodded. This was Shilly’s idea, and he could see the logic in it. The wardens knew only so much about the three of them: that Shilly had shown some interest in learning at the Haunted City; that Skender had stowed away on the caravan to see more of the world; and that Sal was firmly resisting any attempt to take him back to the Strand. The wardens would, therefore, expect Sal to be the troublemaker and Shilly to do as she was told. Skender, Shilly reasoned, wouldn’t be regarded as a threat at all. They could use such assumptions against the wardens if the chance arose.

A troublemaker, a tourist, and a try-hard. It wasn’t much of an army to take on the might of the Sky Wardens, but it would have to do. If he was going to escape from the clutches of the Syndic and his real father, he had to take every advantage he could.

“Can I go now?” asked Skender.

“Sorry. Feel free,” he replied. “Just remember to get some rest. We’ll need to be alert for tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, Sal. I’ve got plenty of time. We’ve only been here an hour or so.”

Sal groaned inside. That left the rest of the night ahead. Sleepless, probably.

“Thanks for dropping in,” he said with a weary smile.

“My pleasure.” Skender winked as the grille dropped back into place. “It was worth it just to see the look on your face.”

Skender retreated from the vent and turned back the way he had come. The narrow gaps above the ceilings were cramped and warm, and smelt of the dust of ages. The close proximity of the rooms to each other made noise a constant concern. And the crawlspaces wouldn’t be a good place to hide, either, if he was discovered.

Still, he decided, it was well worth the effort. After the long and uncomfortable journey south, he was in an entirely new place—one as far away from his home as he could imagine. Who knew what he would see during his nocturnal explorations?

Slowly and carefully, he peeked into three more rooms. They weren’t lit, and he could hear no sound of breathing. That wasn’t encouraging, but was fairly typical of what he had found thus far. Shilly and Sal’s rooms were the only two inhabited quarters that he had come across. He didn’t let that dampen his enthusiasm, though. Each room held a wealth of potential discoveries; if he didn’t look, he would never find.

This, he told himself, was the life.

He crawled at random from vent to vent, never once concerned that he would lose his way. He had memorised every centimetre of the route, just as he had unconsciously memorised the pattern cast by light through the vents around him, the expression on Sal’s face, the smell of the dust in his nose—everything, in fact, that he had seen and sensed that day. The memories crowded his mind like a roomful of people, jostling his thoughts and distracting him from serious contemplation. The only way to be rid of them, he had learned, was to find new things to distract himself with, to prevent the wash of associations that came with each familiar sensation. When every moment he had ever experienced could be recalled as clearly as the present, the weight of the past soon began to overwhelm the brief flicker called “now”.

Sleep helped. Sometimes after a good, long rest he awoke feeling almost calm, as though his mind had reorganised itself overnight, putting everything back into place and steeling itself against the mad clamour of the day. Mornings like that were to be treasured and encouraged. His memory was always perfect, but there were different ways of remembering, some better than others: memories could come unbidden or in response to a trigger; he could seek them deliberately or let them wash over him, uncontrolled. That was what it boiled down to; or so his father said. He had to learn how to control his gift, or it would become a curse. As well as Stone Mage teachers, there were numerous lunatics and renegades among his ancestors. An only child, he didn’t want the last Van Haasteren to let the side down.

He was being careful. And when he wasn’t being careful, at least he was having fun. In the past month, he had seen more things than he had in all the years previously. He had seen the full moon hanging frozen over the Nine Stars during the Stone Mage Synod and soon, in just two days, he would see the full moon rise again over the Haunted City, home of the Sky Wardens. He had sailed across the sea in a boat made of bone. Even in his wildest dreams, he had never hoped to see so much: for the rest of his days, the memory of every sight would be fresh and vivid. Travelling with Sal and Shilly was the adventure of his lifetime, and he knew it. He wasn’t going to miss out on anything.

Something crunched under his open palm. He looked down and found a fine powder where the brittle bones of a mouse or bird had lain for centuries, perhaps, before he had crushed them. He didn’t flinch; he was well used to such things from his exploration of the ancient spaces of the cliff-city in which he had grown up. It was a small price to pay.

Two more rooms, also empty. So much for treasure, he thought, his enthusiasm beginning to wane. Perhaps it was time to start heading back to his room. Sal was right about getting some sleep. He could almost feel himself getting tired—if he really tried.

Halfway to the open vent leading to his room, he stopped. Just within earshot he made out a low mumble of voices. Wondering who could be up so late at night—apart from himself—he slithered in the direction it came from. Two rooms along, a bright, silver light shone up through a vent into the dusty crawlspace. Lying flat on his stomach, he peered carefully down through the vent, but could see only the tops of heads, one pitch black, the other white.

Two voices floated up to him.

“—thought they would have contacted us by now,” one was saying. Strong to the point of overbearing and sharp as a whip, it belonged to Radi Mierlo, Sal’s maternal grandmother, the woman who had lied to and manipulated Sal in an effort to get him to return to the Strand. “If, as you say, they wanted us here so badly, why haven’t they given us any sort of welcome?”

“It’s not us they want,” replied a voice, so thick with bitterness that Skender could picture Shom Behenna’s sneer perfectly. The ex-warden had rarely spoken to them on the caravan journey, but when he did he made no attempt to hide his feelings over the fall from grace he had suffered at Sal’s hands. By allowing himself to be tricked into breaking his vows, Behenna had been publicly humiliated at the Synod a month ago, and was likely to be punished by his former superiors now that he had returned to the Haunted City. “They want the children.”

“So you say, Shom, but they can’t have one without the other. Without you, without me, none of this would have happened. They’d still be looking for Sal and Shilly right now. They owe us.”

“They own us,” Behenna corrected her. “Question them all you like, but they’ll do what they want.”

“I would question them, if they’d only talk to us.”

“They’ll come when they are ready, and not before.”

“Yes, yes. I see the picture quite clearly, except for one thing. How do you know all this? In all the time you’ve been with us, in all the time you were chasing Sal, did they talk to you even once? How can you speak with any authority about your mysterious masters?”

There was a small silence. Skender held his breath, terrified of making the slightest sound that might alert them to his presence above them.

“They told me to get the children,” Behenna said in a grating voice that rose in tone as though he was daring her to defy him, to tell him he was wrong. “They told me to get the children, no matter what it took, and to bring them back to the Haunted City. I’ve done exactly that. I’ve done what they told me to do. They knew they could trust me, and I’ve proved them right.”

“But would you have been so willing if you’d known what it would cost? That you’d find yourself before a disciplinary hearing as a result? I wonder. I suppose you’re expecting a reward for your efforts; a pardon, perhaps. That’s why you have such blind faith in their trustworthiness: because it’s the only hope you have that you will come out of this clean.” Sal’s grandmother snorted. “Well, if the Mierlo family has learned one thing, it’s not to put our trust in anyone—blindly or otherwise. I’ve made my own arrangements. Highson will be waiting for us when things begin. I’d rather place my bets on a man I can see and touch than on a phantom, any day.”

“The Weavers are not phantoms.”

“No? How can you be so sure—here of all places?” She stifled a yawn. “Your hearing is in a matter of days. If the Weavers don’t appear by then, I suppose you’ll know exactly where you stand. For now, Shom, I suggest we get some rest. We’ll need all our strength for tomorrow, no matter what happens.”

The black-haired, black-skinned man grunted and headed for the door. He took with him a cloud of tension that seemed almost palpable.

Radi Mierlo watched him go, then moved across the room to lie on the bed. Her eyes glittered in the faint light, staring at the ceiling.

“The Weavers are not to be taken lightly,” said a new voice, rasping and metallic.

“Be quiet, Mawson. Until I address you directly, I don’t want you to say another word.”

Skender peered more closely through the vent and made out the marble shape of the stone bust called Mawson sitting on the floor in one corner, near Radi Mierlo’s many trunks of belongings. Now that he knew to look for him, the man’kin’s presence was obvious.

This animated head and chest of a man who may never have lived, yet existed so deeply in the Change that he saw things no human could see, had travelled with them all the way from Ulum with the rest of the Mierlos’ possessions. Bound to Sal’s grandmother by some sort of life-debt, the man’kin had no choice but to obey her every request, although Skender had seen Mawson bend the rules when he wanted to. The man’kin didn’t like telling stories, either. Hoping to liven up the trip south, Skender had tried many times to get him to talk about the things he must have seen in his long, unnatural life, but he had remained tight-lipped. “Man’kin do not tell stories,” Mawson told him. “There are too many endings and too many beginnings. The only thing we can be certain of is the now.”

Skender had no idea what that meant.

Complete silence indicated that Mawson was obeying the latest instruction from the woman who owned him. That was a shame, Skender thought, for he would have liked to learn more about the Weavers, those mysterious people who Sal suspected had a hand in Sal and Shilly’s enforced return to the Strand.

“The Weavers are not to be taken lightly,” Mawson repeated.

Skender almost jumped in shock; it had sounded as though the man’kin was whispering right into his ear. He froze, waiting for Radi Mierlo to berate Mawson for disobeying her instruction, but she didn’t stir. In fact, her eyes had closed. She looked like she was going to sleep.

“Are you talking to me, Mawson?” he sent to the man’kin through the Change.

The stone bust looked up at the vent and nodded, once.

Skender thought fast. So much for going unnoticed. The man’kin must have picked him out from the many minds surrounding it, using the Change. He had known he was there all along.

But Mawson hadn’t opposed him. He could have informed his mistress that there was an eavesdropper at any time during her conversation with Behenna, and Skender supposed that would have been the right thing to do. Instead, the man’kin had stayed silent. Why? So it could make sure Skender got the point about the Weavers? Was it trying to tell him that, not Radi Mierlo?

There was another explanation.

“You can’t talk to me, can you?” he silently asked the man’kin.

Mawson solemnly shook his head.

That explained it. Until I address you directly, Radi Mierlo had told the man’kin, I don’t want you to say another word. All Mawson could say until freed from her instruction was the one string of words he had already uttered.

“The Weavers—”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. They’re not to be trusted. And how frustrating for you.” Skender smiled at the bust’s predicament. “Whatever you’re trying to tell me, it’ll have to wait.”

The man’kin’s gaze drifted away, as though tired of the conversation.

All right, Skender thought. I can take a hint.

He slithered through the crawlspace to the vent over his room. If Mawson had spotted him so easily, someone or something else might too, and the last thing Skender wanted to do was ruin his chances to explore by being caught.

He scrambled like a rat down the crude ladder he had made out of his cupboard and a chair. As he quietly rearranged the furniture, his mind turned over everything he had learned during his exploration. Shilly and Sal were both nearby, which was reassuring. Everyone was keen on keeping those two together, although he still hadn’t worked out why. Even his father, Skender Van Haasteren the Ninth, had thought the same. This Skender would figure it out, or he wouldn’t feel worthy of being the tenth in his line.

As for the rest…Behenna thought he was working for the Weavers. Radi Mierlo was in contact with Highson Sparre, Sal’s natural father. Plans within plans within plans—and he was sure they weren’t the only people in the Haunted City plotting and scheming how best to use the new arrivals to their advantage. Whatever the next day brought, he felt safe assuming that it wouldn’t go as either Shom Behenna or Radi Mierlo expected.

Shilly was startled out of restless sleep by a rapping on her door. She climbed awkwardly out of bed, still dressed in her travel clothes, and was told by a black-robed and hooded man that her presence was required before an examining committee.

“Examining what?” she protested, trying futilely to wake up properly. To her sleepy eyes, the mirror-like glass light hanging on one wall seemed much brighter than it had the previous night.

“Your fitness for the Novitiate,” he replied. Three people had come to wake her, all identically dressed, but he was the only one who spoke. His voice was deep and commanding, as though used to having orders obeyed.

“I don’t know anything about a Novitiate,” she responded. “Who says I’m interested in joining?”

“That’s what you’re here to find out,” said the attendant.

Shrugging to conceal her nervousness, Shilly slipped her crutch into its well-worn place under her armpit and followed them out of the room. The attendants took her along narrow, rectangular corridors lined with arches. The arches had been filled in with bricks, so what might once have been a pleasant thoroughfare was now a narrow tunnel. She didn’t know where they were going; she didn’t know why she was being taken there. All she could do was hope that she would wake up in time to make sense of things when she arrived.

Don’t be afraid to follow your heart. The words of the elderly Mage Erentaite were of some comfort. It’s a journey we all must take, if only once in our lives. Shilly knew that the decisions she had made and the allegiances she had chosen were right—or the closest to right she could discern at that time—but her leg still ached with a dull throb she suspected she would have for the rest of her life. Every step sent a dagger of pain up her hipbone and into the base of her skull, reminding her that even being right could be costly. The hooded attendants walked briskly, seemingly ignorant of her handicap, and she refused to say anything, to admit any weakness in front of them.

Deep down, she feared that the time of reckoning had come. She had been dreading this moment ever since the caravan had left Ulum, weeks before; ever since she had made the decision that had brought them hundreds of kilometres from the Nine Stars to the Haunted City. Her fate had been sealed the moment she had told the Synod that she wasn’t certain that staying in the Interior was the right thing to do. Although Shom Behenna had tricked her into it, and part of her had never really believed that the consequences of her mistake would catch up with her, they were about to. She was sure of it. There would be no hiding what she was from the Sky Wardens.

A crippled, untalented girl. Dead wood.

All dreams of rescuing Lodo and learning how to use the Change would have to be forgotten if she couldn’t show the Sky Wardens otherwise. Her life might as well be over.

It was up to her to ensure that it wasn’t. Troublemaker, tourist, try-hard.

They came to an open door twice as high as the attendant leading the way. It hung open, and she heard voices echoing from the chamber within. A woman was addressing someone, and Shilly’s heart beat fast at the thought that it might be the Syndic. But the voice wasn’t the same: Nu Zanshin wasn’t so velvety. She wore her strength on her sleeve.

“—won’t be long now, I’m sure,” the woman was saying as Shilly was led into the room. “Ah, here she is now. Does that address your concern, Sal?”

Shilly took in the scene at a glance. The room was cavernous and gloomy, with pillars and alcoves alternating around the walls, creating numerous opportunities for shadow. There were no windows, just a silver brazier on a wooden stand in the centre of the room, casting a steady, blue light. Sal and Skender were seated on two low stools before a tall, emaciated woman dressed entirely in black. Even inside she wore a wide-brimmed hat that hugged the skull. Her face was shadowed but not hidden in the same way as the attendants bringing Shilly to the examination, and her features were a surprise: sharply defined, inhumanly gaunt. Her skin was so pale, Shilly could see veins through it. Shilly had become somewhat accustomed to paler features after her journey through the Interior, but this woman was even whiter than Skender.

Beyond the woman, the room contained only hooded attendants standing in the alcoves, lining the walls like sentries, faceless and motionless. Despite the eerie threat they conveyed, Shilly breathed a sigh of relief. No sign of the Syndic. Not yet, anyway.

“Yes, it does. Thank you,” said Sal. He looked as relieved to see Shilly as she was to see him, and just as exhausted; he had clearly been dragged out of bed still in his old clothes as she had. Skender was even filthier than he had been the night before, but was fairly vibrating with eagerness. After shooting Shilly a quick wave, his attention was back on the skeleton-thin woman before them.

“The Novitiate is like a school, right? Where you train your students?” the boy asked as Shilly was shown to the seat next to Sal. She wasn’t given the option to decline.

The woman tilted her head in assent. Her voice rolled over them like an orator’s. “To the Novitiate is given the task of training Sky Wardens. I am Master Warden Atilde. It is my purpose to examine every applicant upon arrival to see if the Selectors have correctly assessed their abilities. This includes you. You are behind by some weeks, and although I have been told that you have received some education at the Interior school known as the Keep, you must understand that this in no way guarantees that you will pass my examination. Our standards here are quite different.”

“But we didn’t apply to join the Novitiate,” Sal said. “What if we don’t want to be tested?”

“You are here now, and I will not have you wasting your talent. I made that very clear when I heard you were coming. Who you are means nothing to me; it’s what I can make of you that matters.” Master Warden Atilde’s eyes glittered oddly in their sockets, and a chill went down Shilly’s spine when she realised why. The woman’s eyes were translucent, as if made of glass—but with no attempt to disguise them as real eyes. Atilde had to be as blind as the Mage Erentaite—yet was, impossibly, just as able to see. There was no question of who the woman was looking at: Sal, then Skender, and lastly, Shilly.

“Now you are all present,” Atilde said, “we can begin.” She raised her stick-thin arms as though trying to make herself look larger, like a lizard puffing itself up. Her black robes billowed around her. “The Change comes in many shapes and forms, but through us it can do only three things: it can promote our understanding of the world; it can imitate the appearance of the world; and it can alter the substance of the world. Theory, illusion and actuality—these are the foundation stones of all our teaching. A Sky Warden must master two of these three in order to graduate, and all must have more than a passing familiarity with the third. The exercises I am about to give you will determine how far advanced each of you is along these three roads.

“Shilly first.” With a series of sweeping gestures, the warden drew a design out of glowing lines in thin air. It looked like a star made from smaller stars and turned slowly clockwise once complete. “Can you tell me what effect this visualisation would have on the world?”

Shilly studied it closely, wanting to impress even though she resented the way their desires had been so casually dismissed. Her part was easy to play.

The design reminded her of one that Lodo had shown her a long time ago, one of a number that both Stone Mages and Sky Wardens could use.

“It freezes water,” she said.

“Could you demonstrate for us?”

Atilde gestured. One of the attendants came forward with a glass of water and handed it to Shilly. She stared at it for a moment, thinking, Now what do I do? She had no talent; all the knowledge in the world couldn’t help her turn even a thimbleful of water into anything else without a grain of ability to make it happen.

Then she felt a hand on her shoulder. A voice in her head whispered, “Use me.”

Shilly shook her head, knowing without needing to look who the hand and voice belonged to. She had sworn never again to Take from Sal after almost draining him dry in the Keep. She could have killed him, or worse.

“You have to, Shilly. The wardens need to see what you can do. If things don’t work out—” Sal hesitated, “—they’re your best hope of getting what you want.”

The bald statement flashed through her mind like a crack through glass. She wanted things as they had once been, with Lodo free and whole and teaching her to use the Change. Would the Sky Wardens give her that? Would Sal? She didn’t know.

“We agreed, remember?”

And he was offering…

She closed her eyes and reached through him for the Change. It stirred immediately at her command. The visualisation rotated smoothly in her mind, then poured through her, into the glass. With a soft crunching noise, like stepping on dead leaves, the water turned to slush then swelled into a solid block of ice. Cold blossomed in her fingertips.

Sal squeezed her shoulder and withdrew his hand.

“Well done, Shilly.” Atilde’s thin lips pursed in something that might have been approval. The attendant who had given her the glass took it away. “For your last test, I want you to show me something important to you. An image from your past.” The gaunt figure approached with gloved, claw-like hands extended. Corded fingers gripped Shilly’s wrists in a surprisingly strong grip and pulled her to her feet. “Your friend will not assist you, this time.”

Shilly couldn’t look at the woman’s ravaged face. It was like staring too close at a jellyfish. She averted her eyes and struggled through a rising panic to think. She had to concentrate, focus on the task she had been given. She wouldn’t have Sal to help her, this time, and she had to impress Warden Atilde. Something from her past, yes: but what?

A glint of glass under Warden Atilde’s black robe caught her eye. It was a torc similar to the one Behenna had let her touch on the way to the Nine Stars. Atilde’s was full of swirling bubbles, frozen in the act of escaping. The way it hung around the warden’s neck reminded her of the charm Lodo had worn around his own neck: a thumb-sized carving in brown-grey stone, shaped like a blunt-featured child. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the memory, picturing it in her mind. Lodo had used the charm to predict the weather, saying that it could feel storms passing over the feet of distant mountains. When she touched it, it whispered words too faint to be understood. Lodo had been given the charm by Skender’s grandfather when he had studied at the Keep, and its name was—

“Yadeh-tash.” Atilde’s voice was approving. Shilly opened her eyes and saw an illusion of the charm floating in the air between them, as distinct as the real thing, but silent, dead. It had no weight, no substance, and would dissipate into nothingness the moment she let the thought of it slip from her mind. Keeping it in place was like holding a butterfly between her hands. It wanted to fly away but was too fragile to break free. She liked the feeling of mastery it gave her. Maintaining the illusion required a delicate touch.

Her concentration shattered the moment Atilde’s words sank in. “You know what tash is?” she asked, startled.

“Of course.” The warden’s translucent lips formed a faint smile as the illusion wavered and vanished. “I am expert in all aspects of the Change.”

The thin hands released her. Shilly fell back onto her stool as though the muscles in her good leg had turned to water.

“Skender next.” Atilde brushed past Sal to approach the boy on the far stool. Skender looked nervously up at the Master Warden as she loomed over him. Atilde took two steps backward and drew another design in the air.

“Explain,” she said, indicating the intricate pattern of interlocking curves, each one a pronounced U. “Tell me what this does.”

A look of dismay passed across Skender’s face. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never seen it before.”

“I suspected as much. It’s a Sky Warden visualisation, and you have been trained the Interior way. But the principles behind this are not dissimilar to some your father teaches. You should be able to work it out.” Atilde gestured at the pattern again. It began to pulsate gently in and out, as though breathing.

Skender’s dismay only deepened. Shilly wished she could send the answer to him through the Change. The pattern influenced air movement in enclosed spaces, such as houses; it created breezes. Without the Change, though, she was mute; they might as well have been separated by walls a mile thick.

Skender shook his head. “I don’t know,” he repeated. “It makes water less salty?”

Atilde smiled thinly and gave him the correct answer. “Now,” she said, grasping Skender’s hands as she had Shilly’s, “make it work for me.”

The boy concentrated, drawing on the warden’s talent rather than his own, and managed to make a fitful breeze dance through the room. The wide brim of Atilde’s hat fluttered in front of her face.

“Thank you, Skender. Lastly, show me something precious from home. Demonstrate the third path of mastery.”

Skender’s brow furrowed. For a moment nothing happened, then far above them a shape moved across the shadowed ceiling. Shilly looked up into the face of one of the guardians protecting the Way between the Keep and Ulum—an enormous stone statue six metres high. Its face scowled down at her, then lifted up out of sight, and disappeared.

“Big is not necessarily better, young Van Haasteren,” Master Warden Atilde scolded.

“I wasn’t trying to show off,” he said, at least half-seriously, Shilly thought. “I didn’t know that you could create illusions of man’kin, and I wanted to give it a go. That’s all.”

“Why wouldn’t you be able to?”

“Because—well, you can’t create illusions of people because they have minds. Man’kin have minds, and I assumed—”

“All living things have minds,” Atilde informed him, “but not all minds are the same. Animals have minds that exist entirely in the present, with little or no thought of tomorrow or yesterday. Humans travel from past to future in dynamic tension between both extremes; it is this motion that makes them difficult to recreate. Man’kin, on the other hand, see all things at once, hence their ability to foretell or reveal things that are not known to us.” Her face darkened. “There are other minds that see in yet different ways, and you may learn about them during your studies here—but that is a topic for another day. Suffice it to say that you should have guessed the illusion would work because Shilly showed us yadeh-tash. That charm and the man’kin are fundamentally the same, although they share no common origin.”

Satisfied that Skender had taken her point, Master Warden Atilde moved to her right to confront Sal.

“Last but not least,” she said to him, “it is your turn. Give me your left hand.”

Warily Sal obeyed, and with two swift movements she undid the charm around his wrist that he, Skender and Shilly had tried, many times, to remove on the way from Ulum. A seemingly simple band of plaited leather, it dug tight if Sal strayed too far from his grandmother without her permission. It also had an inhibitory effect on his use of the Change, although his talent was so great that nothing could contain it completely.

Atilde drew another charm in the air, a series of dots and lines with no apparent order.

“Tell me what this would do.”

Sal shook his head.

“You don’t know or you won’t tell me?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Does that mean I fail the examination?”

Atilde’s eyes narrowed. “This charm turns dust into fog. Show me how it works.”

“I can’t. I’m on the wrong side of the Divide.”

“You are a wild talent. That doesn’t stop you.”

“I thought the idea was to control wild talents, not encourage them.”

“The idea is to learn, boy, and you won’t learn unless you do as I say.” Atilde’s glassy stare locked with Sal’s for a long, strained moment.

Then he looked away. He stared hard at the pattern, and Shilly felt the Change flex through him, even from across the room. Instantly, every mote of dust in the room turned to a tiny drop of water. A thin mist hung in the air, glittering in the silver light, and moisture coated every surface.

“Very good,” Atilde started to say.

But Sal wasn’t done. The Change flexed again, and a sudden gale whipped through the room, sending the mist into a furious whirlwind. A third time the Change responded to Sal’s command, and every droplet of water suspended in the air turned to ice.

As the room filled with swirling snow, blinding her, Shilly felt a hand on her arm dragging her toward the door.

“Stop!” Atilde’s shout coincided with strong hands reaching out of the snowstorm and holding Shilly still. She felt Sal struggling beside her before his hand fell away. There was a sound like glass breaking in the distance, and suddenly the air was full of dust again.

Some went up her nose. She sneezed instantly.

“I see we’re going to have to keep our wits about us,” Atilde said, striding calmly across the room to where Sal was held by two attendants. The hood of one of them had fallen back, revealing a silver-haired, dark-skinned man with a severe expression. He held Sal tight as Atilde reattached the bracelet to Sal’s wrist, then he let go and replaced his hood.

“No further testing is required,” Warden Atilde said to all of them. “I judge you worthy of the Novitiate. Classes commence in two hours. You will be present, or your stay here will become decidedly less comfortable.”

“I don’t care about comfort—” Sal began.

“You should care.” The warden’s icy eyes flashed at him. “I’m the only thing standing between you and the Syndic. The Alcaide has seen to that. The fact that one of you is the son of an important Stone Mage grants you unique status, irrespective of what certain other parties want. This arrangement might not be permanent, but it could be, and it would be wise not to sink your ships before you’ve sailed them. If you want my advice, it would be to behave.”

Sal swallowed his protest with a visible effort. Atilde was right: it wouldn’t pay to cause too much trouble too quickly. Shilly wanted to ask why the Alcaide had sent them to the Novitiate—to help them or to hinder them—but there were too many things battling for her attention at once. She could only ask one thing at a time. And she had a role to play.

“You mean you’re going to let us study here?” she asked.

“Temporarily—at least until your situation is resolved. I know there are some ambiguities, but that’s not my concern. My job is to ensure that you perform while you are in my care.” She briefly but pointedly fixed Sal with a stare.

“You will stand out,” she said, turning to pace, her gloved hands clasped lightly behind her back. “As I said, the term started weeks ago. People will wonder why you are special, to be allowed in so late. I will not tell them; that battle is for you to fight. My only advice to you is this: don’t turn your back on what you have been given. Each of you is strong, in your own way, and you should take the chance to learn how to use those strengths. To do otherwise would dishonour what you have—and some gifts can be taken away.”

She nodded to herself, as though confirming that she hadn’t forgotten anything.

“That’s all. Take them to see their new home.”

The attendants lining the wall closed in. Shilly didn’t resist as she, Sal and Skender were guided out of the room, leaving the unearthly, pale woman alone with the settling dust.

CHAPTER 2

IN THE WILDERNESS OF GLASS

“I don’t like the sound of this,” whispered Shilly as they were led away from their first meeting with Master Warden Atilde.

“Why not?” responded Skender, playing his part for the benefit of the attendants. “You wanted to be taught here. Your temperament matches the Strand. You’re back where you belong.”

“I don’t belong here,” she whispered, and Sal privately agreed. When he pictured Shilly, she was always as he had first met her: wild-haired and mysterious in the village of Fundelry, answerable only to Lodo. The Keep hadn’t suited her, and he doubted any Sky Warden school would either.

During their trip from Ulum, she had cut her hair short, hacking at her curly locks with a knife until all that was left was a wavy mane rising from her scalp. From certain angles and in certain lights she looked more than a little crazy. He suspected that this had been her intention. The way she swung her crutch displayed a firm defiance, as though daring anyone to comment on her weakness.

“They’re trying to trap us,” she went on. “If we do as they say, we’ll be caught up in the system. Once they can claim they’re teaching us, it’ll be that much harder to make them let go. And they’ll claim credit for anything we do.”

“I think we should do as they say,” Sal said. “It’s not as if we have any other options.”

“Sense at last,” said one of the attendants accompanying them.

“For now,” Sal added, unsure which one had spoken, but scowling at the nearest anyway.

They came to a T-junction adorned with bright blue banners that had seen better days. The material was fraying around the edges, and the dye had faded unevenly, making the colour blotchy.

“Remember this intersection,” said another of the attendants, a woman, this time. “To your left are the rooms you slept in last night. You’ll keep those until your circumstances change. To the right are the common areas. Meals are served at regular times every day.”

Skender’s stomach gurgled on cue. “We’re going there now?”

“Yes. When you’ve eaten this morning, you will be shown to your various classes and introduced to your teachers. After lunch, you will be collected and taken elsewhere.”

“Where?” asked Shilly. “Collected by who?”

The attendant didn’t answer, indicating instead that they should take the right-hand passage. Temporarily resigned to his fate, Sal did as he was told. His token attempt to escape had demonstrated the futility of trying while the wardens were watching him. He vowed to try again later, under more favourable conditions. That he would try again he was in no doubt. He wasn’t going to stay captive in the hands of the people who had killed his mother and father any longer than he had to.

The right-hand corridor was much shorter and culminated in a hall that reminded Sal of the underground chambers of Ulum, large enough to hold several hundred people and filled with low tables and benches. The air was full of clanking cutlery, the warmth of so many bodies all in one space, and the smell of food. A throng of teenagers dressed in various shades of grey—students, he assumed—swarmed around the benches, all clamouring to be heard over the racket. A long line of them led to a hole in the wall, through which breakfast was being served.

Towers of dirty dishes loomed on the far side of the room. The procedure was obvious, but Sal stood frozen for a long moment, overwhelmed by the scene. It couldn’t have been more different from the Keep, where barely two dozen students ate every morning in a small dining room overlooking the mountains; there they cooked for each other, and served themselves. Here the people were piled in like cattle, with cooks producing the vast quantities required and cleaners hovering in the wings to mop up the mess.

“What are you waiting for?” asked Skender, nudging him forward.

“Nothing,” he said, although his appetite had suddenly deserted him. Among all the students, some of them looking up curiously at the new arrivals, he had seen one face he recognised. The pale features, white hair, and pinkish eyes stood out among all the dark complexions, as did the baleful glare.

It was Kemp. The bully from Fundelry had seen him and Shilly, and he obviously hadn’t forgotten them. Kemp locked stares with Sal for a long moment, then coolly looked away. Sal didn’t even attempt to convince himself that that was the end of it.

The food was lukewarm but good. Skender asked for and received generous servings of eggs, toast and baked beans and, once they had found a space in one of the less crowded corners of the hall, dedicated himself to eating the lot. Belilanca Brokate’s caravan cook, Molash, had done his best to provide variety on the long journey south, but there was only so much you could do with bush vegetables and preserved meat. It was good to dive into something fresh in an environment that was completely and utterly new.

Only gradually did he become aware that he was the only one appreciating the sensory feast to its fullest.

“What’s wrong?” he asked Shilly, who was listlessly stirring her eggs around her plate.

“Aren’t you nervous?” she asked.

“About what?”

“Everything.”

“Kemp is here,” said Sal. He had only taken a couple of pieces of toast, and they were now cold.

“Oh, great,” Shilly breathed. “That’s all we need.”

“You guys think too much.” Skender scooped a spoonful of beans into his mouth.

“It’s a survival trait,” she said.

“No’ if ’oo ftarve ’oo deff.”

“I’m not likely to starve, the way you’re flinging food around.” Shilly wiped the front of her dress in disgust.

“Sorry,” Skender said, although he suspected that the food he had unintentionally spat on her might have made her dress slightly cleaner than before. None of them was in a terribly hygienic state. No one had shown them where to bathe properly or wash their clothes.

“What do you think we should do?” asked Sal, his voice barely audible over the ruckus surrounding them.

“The same as we agreed on the way here,” said Skender. “Troublemaker, tourist, try-hard.”

“But we weren’t expecting to be stuck in a school. We don’t know where we are in the city, or where Lo—” She cut herself off with a nervous glance over her shoulder. “Where anything else is.”

“That doesn’t change a thing,” Skender responded. “I’m still just a hanger-on, getting in the way. I haven’t done anything wrong, except stow away on the caravan. It’s you two they want and who they’ll be watching closely, because they know you don’t want to be here. While you’re drawing all the attention, I’ll slip away and try to find what you need. They’ll be glad not to have me under their feet all the time. That’s the way it works at home.”

He hoed back into his eggs, satisfied that his assessment of the situation was accurate.

“They’re only delaying the inevitable,” Sal said, poking his soggy toast and pushing the plate aside. “The Syndic is toying with us, dragging it out to see if we’ll snap.”

“I don’t think so,” said Shilly. “Remember what Atilde said? She’s put herself between us and the Syndic—or the Alcaide has put her there. One of the two. That means the Syndic isn’t getting everything her way.”

“You believe Atilde when she says that? She could be part of the Syndic’s plot.”

“I think you’re being paranoid, Sal.”

“I think we have to be. Why would the Alcaide help us?” Sal looked up as someone approached their table from behind Skender and Shilly. His expression was guarded, but unexpectedly cleared.

Skender turned in surprise to see a boy his own age with startlingly pronounced features. Protruding ears, nose and eyes lent the boy more than a passing resemblance to a bilby; his nature was almost as timid.

“Tom!” Sal exclaimed, a tangle of emotions in his voice: surprise, relief and sadness among them. “You’re here, too.”

“I said you’d come to the Haunted City.” The boy’s voice was softly pitched. “I dreamt it.”

“So you did,” said Shilly, twisting in her seat. “Got any other dreams to report? Anything concrete this time?”

Tom looked down at his feet. “I’m not going home,” he said. “Not now Tait is here.”

Skender had to strain to hear the boy’s words. On the surface, they didn’t make much sense. Tait, Behenna’s former assistant, was Tom’s older brother, whom Tom had idolised through his childhood, especially since Tait had been Selected for training as a Sky Warden. During the search for Sal in Fundelry, however, Tait had betrayed Tom’s confidence in order to betray Sal and Shilly, thereby increasing his standing in the eyes of his superiors. There was more to the story, Skender knew, but that was the gist of what Sal and Shilly had told him. The last time Sal and Shilly had seen Tom, he had sworn never to speak to his brother again.

“Does that mean you’ve forgiven him?” Shilly asked.

Tom shook his head, still looking at his toes. Before he could say anything, if he’d intended to, the tolling of a deep bell rolled through the hall. The tables instantly erupted in a rush of people pushing back plates and reaching for bags. The volume level rose twofold as farewells were exchanged, jokes finished and parting shots fired. Breakfast was over. Time for lessons.

Sal blanched. Shilly looked unsure of what to do. Skender took the opportunity to steal Sal’s uneaten toast and wipe his plate clean with it.

“Do you know where to go?” asked Tom, blinking around him like a very out-of-place owl.

“No,” said Sal, “we’ve only just arrived. No one’s told us anything, really.”

“In the morning, first year students study theory and illusions with Warden Bohm. In the afternoon, we break into tutor groups to practise.” Tom broke off as one of the hooded attendants approached the table.

“You won’t be joining classes just yet,” said the attendant. Skender matched the voice with that of the woman who had given them directions in the hallway. “First, you must make yourselves presentable. Come with me.”

The three of them stood as, without another word, Tom hurried off to join the stragglers draining from the hall.

“Aren’t we ever going to see anything of the Haunted City?” Sal was supposed to be the argumentative one, but Skender couldn’t rein in a small moment of irritation. Thus far, all they’d seen had been bricked-in tunnels and rooms of varying sizes, none of them with windows.

“When you’re ready,” said the attendant. “The longer you delay, the later that will be.”

Skender rolled his eyes and let himself be led away.

Shilly hoped the shower would never end. Standing alone in an endless line of tiled stalls, she let the hot water scour away the weeks of dusty travel and sluice her hair clean. The water wasn’t particularly warm, but it was fresh and cleaner than any she’d found on the road. She assumed it was piped in from the sea surrounding the island on which the Haunted City perched, charmed to remove its salt. When she’d cleaned her teeth earlier, it had tasted faintly of metal.

All too soon, though, the stream of water chugged three times and shut off. It wasn’t like the Keep, she thought, where she could bathe in boiling hot water for any length of time as long as she turned up to classes promptly. Standing alone in the echoing girls’ bathroom, she dried herself on a stiff, clean towel and dressed in the clothes an attendant had provided: a loose, grey top and grey, shin-length skirt; even the underwear they gave her was grey. She didn’t know if that meant they had been worn by dozens of people before her, or whether grey was just the uniform of the Novitiate. At least they were clean. Finally, she thought, she was free of the stink of camel—which, like the ache in her leg, she had wondered if she would ever be free of.

Sal and Skender were waiting for her in the hall outside, dressed in matching outfits. She hadn’t noticed the difference in their sizes before; Sal had grown a lot in the previous month, and now looked more like a young man than the boy he had once been, especially next to Skender, who was almost a head shorter and thin with it. Skender looked uncomfortable in the long shorts—and he probably was, she realised, having worn robes most of his life. Just the one attendant was with them. The wardens had presumably decided to trust them not to run away, just yet.

To be honest with herself, Shilly had to admit that her curiosity had been whetted. All her life she had heard of people going to the Haunted City to become Sky Wardens, but no one knew any of the details of that process. What she had seen so far—Warden Atilde, the attendants, the breakfast hall full of students numbering more than the entire population of Fundelry—had intrigued her. This was her chance to find out the rest, and maybe begin looking for Lodo into the bargain.

It was not, therefore, hard to play the role she had been assigned, that of eager student ready to get to work.

“Where to now?” she asked, running her fingers through her hair to make it stand up as straight as it would go.

“I’ll give you a quick tour of the Novitiate grounds,” said the attendant. Shilly detected a faint note of warmth in the woman’s voice. “Master Warden Atilde has instructed me to ensure that you know your way around before I release you into the care of your tutor.”

“Is Atilde in charge of everything here?” Shilly asked, as the warden guided them briskly away from the bathrooms.

“In the Novitiate, yes. She answers to the Conclave, but they rarely get in her way. She has overseen the education of every Sky Warden in the Strand for more years than I’ve been alive.”

“What’s wrong with her?” asked Skender more bluntly. “Is she sick?”

The attendant hesitated slightly. “There was an accident, long ago, and she wastes away as a result. She fights it every day, but how long she has left no one knows. She stands as a warning to us all that the Change can be dangerous, and that we should be careful when using it.”

“What sort of accident?” Skender pressed.

“That’s all I can say. If you need to know more, she will tell you herself.”

They rounded a corner and passed through an archway leading outside. There, for the first time, they saw the light of day in the Haunted City.

Shilly squinted in awe around her. It took her a minute to adjust to the brilliance of the sun—so bright after the mirror-lights and shadows of the Novitiate—but what she saw was no less magnificent than anything she had imagined. Impossibly tall and fragile-looking, the city towered above her like a waterfall of glass. Everywhere she looked she saw reflection and diffraction; light was seduced into the air between the towers and caught there, ricocheting among sweeping curves that defied the eye, bouncing forever between the seemingly infinite planes of glass. She felt as though she was inside a giant crystal, surrounded by silent, dazzling motion.

A long time ago, it seemed, on the road to the Nine Stars, the ex-warden Shom Behenna had granted her a vision of the city. She had not trusted him then; the vision could have been an illusion designed to impress her or any other country yokel he needed to win over in his travels. But what she saw before her was every bit as amazing as what she had been shown then, perhaps even more so.

“Wow,” Skender breathed, one hand shading his eyes as he turned in circles on the spot, taking everything in. “Incredible!”

“Just like the city in the Broken Lands,” said Sal, “but alive, not dead.”

“Don’t be fooled,” said the attendant. “We don’t call it the Haunted City for nothing.”

As Shilly’s eyes adjusted, she saw—just as she had in Behenna’s illusion—shapes moving behind the glass. Silhouettes and shades—never seen clearly but visible nonetheless—were everywhere she looked. Thousands upon thousands of people moving on mysterious errands, dressed in odd-looking garments of a multitude of colours. They seemed as impossibly tall and beautiful as the towers they inhabited, and she found herself full of something like sadness, for they were surely echoes of things that had been lost, ghosts of another time that hadn’t existed for more years than she could conceive.

“Do they talk?” asked Skender.

“No.” The attendant ushered them across a wide, flat, cobbled space leading from the tunnel exit to the base of one of the towers. The massive structures weren’t as crowded together as they had been in the ancient city ruins she and Sal had found in the Broken Lands, but there was still a strong sense of being closed in; the only glimpses of the sky itself came from far above. Her gaze, almost reluctantly, dropped lower, and she saw that more recent habitation had left its mark on the city. Smaller buildings, such as the one they had just left, clung like limpets to the bases of the massive structures. The towers were being used as buttress and framework for new walls and roofs. Shilly wondered why on earth anyone would build such seemingly primitive and makeshift structures when far more interesting architecture lay abandoned all around. It was like sleeping on the floor in a house full of luxurious beds.

The attendant must have anticipated the question. She brought them to the base of one particular tower whose lower levels remained relatively exposed. Again, just like the city they had found in the salt lake, the towers seemed to emerge from the ground as though partially buried. The floor level of the tower before them was slightly lower than the ground, so they found themselves stooping to look inside.

There were several people visible in the hazy interior of the building, blurry as though seen through water. Their movements were ponderous and as indistinct as their forms. Shilly could barely tell that they were moving at all.

“The windows don’t open, do they?” said Sal, running one hand across the glass. Shilly did the same and found the surface to be cool and faintly waxy. Skender knocked, trying to get the hazy figures’ attention.

“The towers are sealed,” said the attendant. “We gave up trying to open them long ago. It is said that on the day they open the world as we know it will come to an end.”

“Invasion of the ghosts,” Skender joked.

“Or we’ll become the ghosts,” said Sal.

Although Shilly couldn’t clearly see the attendant’s face, a slight stiffening of the woman’s posture suggested that Sal’s comment was taken more seriously than it had been intended. “There has been at least one Cataclysm in the past, and there will almost certainly be such times again. It’s beyond our means to know what causes them or lies beyond them.”

“Look,” said Skender, “one’s coming closer.”

Shilly returned her attention to the other side of the glass. Skender was right: one of the ghosts had broken away from the others and seemed to be approaching. Its slow, measured steps, the sluggish swinging of its arms, the feeling of timelessness, as though the passage of seconds was different for it than for her, hypnotised Shilly as it came nearer, resolving by minute increments into a tall man with narrow, distinguished features. She wasn’t aware of anything else around her; the eerie glamour of what lay before her had captured her completely.

The ghost—the man inside the glass—snapped into sharp focus as he loomed as close to the window as she was, but on the other side, looking up at her in her slightly elevated position, eyes wide and almost pleading…

A sharp squawking broke the spell. She blinked and turned away, startled. Behind her, two large seagulls descended to the ground with a flutter of feathers and glared at her with black eyes.

Sal said something, but she didn’t hear it. Her gaze drifted back through the glass as though pulled there, but the ghost was gone. As quickly as though it hadn’t ever moved, it was back with the others, little more than a person-shaped blur far away.

“Are you okay, Shilly?” asked Sal, louder this time.

“Did you see him?” she asked, her voice seeming to echo in her ears.

“Of course,” said Skender. “One of them looked as though it was coming over to look back at us, but it turned away. Teasing us.”

“They don’t know we’re here,” said the attendant. “We must keep moving. I need to show you the practice rooms, the tutor hall and the library before taking you to the lecture theatre to join the others. You’ve been assigned a tutor; he will look after you from there.”

As she led the three of them away, Shilly looked over her shoulder at the trio of ghosts trapped inside the building. She couldn’t make out any details at all and she was beginning to wonder, as her head cleared, if she had imagined the whole thing. But she knew, somehow, that one of them was watching her closely. The feeling didn’t fade when she turned a corner, and the trio were out of sight.

CHAPTER 3

THE CURL OF A LIP

It was never easy, walking into a new classroom, no matter how many times one did it. Sal had learned that the hard way. After years of travelling with his father across the Strand, he had seen more classrooms than comfortable beds, and more curious stares upon entering them than hot meals. It was something he had learned to endure but never grown accustomed to.

Walking into a lecture hall filled with over a hundred students was a new type of hell entirely…

Ten minutes earlier he had been absorbing the rarefied ambience of the Novitiate Library, a strange, doglegging hall sandwiched between several of the Haunted City towers. It looked as though a deranged architect had taken several perfectly ordinary meeting halls and stuck them in a row at increasingly odd angles. From the entrance he could see, over the many rows of tall bookcases, the ceiling zigzagging away into the distance.

“Here we keep the histories and researches of all the Sky Wardens who have served down the years,” the attendant had said, waving one hand expansively to encompass the peculiar space. “You’ll also find copies of every Survey Report handed in over the last four hundred years.”

“What happened before then?” asked Shilly.

“There are gaps. Materials decay; records are lost. It’s inevitable, even here.”

“What about the Book of Towers?” Skender asked.

“That’s up the far end,” replied the attendant, “in its own section.”

Sal had heard Skender mention the Book of Towers before. “What makes it so important?”

“It was written thousands of years ago, some say, by many different authors, and contains accounts of the old times when the Cataclysm we know of was at its peak. Surveyors use it as a map in their search for lost things, even though the book itself contains no maps. The world was too changeable then.”

Sal remembered the story of the baker told to him by Belilanca Brokate—the story of a town that had been swallowed in a cloud of death back in the days when nothing was fixed, when the old world was in the process of becoming the world he had been born into. The Cataclysm was as good a name for that time as any.

“Have you read it?” he asked, intrigued despite himself. It was difficult to play the role of troublemaker with so much to fascinate him everywhere he looked.

“I have read some translations. It’s a very difficult text to understand in its pure form. Even when you have the words, the images are difficult to interpret. It talks about places that no longer exist, and omits places we take for granted. The Divide, for instance, is not mentioned, but the three cities are: the Nine Stars and the Haunted City are exactly as they are now. The third was moving even then—”

“How can a city move?” interrupted Shilly.

“That’s one of the mysteries we’re still trying to fathom. The third city relocates from place to place in the Broken Lands. Part of the Surveyors’ task is to find it, each time it moves. That can be a dangerous pastime, even for those with experience. Many people have been lost in the process.”

“Sal and Shilly have been to the third city,” said Skender, glowing with vicarious pride. “It’s in a salt lake. They’ve seen it.”

The attendant showed no sign of being impressed, although it was hard to tell anything beneath the hood. “We must move on,” she said, motioning them to the door. “You’ll return here in due course…”

She had whisked them through a series of crooked quadrangles to the lecture theatre where the rest of the first years sat in steeply mounted, curved rows to hear a balding, fat Sky Warden talk about the importance of fish-blood in particular charms. The attendant had shown them to seats at the front of the hall and left them there, basking in the heat of a hundred stares. The back of Sal’s head felt as though it was about to burst into flame. Although he was acutely conscious of every sound, every whisper, he didn’t hear a single word the lecturer had to say. He hoped, afterward, that he would never find himself in a situation where knowledge of the precise acidity of a sea bass could save the day.

Thankfully, it was over quickly. Another deep-toned bell rang and the lecturer strode stiffly out of the room. As the tiered rows of students dissolved into the noisy crowd it had been after breakfast, a nervous young man with close-cropped black hair and chocolate-brown skin came up to them and explained that he had been assigned as their tutor.

“It’s my job to ensure that you’re learning to do, as well as just learning the theory. Or listening to it. Or not even that.” His smile was white-toothed and nervous. “My name is Fairney.”

“You look young for a Sky Warden,” said Skender.

“I’m not a full warden yet,” he explained. “I have one year in the Novitiate left, then I’ll serve as a journeyman for two more. Then, fingers crossed, I’ll get my torc.” He indicated an exit on the far side of the hall. “I take my tutorials through here. I hope you’ll like it. The view can be a little distracting, but if you’re as inspired by it as I am then you’ll think it a fair trade.”

He led them through a series of tunnels then out into narrow streets that took odd turns and followed unpredictable paths through the city. Sal had lost all sense of direction long before, and couldn’t even have hazarded a guess as to his approximate location. It felt as though they had walked kilometres that morning without doubling back even once. Still, it came as a surprise when they suddenly walked into a clear space that was open to the sea on one side. The blue of the sky seemed painfully vivid after so much glass and reflection. They had reached the edge of the island.

His eyes slid around. The edge consisted of a lip of stone that, for all he could tell, plummeted vertically to the sea below. He could hear waves pounding against rocks. The smell of salt brought back memories of the sickness he had experienced on the crossing from the mainland to the Haunted City. He swallowed automatic nausea. Seagulls mocked him with piercing jeers as, crinkled and impossibly flat, the ocean stretched away before him to the horizon and beyond. Sal wondered if the area was or had once been a lookout.

A hand tugged at him. Shilly was trying to drag him to where a number of other students were seated at the base of the nearest tower.

The lookout, if that was what it was, was an oval-shaped bowl tucked like an afterthought between two looming, ancient towers. The island’s stone lip had been naturally sculpted by wind and spray, giving it the likeness of a cupped hand. At that time of the year, the patch was shaded even at late morning, and the ground was cool.

They sat on a patch of dirt. There was no grass, no weeds or moss. The stone bowl was scoured by wind, and as dead as the rest of the island. The only living things that Sal had seen since arriving at the Haunted City were people and seagulls.

Dazed though he was by the scenery—although not half so much as Skender, who stared at the sea as though hypnotised—Sal noticed two familiar faces among the ten or so students seated before him. One was Tom, his smile wide with delight. The other was Kemp, sitting apart from the others, face expressionless. The sight of the albino bully was as disorienting as the scenery.

“Like it?” Fairney didn’t give them a chance to answer, turning to encompass the view with wide-flung arms. “The sea is an inspiration to us all. It provides for us and it accepts us in death. It is the great mother and the widow-maker in one. It shapes continents and lays down what will one day be mountains. By its nature, it is the true repository of the Change. An ever-turbulent flood of life is carried on its back.”

Fairney lowered his arms and turned back to his charges. His blissful smile wasn’t dented at all by Skender’s scowl, no doubt prompted by the “true repository” comment. Stone Mages revered fire the same way Sky Wardens revered water. In their eyes, the sun was the source of all life, not the sea.

“He always does this,” whispered one of the students, nudging Sal. “You get used to it.”

“Don’t ever get used to the sight of the sea, Weyn,” Fairney chided the boy who had spoken. “As those who sail upon it for a living will tell you: the day the ocean ceases to amaze and terrify you is the day you die.”

Sal didn’t know what to say in response to that, and no one else seemed to either, judging by the silence. Fairney took a deep breath and muttered something to himself. He clapped his hands together, and suddenly they were under water. The light turned a deep greenish-blue. Strong currents surged around them, tugging leafy plants backward and forward. A wide-eyed fish goggled at him, then darted away with a flick of its fins.

Sal clutched the ground in terror until he realised that he could breathe perfectly well. It was just an illusion.

“Tenorio.” Fairney stood before them as though on the bottom of the sea. He pointed at one of his students then at a strange, bulbous thing growing out of what looked like solid rock. “Tell me the uses of angelwood and when it is best harvested.”

The student stammered a response. Fairney indicated that it was correct. Next, he reached down and plucked something from the swirling seabed. “Bastin, the life-cycle of the brownworm. You have ten seconds.”

A second student frantically attempted to cram the entire journey, from birth to death, of the creature Fairney held between his thumb and forefinger. When the girl called Bastin was done, the satisfied tutor let it drift, wriggling bonelessly back to the silty bottom.

The rapid-fire question and answer session continued for what seemed a long time—long enough for Sal to become accustomed to the sensation of being underwater. Even though he knew it was an illusion, the feeling that he might drown, as he almost had at Fundelry, was difficult to shake. It took him a long time to let himself notice that there was beauty at the bottom of the sea as well as fear and death.

No doubt, he thought, that had been Fairney’s intention all along.

The day wore on. Finally, the sun appeared from behind the wall of towers behind them. Skender felt a near physical relief as the warm, golden rays dispelled Fairney’s watery illusion and he was allowed to return to a more familiar world. Relatively speaking, anyway. In the towers behind them, half-seen ghosts paced their mysterious paths, as they had—and might continue to do—forever.

Skender had to bite his tongue to avoid voicing his frustration. This isn’t what I’m here for, he wanted to cry. I’m going to be a Stone Mage, not a Sky Warden. This is all irrelevant to me! He would much rather be exploring the city, with or without the attendant in tow.

Fairney moved on to exercises in illusion for everyone to practise. He moved around his group one by one, watching as they attempted the charms he gave them and showing them how to improve their technique. His teaching style was playful and engaging; on another topic, Skender would happily have been taught by him. But Skender’s restlessness grew with every minute. This wasn’t an adventure; this was just school, and he hadn’t stowed away for that. Even being loaned Sal’s ability, allowing him to experiment with the foreign charms, didn’t alleviate Skender’s disappointment.

Shilly, on the other hand, took to the lesson like a lizard to a desert, as did Tom, who tapped into Fairney’s reserves and performed the charms with odd little twists that seemed to serve no useful purpose. As planned, Sal stubbornly refused to do anything. Fairney took that in his stride, neither confronting the issue head-on nor ignoring it. Whenever an opportunity came to give Sal an opportunity to change his mind, Fairney gave it to him, probably, Skender thought, hoping to wear Sal down with patient persistence.

Skender was more interested to see what Kemp would do, since the bully had featured in his friends’ stories of Fundelry, looming large in the background behind the Alcaide and Syndic as a villain of the piece. To his surprise, Kemp turned out to be not naturally talented at all, and rough-handed with it, but he was at least determined to learn. Kemp gritted his teeth and concentrated on the visualisations like a man thinking for his life.

Skender’s interest picked up as Fairney moved on to history, giving a very different account of border relations between the Strand and the Interior than the one he had been taught. He normally slept through history at the Keep, but enough had sunk in for him to realise that both sides had quite different impressions of the past. In more turbulent times, there had been frequent conflicts involving territory and access to the two passes over the Divide. The Interior tended to blame the Strand for each incursion, while in the Haunted City the reverse applied. That was understandable, he supposed. No one liked to think that their side was to blame for anything.

He idly wondered why there hadn’t been any such wars recently. All the interesting things seemed to have happened centuries ago. Such speculation, however, was brought to an abrupt end by the arrival of six robed and faceless attendants who filed onto the stone shelf and waited to interrupt.

Fairney finally looked up from his lesson. “Yes? What do you want?”

“Sal, Shilly and Skender are required elsewhere,” said an attendant whose voice Skender recognised. It was the stern man who had collected him from his room early that morning.

Fairney tsked in irritation. “Does it have to be now? Can’t it wait until I’ve finished?”

“No,” said the attendant. There was no mistaking or arguing with that voice.

“Very well,” the tutor said, “but the sooner this charade is finished, the better. These children have a right to learn. They are not peons in a game of Advance.”

“We both serve the same masters, Apprentice Fairney,” chided the attendant. “It is not our place to question their decision.”

With a snort, Fairney dismissed the attendant’s remark. “I suppose you’d better do what they say,” he said to his three new students. “Maybe one of the others here can fill you in later. You know Tom and Kemp already, right?”

“Uh, yes,” said Sal, “but—”

“Then they can help you with your homework. I’ll have them bring it to your rooms tonight.”

Kemp looked as startled as Sal and Shilly. Tom looked delighted.

“No, that’s okay—” The beginning of a protest from Shilly was cut off by the hand of an attendant coming down on her shoulder.

“We’ll be late,” said the female attendant who had guided them that morning. “I wouldn’t keep these people waiting.”

“Run along then,” said Fairney, shooing them with an exaggerated, irritated gesture.

Kemp’s glare—as dark as a storm cloud, and threatening enough to make even Skender feel nervous—followed them as they filed off the rock shelf and re-entered the city the way they had come.

“Where are you taking us?” Sal asked the attendant.

“A reception is gathering for you,” was the dry reply.

“What sort of reception?” Shilly asked, although Skender was sure she could guess the answer.

“A diplomatic reception.” The attendant leading the way spoke ominously and wouldn’t be drawn on details.

Sal, Shilly and Skender drew closer to each other. Skender felt Sal’s hand on his arm, gripping tightly, and knew that Sal had hold of Shilly, too.

“This is it,” Sal said, speaking via the Change to ensure they weren’t overheard.

“Are you ready?” Shilly asked.

“I don’t know. It depends what they do or say, and who’s there…”

Sal’s thoughts trailed off into silence.

This was the first time that Skender had had a chance to tell them what he had witnessed while in the crawlspaces the previous night. “Behenna thinks he’s working for the Weavers. He and your grandmother, Sal, are waiting to hear from them.”

The news didn’t improve Sal’s gloomy mood. “Maybe they have now, hence this ‘reception’.”

“Quiet, there,” said the lead attendant. “I hear you whispering.”

He gestured and attendants moved the three of them apart. Sal’s dread was infectious. Even though Skender had nothing personally to worry about, he couldn’t quell a feeling of nervousness that spread over him like a cold, mountain mist. For the first time, he wondered at the wisdom of getting too involved. His journey south with Sal and Shilly had been a fine adventure; stowing away in the caravan had been the most exciting thing he had ever done. He would treasure the look on Sal and Shilly’s faces when word had come from Ulum that he was with them and he had crawled out of his hiding place—a trunk right next to where they slept. Many times he had been tempted to wake them at night with a whisper, or give them some sort of clue that he was there, but he had resisted. The longer he remained a secret, the less likely it was that he would be sent back.

He didn’t know how close it had been. The message from Ulum, conveyed directly from his father to Luan Braunack, one of the Stone Mages travelling with the caravan, had been brief: If he wants to go this badly, Skender Van Haasteren the Ninth had said, then I will let him, but tell him from me to be careful. I’ll be here for him when he gets home.

And that was that. No threats, no promises of punishment, no instructions. With those few, unexpected words, Skender had been set free. He had everything he wanted, and he had managed to avoid paying any sort of cost. His plan had gone better than he had dared imagine!

Except he wasn’t really free. He was as caught up in Sal’s story now as Shilly was. He went where they went; he did what they did. That meant school and helping them to escape. And if the words of the man’kin Mawson were to be believed, he might be the “third” that the two of them needed to complete some sort of destiny. Not that he believed everything or even most of what Mawson said—but if there was a chance of it being true, then he could be heading for a lot more than he had expected when he had slipped into the trunk and tipped the lid shut.

Shilly felt the eyes of the ghosts on her as the attendants led them through the narrow, winding thoroughfares of the city. The sensation of being watched was a constant ache in the back of her head, but when she turned to see who was looking, there was never anyone there. No eyes peering around the edges of the newer buildings, no faces pressed against glass on upper floors. Just distant blurs, like characters in a long forgotten story.

She wondered if the others felt the attention as keenly, but was afraid to ask them in case they didn’t. What would that mean? Perhaps she was just imagining it, driving herself mad with made-up problems because she didn’t have enough real ones already…

The rhythmic clicking of the base of her crutch on the road was an anchor to reality, when the pain in her hip didn’t suffice. She concentrated on the cobbles they moved across on the way to the reception. Rounded, worn and yellowish, the stones had been quarried from the mainland and carried across to the city by ferry. She remembered Fundelry’s one and only Schoolteacher, Mrs Milka, telling her that many years ago. She had never thought to see them with her own, suddenly welling, eyes.

Enough, she chided herself, willing the tears away. What must be done is worse delayed—or so Lodo used to tell her. She had a part to play. Once the reception was over, she could stop dreading it and get on with whatever life the wardens would let her have.

They rounded a high, curved wall and found themselves entering an open square lined with statues and slender columns that was easily large enough to hold two hundred people. Perhaps a quarter that number, most robed in a shade of blue or white, occupied its centre. Their combined voices were a low buzz accompanied by a quartet of musicians playing soft music in one corner. Wardens in copper-blue armour—similar to the ones who protected the Strand’s Divide crossing at Tintenbar from their rust-red opposite numbers on the other side—watched the entrance closely, but waved the attendants through without saying a word. Heads began to turn as the group approached. The sense of exposure mounted precipitously.

“Ah!” A cry went up from a dense cluster of people toward the middle of the group. It broke apart as a tall, solid man broke through the crowd and came toward the new arrivals with his arms outstretched. His light-brown, rectangular features expressed nothing but eagerness and delight—but the expression was marred by an angry, red patch that extended from halfway up his right cheek, over the eye and into his scalp. No hair grew on that patch of inflamed skin, nor anywhere else on his head. It looked like a fresh burn.

Only as he approached did Shilly recognise him as Dragan Braham, Alcaide of the Strand. His appearance was completely changed by that terrible scar.

“Here they are, at last!” The Alcaide swooped down upon them, and Shilly physically recoiled in alarm. “Sal—” The Alcaide grabbed Sal’s hand and shook it vigorously. “I’m so glad you made it safely. Shilly—” It was her turn, and she felt rattled by the pumping her arm received. “You have had a long journey, and no doubt an exhausting day. Please, take the opportunity to relax. Skender Van Haasteren—” The Alcaide studied Skender with a penetrating eye. “You have a famous name, my boy, and you are very welcome here. For as long as you wish to stay, you are a guest of the Haunted City and the Strand.” Skender looked as rattled as she felt as his hand vanished into the Alcaide’s solid fist. “Everyone?” called the Alcaide, turning to the rest of the crowd, who had followed him and formed a half-circle around them. “Our guests are here.”

As though that was the signal they had been waiting for, the crowd broke over them like a wave. Shilly was suddenly at the centre of an overwhelming storm of smiling faces, clutching hands and enthusiastic welcomes.

“We’ve heard all about you, Shilly,” said one narrow-faced woman with a silver headdress and a glass of golden liquid in one hand. “You are very brave.”

“I wish I had the nerve to stand up to Dragan like you did in Fundelry,” chuckled a large man in ill-fitting but finely made robes. “What a day that would be.”

“He’d die of shock.” The comment came from a small man with deeply black skin and bright, alert eyes. “Shilly, you mustn’t put ideas in Beraldo’s head.” He poked his neighbour’s large belly. “The world can take only so much whimsy.”

The group around her laughed good-naturedly, then was shuffled to one side by others wanting to say hello.

Shilly looked around for Sal. They had been driven apart by the pressure of the crowd; he was the focus of a similar group of well-wishers pressing in on him from all sides. He must have sensed her looking for him, for he glanced up at that moment and caught her eye. His expression mirrored her thoughts exactly.

What the hell was this?

After what felt like an eternity of stammered replies and a bewildering series of names that she would never remember, the crowd parted at the sound of three handclaps perfectly pitched to get attention.

“Please,” came a powerful, female voice over the ebbing babble of voices. “You must let them through. They will be hungry. There is food here, and others for them to meet. You will all get your chance in due course.”

The press of people around Shilly evaporated. She recognised the long, dark features of the Syndic standing by a heavily-burdened table of food. Nu Zanshin, chief administrator of the Strand, was small in stature but large in presence, holding the crowd to attention like a fisher hauling in a net. Her pepper-grey hair was pulled tightly behind her ears by a gleaming silver clasp. A smile that didn’t touch her eyes blossomed across her face as a clear path opened between her and Sal.

“Come closer, all three of you,” she said, beckoning Shilly and Skender forward as well as Sal. Shilly felt as though all choice had been taken from her. Being in the presence of the woman who had sought Sal in Fundelry all the way from the Haunted City, and found him with the power of her mind alone, made her knees go week.

“There’s plenty to eat,” the Syndic said, “and someone who wants to meet you very much.”

Warily, Sal did as he was told. Shilly crossed to stand next to him. Behind the table and to one side stood Radi Mierlo, Sal’s grandmother from the Interior, her expression intense. There was no Behenna or Tait at her side as they had always been during the journey from Ulum. There was, instead, a short man with honey-coloured skin. His hair was as black as his dark, brooding eyes, except around the ears where it was going to grey. There was a toughness to that face, and a strength that Shilly didn’t immediately recognise.

Neither did Sal. They had almost reached the Syndic when he stopped dead in his tracks, staring at the man with a shocked expression.

Skender walked into the back of him, but he didn’t budge. Shilly turned to ask him what was wrong, when the truth dawned.

“Your father, Sal.” The Syndic’s smile widened but was still without warmth.

Sal stood frozen to the spot. Shilly could only imagine what he was feeling. Highson Sparre, the man before him, wasn’t the man who had raised him; that was Dafis Hrvati, who had died in Fundelry, helping Sal to escape from the Alcaide and the Syndic.

Highson was the one who had married his mother, Seirian Mierlo, in order to bond two families from opposite sides of the Divide, the Earth Clan and the Cloud Line, into one new Line. Ambitious and well thought of, Highson Sparre might one day have been the Alcaide had it not been for the scandal of his wife’s affair with an untalented journeyman and her subsequent disappearance into the borderlands.

Sal had been born on the run, and no one in the Haunted City had suspected he existed. It wasn’t until they had found Seirian when she was using the Change, and she had told them about her son, that they knew—but by then it had been too late to find him. Sal’s father had gone even deeper into hiding, frightened by the kidnap of the woman he loved from their very bed and certain that she would want him to do everything in his power to save her son, even if it meant turning his back on her forever.

Dafis Hrvati had done his job well. For more than ten years, he and Sal had not been found. Only when Sal’s talent—passed on to him by his parents, Seirian and Highson—had begun to blossom in him did the man Sal called his father go looking for help. That was how they had come to Fundelry: seeking a renegade Stone Mage to help hide Sal’s talent, and inadvertently drawing their enemies down upon them. The long years of hiding had been for nothing.

So what was Sal supposed to do now? Shilly couldn’t guess. The fact that the Syndic had manipulated Sal into meeting his real father at such a public event meant that he couldn’t just storm off or say what he truly felt, although if he did it wouldn’t be the first time that Sal’s stubborn sense of what was right had caused a scene. At the same time, there was no way he was going to embrace Highson Sparre as a father just because he had sired him during the brief time he and his wife had been together. Highson had led the search parties after the fugitive lovers; what would have happened if he had found them? To Sal, this man was a complete stranger. Without knowing what he was capable of, there was no question of automatically trusting him.

On the other hand, part of Sal had come from him. Shilly could see it in the way they stared at each other—a stubborn, smouldering strength that might rarely be exercised, but when it came did so with all the force of a tidal wave. They were of a kind, whether Sal liked it or not. And that, unexpectedly, made her waver. Shilly had never known her real parents. The thought that there could be someone out there in the world who might be like her filled her with a strange curiosity. Had she been in Sal’s shoes, she might have backed down to see where that similarity could lead. There was a hole in her labelled “family” that ached to be filled.

After what felt like a small eternity of silence, it was Highson who broke the impasse.

“Your mother was the most remarkable woman I ever met,” he said, taking a stiff step forward. His voice was hoarse—utterly dissimilar to Sal’s—but not gratingly so. “I see her in you, more than I see myself. That is a good thing, I think.”

Sal didn’t move or respond in any way as Highson took another hesitant step forward.

“Toward the end, she spoke longingly of you,” he said. Another step, and they were within arm’s reach. “This is for you, Sal.”

Highson Sparre reached into a pocket and produced a fat envelope, which he solemnly offered to Sal. Sal took it.

“Thank you,” he said. Shilly could see tears in Sal’s eyes, but his tone was frosty. The envelope went into a pocket unopened.

Highson waited a moment to see if Sal would say anything else. There was nothing. Both of their faces were determinedly closed, like masks. It was like watching two man’kin in a staring match, and Shilly wondered how long it was going to be like this. They couldn’t stand there all day!

Again, it was Highson who broke the spell. He looked down at the ground, and backed away a step, symbolically retreating.

“This is difficult for both of us,” he said. For the first time there was real emotion in his voice. “I am the closest thing to a father you have, and you are my only child. What will come of that, I don’t know. But I am here if you would like to give it a chance. Please remember that.”

Sal nodded understanding, if not agreement, and Shilly wondered if he had heard the same note she had in Highson’s speech. The emotion underlying his plea wasn’t love or regret, or anger, or anything she might have expected. It was pleading.

As the distance between father and son increased, the gathering around them seemed to come back to life. The Syndic raised her glass and proposed a toast to the new arrivals, praising their courage, determination and strength in surviving a journey few people dreamed of undertaking. There was a chorus of cheers led by the Alcaide in response, and much clinking of glasses. They were handed plates and told to lead the charge to the food. Shilly wasn’t hungry, but her stomach growled anyway, not having eaten anything since breakfast. She forced herself to sample some of the salads and cold meats laid out before them, not knowing when next she would get the chance.

Sal responded politely but distantly to questions about their journey. Shilly, watching him, was distracted. Skender soon became the life of the party, filling in the details—real and imaginary—of their trek south. His enthusiasm for being the centre of attention was lapped up by the crowd, perfectly suiting their need for diversion.

Shilly didn’t know who most of them were, but they clearly felt more comfortable with Skender’s tall tales than tense confrontations between those at the heart of the story. Those, she noted, stayed at the edges once the gathering developed a life of its own. Radi Mierlo watched enviously as the people she longed to be accepted by moved around her, not including her in their conversations. Highson Sparre and his aunt, the Syndic, conversed in low tones from the edges of the crowd. Sal and Shilly stood to one side, pretending to listen to Skender’s tales but in fact barely noticing them. There was still no sign of Behenna and Tait. If all this was supposed to make her feel more comfortable in the Haunted City, it was failing dismally.

Of those at the heart of the story, only the Alcaide moved freely among the crowd, greeting everyone by name and joining in on their jokes. He seemed perfectly relaxed, a charming foil to the authoritarian coolness that the Syndic exuded. Shilly remembered how well he had hidden his true feelings regarding Sal’s adopted father in Fundelry, and was on the lookout for any signs of deception, but she saw none. He was so effusive in his welcome, and naturally friendly to everyone. If he was on their side, as Master Warden Atilde had suggested, he might be able to keep the Syndic and the others at bay.

But there was one moment when she caught him looking at Sal a little too intently. The light of the sinking sun caught the bright, pink glare of the burn on his face and scalp, and there was a curl to his lip that undermined everything he was trying to project.

In that moment Shilly realised that nothing would ever be simple in the Haunted City. If she and her friends were going to save Lodo and take him away from their captors, they would have to do it on their own.

CHAPTER 4

ECHOES OF THE DEAD

That night, alone at last, Sal sat in his room and opened the letter. The envelope was tightly sealed with a smear of wax and contained a single sheet of paper wrapped around an ancient, slim book, the title of which had been worn away by age. Neither appeared to have been tampered with. Sal glanced briefly at the book, but put it aside to concentrate on the sheet of paper. It crackled thickly as he unfolded it and spread it out on his lap. Someone had written upon it in a sloping, looped hand.

By the silver light of the mirror, he read:

My little Sayed,

I do not know what sort of life you will have. I do not know if you will ever read this letter. But if you are reading these words, or having them read to you, then the very worst that I imagine has come to pass: I am dead, and you have been found.

There are so many things to say and so few words to contain them. I am sorry at the way you were brought into this world, but I am not sorry that you were mine. I am sorry because I will never hold you again, but I would rather know that you are free, without me, than see you caged like me. I am sorry I can’t give you the peaceful life you deserve, or all the riches of the land, but I am not sorry at all that I loved you, and love you still. While I was with you, I have never been happier.

I will never see you again. You will grow up not knowing who I am, or why I did what I undertook for you, or how much it hurts that I cannot be with you now. This letter is all I can give you, and I hope you understand how it breaks my heart to imagine even for a moment that I have lost you forever.

But I have. These words will be a testament to all Dafis and I did to keep you safe. That I can be sure of. Highson has strict instructions to keep this letter for you, unopened, but to destroy it if you are found while I live. He will carry it to the grave with him, waiting for you to return, should I die before seeing you again. I made him promise, and he will hold to it. He is the only one I can trust. He is the only one I will let myself trust. In his own strange way I think he loves me, or thinks he does, and that is an honour you cannot buy. (If Highson himself put this in your hand, remember that he was loyal to me, even after I betrayed him.)

Even if I am wrong, I have little choice. I am alone here. Mother and Father returned to Mount Birrinah long before I was taken from you. I was brought here with nothing but my wits and my grief, and both have served me well. I am grateful for the chance to send you this message, even if I cannot give it to you in person, and even as my heart breaks at the thought of it.

Whatever life you have, remember those who gave it to you, who nurtured you, who guided you. I was there for only a small part of that journey, but I would have held your hand the entire way had I been able to, and let you go when you no longer needed me. You will find your path with or without me, and I have faith that you will follow it to the end.

I love you, Sayed—my son, my heart, my life—always,

Seirian

Sal read it through twice from beginning to end. At the bottom, in much shakier hand, Sal’s mother had added:

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

He didn’t understand that part, but the rest was very clear. His mother had written those words years ago, and although he had never heard her voice, he could imagine her saying them to him now. He could hear her sadness and her despair—and her determination, too, that what she had done had been the right thing. She and her lover had been trying to protect him from the ones who had taken him from them; the ones who had him now. The very worst that I imagined has come to pass…

He hadn’t noticed that he was crying until a tear dripped from his cheek and smudged the fading ink. He dried the letter on his shirt and folded it away in the envelope for safekeeping. In his pack he found the silver clasp that had once belonged to his mother and he put the letter next to it on the bed. They were all he had of her. His grandmother had promised a picture, once, but hadn’t delivered. The clasp and the letter were the only things he had to cling to.

And the book.

He turned to it in puzzlement. The pages within the leather bindings were tissue-thin, and he leafed through them with exaggerated care. Row after row of tiny printed words stared back at him, some of them in languages he couldn’t understand. They were poems or song lyrics, but none of them had titles. He couldn’t tell if they had been arranged in any particular order, or were supposed to tell a story.

Sal closed the book and rested it on his lap, feeling the wrinkled leather covers and wondering if his mother had been holding it when she died. He had visited the land where she was born; now he was holding something she had once held. It should have comforted him, made him feel closer to her, but instead all it did was frustrate him. She had been taken from him before he had really come to know her, and she had died alone, missing him. The same people responsible for that had tried to take him as well, and had killed the man he loved as a father for getting in the way. Now they had him, would they kill him, too?

Anger welled in him, as dark and dangerous as the storm he had dreamed of the night before, the storm he had summoned from the heart of the Interior. He was tired of being pushed around. What right did the Sky Warden have to decide what he did with his life? Who were they to say what was best for him? He doubted they even cared about him, really. They just wanted him because he was gifted in the Change. They wanted his wild talent for themselves. If they could rip it out of his head and wield it without him, they would have done it without hesitating—just as they had captured Lodo and Shilly and Skender simply for being associated with him.

Sal’s right hand plucked at the bindings around his left wrist, causing faint trickles of warning pain up his arm. He had to get out of the Haunted City. The first and perhaps only thing stopping him was the ward Behenna had put on him. If he could only break it, he could free Shilly and Skender, find Lodo, somehow, and get the hell out of there. How hard could that be? If he was so powerful, he should be able to do it. It was only pain, after all—and if it came to a choice between pain and dying…

The Change rose in him like clouds boiling over a thunderhead. The tears dried in his eyes as he sent all his will in a concentrated surge to the charm on his wrist. He felt the ward in his ear flame as the charm responded by tightening like a wire around his wrist. His mouth opened in a silent scream, and he clutched his left arm to his chest, but he didn’t stop trying. Instead he redoubled his efforts. The charm couldn’t hold forever. If he pushed hard enough, it would break. Purple blotches swam across his vision. He felt as though his hand was being sliced right off his arm. A strange, keening sound was coming from his throat, but he didn’t hear it. All he felt was the Change rushing through him and a lightning bolt of pain at his wrist.

And sure enough, something broke…

(There was a hum. Not really a sound, though, more a deep, resonant vibration that droned through him as it did through the entire universe. Ever-present, unchanging: if time had a voice, this would be it. He had felt it before, somewhere. But for an infinite moment, he couldn’t remember where and he had only the vaguest idea who he was; there was something he had to do, and he hadn’t done it; he had to go back…)

Someone was calling him.

“Sayed.” The man’s voice was unfamiliar, yet he was sure he had heard it before. “Sayed Hrvati. Wake up.”

Sal opened his eyes. He was lying on his side on the bed, left arm stretched out before him. The charm was still fixed to his wrist, surrounded by a bright red welt that looked as bad as it hurt. His very best effort had failed to remove it.

He winced and sat up. His head was pounding. There was a faint buzzing in the air, as though his exertion had set it ringing like a bell and the resulting vibrations went on forever. He hadn’t realised he had been pushing so hard, and he told himself he should have known better. There were consequences…

He frowned, remembering then that someone had spoken to him, called him back. But the door was shut, and the room was empty.

“I am all around you, Sayed,” said the voice. “Don’t you remember me?”

A torrent of icy water seemed to pour down Sal’s back. He knew what that voice belonged to. He had met it once before, when he had inadvertently attracted its attention. And only it called him openly by his heart-name, Sayed, plus his father’s family name, Hrvati.

“You said we might meet again,” Sal said, hoping his fear wouldn’t show.

“I did,” said the golem—or the thing that inhabited golems—out of thin air. Although it seemed to be invisible now, Sal remembered how it had looked in the city of the Broken Lands: in the body of a stocky Sky Warden, it had robbed its host of all vitality, leaving him hollow-mouthed and with eyes of shadow. Cold had radiated from it, and menace. Drawn by Sal’s use of the Change to heal Shilly’s leg, everything it said had been calculated to unsettle them, to encourage them to use the Change in an attempt to drive it away.

It had told them about Lodo. Shilly’s teacher hadn’t died saving them from the Alcaide. Lodo had burned himself out on the inside, over-exerted himself and made himself vulnerable to things like the golem. The news had been shockingly hurtful, but the golem couldn’t hurt them directly. Only if they gave it a clear opening would it come inside, possess them as it had possessed so many other bodies down the years. And they hadn’t used the Change for that reason.

That, Sal supposed, was what had drawn it to him now: his exertions in trying to break the charm on his wrist. Not enough to take him over, but enough to attract its interest.

“What are you doing here?” Sal asked it.

“I have always been here.” Its voice whined out of the air like a finger making a glass sing. “I told you that there were three places creatures like me congregate. You’ve seen all three of the great cities of the Strand and the Interior now. I am not the only one who inhabits them.”

Sal wished there was something he could look at, something that might give him a focus for his fears. With the voice coming from all around him, he felt very vulnerable.

“I meant, what are you doing here? With me.”

“I came to you to offer my help, Sayed. I have something you want.”

“What is it?”

“If I tell you, will you help me in return?”

“That depends.”

“On what I have to offer, or on what I want you to do for me?”

“Both, I guess. Will you tell me?”

The golem chuckled. “You are a clever boy. You know that I can only speak the truth—that I cannot lie, no matter how much I might want to. That is my nature, and I am bound to it.”

“I remember you saying that, yes.” The phrase “clever boy” was exactly what Behenna had called him when Sal had outsmarted him at the Divide. “You do have a choice, though. You can tell me the truth or you can say nothing at all.”

“Which would you prefer?”

“I would prefer that you stopped playing games, and did what you came here to do.”

“Very well, then.” The golem paused for a moment, as though considering its options. “Since we cannot reach an immediate agreement, I’ll give you half an answer and you can think about it. I’ll tell you what I have to offer you.”

“Go ahead. I’m listening.”

“I know where Lodo is,” breathed the golem into his ear.

The words were completely unexpected. Sal sat up straighter on the bed, addressing the empty air. “You do? Where?”

There was no reply. He clambered onto his knees.

“Hello? Tell me where he is so we can rescue him!”

But the voice was gone. The background buzzing faded as Sal’s natural levels of the Change returned. The presence of the golem disappeared with it. It obviously wasn’t going to answer until he agreed to help it—and even if he wanted to, he didn’t know how to call it back to tell it so.

Or was it playing with him, teasing him? Watching his frustration from its invisible viewpoint, enjoying the way it had tortured him?

Frustrated, head pounding, Sal fell back onto the bed and accidentally squashed something under his palm. It was his mother’s book. He picked it up, hoping he hadn’t damaged it. The book fell open at a particular page as though the spine was weakened at that point. Before he could close it and put it with the letter and brooch, a dozen familiar words caught his eye on the page before him. They were two lines from a much longer poem that began:

Lo! Death has reared himself a throne

In a strange city lying alone

Far down within the dim west

Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best

Have gone to their eternal rest.

The verse concluded:

Resignedly beneath the sky

The melancholy waters lie.

So blend the turrets and shadows there

That all seem pendulous in air,

While from the proud tower in the town

Death looks gigantically down.

The book had definitely seemed to fall open at that page, as though he was meant to see it.

He peered closer. There were tiny pinpricks beneath some of the letters. With a growing sense of excitement, he opened the book wider and held it up to the light.

Skender had been just about to blow his cover and come through the vent when Sal stirred. Blinking and rubbing his head, Sal sat up and looked around, dazed but fine. Skender breathed a heavy sigh of relief. It was obvious what had happened: Sal had over-exerted himself trying to get the charm off his wrist and knocked himself out cold in the process. The effort had been a magnificent one: Skender could still feel the aftershock ringing through him. The dust motes in the crawlspace were dancing in the light from the mirror below.

But it wasn’t enough, and it would never be. Brute force clearly wasn’t going to see the bracelet off. Skender assumed that it bounced any effort to remove it back at the wearer, so Sal had effectively punched himself with everything he had sent at the charm. There had to be another way. It was just a matter of finding it.

Skender waited long enough to make sure his friend was okay, then headed off through the crawlspace, resolving to do something about the charm. There was no question of Sal joining him: not only was it easier for one to travel in this cramped space, but the bracelet would sound the alarm before they got very far. Sal probably wouldn’t try anything like that again in a hurry.

The route to the library was as ingrained in his memory as everything else he had seen that day: beginning with breakfast and followed by the tour of the Novitiate grounds, their first lecture, Fairney’s tutorial, and the weird reception with the Alcaide and the Syndic. Try as he might, Skender still couldn’t see the point of the last. Why go to such trouble just to make Sal and Shilly feel welcome, when clearly they weren’t? Why do it when they were supposed to be in classes? Why drag him along with them? At least, he supposed, he had got to see somewhere else outside the Novitiate, finally.

Dinner had been a repeat of breakfast and lunch, with mountains of food dished out to the hungry students. Many of the wardens involved in the Novitiate joined them for the evening meal, but sat apart on a table at the rear of the dining hall talking quietly among themselves. Master Warden Atilde hadn’t been among them. Skender pictured her eating alone in the heart of the Novitiate, pecking at a plate of grain like a giant crow.

After dinner came the moment he knew Sal and Shilly had been dreading all day: the homework session. He too was nervous as four attendants guided them to an empty classroom where Kemp and Tom had awaited them. Skender gathered that Tom was bright in an introverted, overly focused way. He had helped Kemp pass his Selector’s exam back in Fundelry, and that assistance was probably continuing now that they had reached their serious studies. Tom certainly looked excited at the opportunity to help out his friends, while Kemp watched with sullen ill grace as they filed into the room.

Locked in together, there was nothing for it but to face the problem head-on.

“Anyone fancy a round of Quintuple Blind?” Skender asked.

“We’re here to work,” rumbled Kemp, “not play games.”

“Just trying to break the ice.”

“Well don’t. Sit down and shut up.”

“Don’t talk to him like that,” said Shilly, bristling.

“You can shut up too, Shilly. The sooner Tom tells you what you missed, the sooner we all get out of here.”

Kemp gestured dismissively for Tom to start, looking almost bored in the face of their anger. Skender swallowed his pride and took a seat with Sal and Shilly. He could feel their tension and anger radiating off them like heat off a fire.

Tremulously at first, Tom began to speak. With surprising succinctness, he summarised the portions of Fairney’s tutorial that they had missed, then brought them up to date on some of the more general concepts he’d been taught since arriving at the Haunted City. He explained in a singsong way that people had lived among the towers of the Haunted City for centuries without ill effect. Skender had been taught this at home, but he had never expected to see the proof of it so intimately. The Novitiate buildings were old—not as old as the towers themselves, or the Keep, but they had stood for more years than he could possibly guess at, and might stand for many more yet. Compared to the Nine Stars, below which only a handful of people lived, and the city in the Broken Lands, where no one lived at all, the Haunted City was a thriving metropolis.

“Why here?” asked Shilly, perhaps genuinely curious, not merely maintaining her role as interested student. “It’s not as if it’s near anything, or easy to live off the island, either. They must ferry food across every day, and—”

“They live here because they can,” interrupted Kemp. “That’s all we need to know—and that Fairney gave us homework. I suggest we get on with it before some of us get into trouble.”

“I’m surprised, Kemp,” said Sal, rising to the challenge. “I didn’t think you’d be so frightened of the wardens.”

“Who said anything about me and them?” the bully responded. “I was talking about you getting into trouble with me.” He cracked his knuckles loudly in the echoing room. “Want to try me?”

Shilly made an exasperated noise. “Give us the homework, Tom, and spare us this bulldust. I’m getting tired.”

From then on it had been nothing but work, for which Skender suspected everyone was grateful. Kemp was a walking firework, just looking for someone to light his fuse. What he was so angry about, Skender didn’t know, but he had no intention of being around when Kemp went off.

After what seemed like a small eternity, the attendants had let them out. Kemp stalked off without so much as a goodnight, with Tom not far behind. Sal, Shilly and Skender were marched off to clean their teeth, after which they were taken separately to their rooms and locked in for the night.

The moment Skender’s bedroom door had closed behind him, he had rearranged his furniture and escaped through the ceiling. After checking on Shilly and then Sal, the library seemed the logical place to go. He could be there in under an hour, he estimated. If he was careful—or lucky—he could locate what he wanted straight away and be back well before dawn. That was the plan, anyway.

The dusty ceiling-spaces of the Novitiate dormitories wound for an appreciable distance, much further abroad than he had explored the previous night. Skender had noticed during that day’s brief tour how many of the buildings embracing the bases of the towers were joined, like weeds that spread and overlapped as they grew around the trunks of trees in a forest. Their roofs overlapped too, and as he followed the route he had taken that day, along corridors and around the dining hall, he was able to do so entirely from the ceiling. Enough light shone up through vents to illuminate his way, and only occasionally did he have to brave fragile boards. Sky Wardens had numerous charms to preserve the wood they used in buildings; even on an island, with the sea on all sides, there was very little water rot or salt damage.

Eventually he ran out of roof. He dropped down into a corridor by the exit, as lithe as a cat. The corridor was lined with wooden plinths he would use to get back up through the vent, if he couldn’t find a better way. The door outside wasn’t locked, and didn’t seem to be charmed. He opened it as quietly as he could and slipped outside.

The coolness of the air surprised him, as did the amount of light available. His eyes had grown accustomed to the darkness of the crawlspace. Outside, there was the moon—riding high, nearly full, among the glistening towers—and a faint glow from the towers themselves. The view was magical and eerie at the same time. By night the ghosts were faint silhouettes in the light, featureless and faintly threatening. He felt as though every one of them had turned to stare at him the moment he walked through the doorway, but when he looked at them they pretended he wasn’t there.

Shivering with delicious fear, he hurried through the narrow laneways in the direction he knew the library lay. He wasn’t foolish enough to think that he could walk unnoticed through the front door, so when he got close he scrambled up the side of another building and onto its roof, and from there went through a ventilation shaft and back into welcoming darkness. He sat for a moment, relishing the absence of the ghosts, then crawled on his way.

Five minutes later, he dropped from a sliding panel onto the top of a musty bookcase. Something skittered away from his feet, and he shushed it nervously. Frozen, he waited to see if anyone or anything had noticed his arrival.

Silence greeted him. There was just enough light to see that the library was empty. Taking care not to knock anything over—all the shelves were crowded with books, folders, sketches, and strange artefacts he couldn’t identify—he climbed down to the floor and looked around.

The irregular shape of the library made it hard to immediately discern any kind of system among the hundreds of shelves stretching off into the gloom, but there had to be one. The Sky Wardens were as organised as the Stone Mages, in their own way, and they wouldn’t allow their major reference source to fall into any sort of chaos. Increasingly certain that he was alone, Skender wandered along the aisles, glancing at volumes at random to see if he could work out how they might be ordered.

The books ranged from slim volumes containing only a handful of pages of beautifully executed drawings and little explanation—probably issued as limited or unique editions to accompany a major practitioner’s notes, shelved elsewhere—to massive tomes he could barely lift. Bigger generally corresponded to well thumbed, so it was to such books he turned for guidance. The first one he looked at consisted of detailed anatomical sketches that made him blanch. The second had no illustrations at all, just page after page of tightly spaced script in a language he couldn’t read. The third contained sketches of plants with details of their uses; someone had scribbled corrections in the margin, detailing in an acid tongue where the original author had got it wrong.

Skender soon lost track of time. Every book was a window into knowledge he had never seen before. No one knew exactly when or why the Stone Mages and Sky Wardens had drifted apart, but the difference was now absolute. Not only were the sources of power for each discipline utterly removed, but the ways they were used and the effects they had rarely overlapped. Although in principle wardens and mages were all Change-users, and at some point, Skender supposed, the sources themselves had to have a common origin, the difference was like sugar and salt: they looked similar and they both dissolved in water, but the taste couldn’t have been more different. The consequences of straying from the proper paths were severe, as Shom Behenna had found out.

Or so Skender and everyone he knew had been taught, until Sal and Shilly appeared. Their teacher, Lodo—a former Stone Mage and friend to Skender’s father—had taught a very different message: that anyone could use the Change anywhere. The background potential—a formless, weak field pervading all things in various degrees of concentration, regardless of whether a thing was alive or not—had apparently been critical to Lodo’s teaching methods. Skender wondered if the old man hadn’t been slightly wrong in the head. The background potential was useful for parlour tricks, nothing more. The real power exercised by mage and warden alike came from the wells of potential bubbling up from within, with the help of repositories like the sea or the bedrock.

Still, Skender was smart enough to know that he didn’t know everything, as both Sal’s wild talent and the library in the Haunted City attested. It would take years to commit every page to memory, and much longer to understand it all. It probably wasn’t even possible, he thought. The study of the Change had been going for so long that no one person could hold all of the accumulated knowledge in their head.

Skender browsed, fascinated, through all that knowledge with a patience that began to flag only as he grew tired. Think what his father would say when he returned with all this new theory! This would more than make up for his disobedience, and rendered his adventure perfectly justifiable. However, he knew he couldn’t stay in the library all night. Amongst so much information on the Strand and its Change-users, there simply had to be something about the Interior.

Metal Wards…Imitative Charms…Skender didn’t have the resources to do anything with those; he needed something that could be put into place unobtrusively and which Sal’s wild talent could put into practise. Curative and Preventative Mnemonics…getting closer. Restorative Images…

Aha.

Skender pulled out the heavy book and settled back to read.

Shilly woke in the middle of the night from a dream of breaking her leg. It was a dream she’d had many times since the day she and Sal crossed the ravine on the edge of the Broken Lands. Every time, she relived her terrible helplessness as the buggy slewed from side to side across the derelict bridge, crushing her between its bumper and the guardrail. It was never the memory of the pain that woke her up, though. The pain had come later, when she realised what had happened to her. It was the sound. The sound of her leg breaking in numerous places at once, an awful crack that would reverberate through her life for decades to come, despite the best efforts of the many people who had tried to heal her along the way…

She sat up and wiped the sweat from her forehead. No blame, she had told Sal at the time, and despite reconsidering that decision at odd moments in the Interior, she still held to it. It had been an accident, and Sal had done everything in his power to save her life. He was as innocent of malice as she was. They had both been lied to and manipulated from the start, and even now, when everything they had set out to do together appeared to have come to nothing, she still couldn’t give up hope. They weren’t criminals. They didn’t deserve to be locked up. It was only a matter of time before someone saw reason and let them and Lodo go…

A low moan came through the walls of her room. It sounded like the wind, but at night, in the near darkness, her mind entertained other, more sinister possibilities. She had been glad to come back inside after the official reception. That it had been strained and awkward was bad enough, but she would have sat happily through twice as much homework with Kemp just to get out of the sight of the ghosts. She felt them staring at her wherever she went. Even now, in the safety of her room, she felt as though she was being watched. In her mind’s eye she saw the face of the ghost that had pressed up against the window as clearly as though it was hanging before her. His expression wasn’t pleading, as she had first thought; it was puzzled, hurt, as though not understanding where he was or what had happened to him. His pale eyebrows were drawn together in a slight frown; his grey eyes were enormous, staring right into hers…

“Shilly!”

She jumped and pulled the bedcovers up to her neck. “Get out!” she hissed. “You can’t come in here.”

“It’s me—Skender,” came the whisper in reply. “What are you talking about? Why can’t I come in?”

She looked around the dimly lit room, then up at the vent, only slowly remembering something Skender had furtively whispered about using the crawlspaces to sneak around. She’d thought he was joking.

“What are you doing?”

With a soft grating noise, the vent receded up into blackness and Skender’s filthy face appeared in its place.

“I’ve been exploring,” he said, as though it was perfectly normal behaviour to appear out of the ceiling in the middle of the night. “If I come down, will you boost me back up afterward?”

“I guess.” She moved out of the way as he turned and his feet appeared out of the hole. In a shower of yet more dust, he dropped heavily onto her bed. She winced as the impact jarred her leg.

“Sorry.” He steadied her, leaving a dirty handprint on her arm. When he tried to wipe it off, he only made it worse.

She pushed him gently away before he could apologise again. Close up, under the grime, he looked exhausted. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know, but it’s late. I need to get some sleep. That’s why I’m here.”

“You have your own bed, don’t you?”

“Of course.” He shook his head irritably. “That’s not what I mean. Look.”

He produced a smudged piece of paper from his pocket. She unfolded it and smoothed it out. The edges were smooth along three edges only, as though it had been torn from a book. One side was blank, but on the other was a simple pattern drawn in bold, black lines.

“What’s this?” she asked. “A charm?”

He nodded. “This morning, before breakfast, see if you can find Beli Brokate. There are some things we’ll need, and she’s the only person likely to have them here. If she doesn’t have them, she can get them for us.”

“What sort of things?”

“Ink, needles, alcohol—”

“We can get those anywhere.”

“Not for making tattoos.”

Shilly stared at him, then at the picture lying flat on her lap. It was beginning to make sense now. “For Sal?”

“Yes.” Skender’s bleary eyes held a triumphant look. “It’ll help him break the bracelet.”

Shilly was genuinely impressed. By whatever means Skender had got the pattern, he had clearly gone to some effort. And if it worked, all the better.

“Of course,” she said. “I’ll find Brokate. I’m sure she’ll help us, if she can.”

“Thanks.” Despite the success of his venture, Skender was visibly fading. “Now, I need to get back up there,” he said, nodding at the hole in the ceiling. “Help me move the desk and you can go back to sleep.”

They manoeuvred the furniture so he could climb up and into the hole. When the vent was back in place, Shilly looked at the pile of furniture, and then realised how difficult it would be to put in order with only one good leg. She did the best she could, then collapsed onto the bed to sleep.

Of course, she didn’t sleep. Her mind whirled with possibilities and plans. How was she to get to Brokate’s caravan when she had no idea where it was? That Brokate was still on the island was a reasonable assumption. But it was a big island, and Shilly didn’t know where—or how—to start looking.

In the end she stopped trying to sleep and sat up doodling on a notepad. She let her pencil move at random, sketching complicated patterns that blended into landscapes which, from a distance, resembled faces. Only as the light from the mirror began to turn yellow, signalling that the sun was rising outside the building, did she notice how often the images on the page turned into a particular ghostly face, pressed against glass. Once she noticed, the eyes from that face seemed to watch her as closely as they had in real life.

She screwed the pages into a ball and threw them angrily into the bin.

CHAPTER 5

FATE’S INK

Neither Skender nor Shilly was at breakfast the next morning, and when Sal asked why he was told by the stern-voiced attendant that Skender had slept in, and that Shilly had realised she’d left something in the caravan which had brought them to the Haunted City. Another attendant was taking her to see Belilanca Brokate. She would be back in time for the morning’s lecture.

“What about breakfast?” he asked as his tray was heaped high with food. “You’re not going to let her starve, are you?”

“It is not our responsibility if you fall behind schedule. We cannot be there to guide you every moment of the day. You must learn to accept the consequences of your own actions, be they as small as missing a meal or—”

“Or what? It doesn’t seem fair that she should miss out, just like that.” Sal interrupted him. “Who made it your place to punish us?”

“It is not our place, Sal.” The hooded attendant’s reply was muffled, as though he knew that he’d overstepped the mark. “We leave that to Master Warden Atilde and the Alcaide.”

“But you have anyway. And judged us too, no doubt. You’ve made up your mind without hearing our side of the story.” Sal couldn’t help the indignation rising in him. “How dare you? You don’t know anything about us.”

The attendant bowed and walked away, leaving Sal alone. He found his way to a seat, not seeing the faces around him. His hands shook as he put the tray on the table, but it was more than just indignation that made his heart race. It was guilt, too.

In Fundelry, Lodo had given him a choice. He could go with the Sky Wardens and see what they wanted of him, or he could fight them. It wasn’t clear, then, how far they would go to get him, and there was a chance that their motives were pure. Sal had chosen not to give in because that would have meant abandoning his father. He had chosen to resist the Alcaide and the Syndic, no matter what it took. The cost of that decision had been the death of his father—the man he had thought was his father—and the loss of Lodo.

So, in a sense, the attendant was quite right to remind him that actions have consequences. But he had already learned that lesson, and the decisions he was presently making weren’t made in isolation. What other people said and did affected him, and affected what he did in turn. That was a consequence of their decisions, and he shouldn’t feel guilty if what they thought he should do conflicted with what he thought was right.

He wasn’t a child…

Sal was seething so much he forgot his disappointment at his friends not being there that morning, even though he’d wanted to talk to them about his mother’s letter and the message he’d found in the book. He was still angry when the bell rang to announce the end of breakfast.

The neat rows of students broke up into a rowdy mass to head for lectures. He looked around, but the attendant hadn’t reappeared. He would have to find Tom or follow the first years to the right hall; otherwise he would get lost.

He was putting his tray with the other dirty ones when a heavy shoulder bumped casually into his.

“Watch where you’re going, stone-boy,” drawled a familiar voice.

Sal turned with gritted teeth, not willing to submit to anyone that morning. “Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” he said to Kemp. The albino bully was looming over him, staring down at him with a look of contempt. “You could beat me up with one hand. Would that make you feel proud?”

“I don’t think I could beat you any more,” Kemp said, a lazy smile spreading across his face. “You’re the big man now. You almost took the top off the Alcaide’s head, I hear. That’s quite a punch you pack.”

“Right, so only an idiot would mess with me.” The comeback was lame, but it was the best he could think of. There was something about Kemp’s behaviour that didn’t ring true and was throwing him off as a result.

“Who says I’m messing with you?” Kemp leaned closer. “I’m supposed to help you, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

“Don’t do anything for me, Kemp—”

“Shut up.” A solid finger poked Sal in the chest. “Believe me, helping you is the last thing I want to do. But I’m going to keep doing it, and you’re going to like it. While I’m in charge, you’re going to do everything I say. And what I say is to do as you’re told. You may think you’re being tough or clever by resisting and making waves, but you’re just making my life more difficult. My dad lost his job because of you, and this is my chance to make good. If you get in my way again, I’ll…” Kemp didn’t finish his sentence immediately, “…I’ll think of some other way you can make me feel better. A good rumble always calms my nerves. And there are two stone-boys now, remember. I don’t have to start with you first. Is that clear?”

Very, Sal thought. If he didn’t toe the line, Skender was going to get hurt. The thought made him sick to the stomach. Skender didn’t deserve to get caught up in all this, any more than he already was. This wasn’t the sort of adventure he had come along for.

“Touch Skender and you’ll regret it.”

“You’ll regret it, Sal. It’s your decision. I’m just telling you how things work around here. It’s up to you what happens next.”

Sal felt like screaming in frustration. It wasn’t his decision. Why was everyone picking on him? But he kept his lips tightly closed as Kemp winked and eased away into the stream of students, expecting him to follow obediently.

Tom appeared beside him. “Are you all right, Sal?”

“I’m fine,” he grated, thinking, To hell with Kemp. There were other things to worry about. “Listen, Tom, where would someone who had overused the Change be kept? Someone who might have been taken over by a golem.”

“I don’t know,” said the boy, looking puzzled. “The Privity, perhaps. Fairney would know. You could ask him.”

“I can’t.” Kemp would hear if he tried anything so obvious as that.

“What about Atilde, then?” Tom looked hopefully up at him, eager to please. “She knows everything.”

“Good idea. Where will I find her?”

“In her office. It’s deep inside the building, where there are no windows. She can’t abide light. It hurts her.”

That accorded with Sal’s memories of the woman, and explained the broad-brimmed hat and extensive robes. “Thanks, Tom. I’ll catch you up.”

He brushed by Tom and headed for the doorway on the far side of the hall to the one everyone else was taking. It was open and there were no attendants in sight: the perfect opportunity. He could find the answer Shilly needed without him having to make any deals with a golem.

As he stepped over the threshold, a cold knife-blade of pain stabbed into his wrist. Still sore from his efforts the previous night, the inflamed skin felt as though it was being slit and dipped in salt water. He gasped and clutched his arm to his chest.

“All right, all right!” He recoiled back into the dining room. The pain instantly vanished. “I get the idea!” Attendants or not, Kemp or not, he was far from free. He was allowed to do only what his new masters allowed him to do.

Fuming to himself, he hurried to follow the last stragglers to the morning’s lecture. None of them offered to help him, as though he was marked in some way. Perhaps he was. Given the chip on Kemp’s shoulder—and if Alder Sproule, his father, had indeed lost his position as one of Fundelry’s ten Alders, that chip was likely to be very large indeed—he wouldn’t be surprised if numerous bad rumours had been spread prior to their arrival. He was surprised the whole school hadn’t pelted him with crusts and rinds the moment he’d first walked into the dining hall. But that hadn’t happened, and one of the students—Weyn, in Fairney’s tutorial group—had actually spoken to him in a friendly way.

Only then did he realise what it was about Kemp’s behaviour that was really bothering him: there were no cronies hovering behind the bully, gloating at the sight of petty justice meted out with fists and insults. There were no crowds gathering to watch the age-old battle between the strong and the weak.

Kemp, just like him, had been alone.

Skender crept into the lecture theatre ten minutes late, but not as late as Shilly. She slipped into the corner seat next to Skender five minutes after him.

“Did you get it?” he hissed.

She opened a leather-wrapped bundle revealing everything they needed.

As he pointed out where Sal was sitting, three rows back, a piece of chalk whizzed by his ear and exploded on the elevated desk behind him. He almost jumped out of his skin.

“Late and not paying attention,” scolded the lecturer. “Give me an excuse, Mr Van Haasteren, and I’ll ask the Alcaide to send you back home.”

Skender felt himself flush to the tips of his ears. He sank down into his seat as the lecturer turned his glare to the blackboard. This wasn’t the way it was supposed to go. He was supposed to slip into the background while Sal stirred up the trouble, not the other way around.

He resolved to pay attention as the lecturer droned on about Change-rich plants and their effect on the environment. Despite his late start, he was still exhausted from his search through the library the previous night, and Shilly had to nudge him a couple of times as his head nodded. The lecturer would no doubt rate falling asleep in class as poorly as not paying attention.

When it was finally over, he, Shilly and Sal regrouped on the way to their tutorial group. Outside, the morning was grey-skied but not dull; the sun poked around the edges of the clouds, sending sparks off the glass corners of the towers.

“Glad you could make it,” said Sal, looking more relieved than annoyed. “What did you leave behind in the caravan?”

“I’ll show you later.” Shilly had stuffed the tattooing gear in her bag after showing Skender. “What was in the letter your dad, um—Highson Sparre, gave you?”

“It was from my mother. She left me a message. Look.” He produced a narrow, flat book and opened it on a dog-eared page. “See that poem?”

Skender peered past Sal’s arm. Poetry wasn’t his strong point, but he didn’t think that was what Sal wanted him to appreciate.

“She marked letters with a pin. See here? And here?” Skender couldn’t make out the tiny holes, but he could see that Sal had highlighted individual letters with pencil.

There shrines and palaces and towers

(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)

Resemble nothing that is ours.

Around, by lifting winds forgot…

Skender’s eyes widened just at the thought of it. Adventure indeed!

“What does it spell out?” Shilly asked.

“The Golden Tower,” he said. “Ask the ghosts.”

They stared significantly at each other for a moment, then Shilly’s gaze danced away, to the strange shadows in the buildings around them.

“What?” prompted Skender, confused. “What Golden Tower?”

Shilly explained. “Back in Fundelry, we used a trick to spy on Kemp. It showed us what he was thinking and doing—and something else, too. There was a warning: ‘Beware the Golden Tower.’ We never knew what it meant, or who the warning was for. Us or Kemp.”

“But it was a warning?”

“Definitely.”

“And your mother wants us to go there?”

“Yes,” said Sal. “I think so, anyway. What else could she mean?”

“I don’t know.” Skender thought. “Any idea where this Golden Tower might be?”

“The only Golden Tower I’ve ever heard of is right here, in the Haunted City,” Shilly said. “It was mentioned in School. But it wasn’t in the vision Behenna showed me, and we haven’t seen it since we arrived. You’d think something like that would stand out.”

“It can’t be that hard to find.” Skender didn’t let the mystery worry him unduly. “We’re not doing so badly on that front, so far.”

Shilly nodded and patted her bag. “Right. One down, two to go.”

It was Sal’s turn to look puzzled.

“I’ll explain later,” Shilly said. “The tower makes two things to find. After Lodo.”

Sal opened his mouth to say something but was interrupted by a small group of their fellow students, hurrying to their tutorial.

“After homework tonight,” he whispered, taking each of their arms, “there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Something more than the golden tower business?” Skender sent back.

Sal nodded and they broke apart as they reached the stone bowl where Fairney conducted his practical instruction in using the Change. Once again, they were forced to endure illusions of being underwater while the young tutor reinforced some of the lessons he had given the previous day. They looked at new information designed to familiarise them with the ecological systems existing on the ocean floor. Skender was briefly amazed to learn just how many different types of sea worms there were, but soon lost interest again. What did it matter if one worm was blue and the other translucent? A worm was a worm was a worm. It was as crazy as counting different sorts of ants.

At the first opportunity he got, Skender raised his hand.

“Excuse me, but what can you tell us about the Golden Tower?”

“The Golden Tower?” Fairney looked puzzled. “Nothing, really. Why?”

“I read about it back home,” he lied, “and was hoping to see it before I went back.”

“You must have been reading an adventure or a children’s story, then, because the Golden Tower is a myth. A legend. It’s like one of those stories they tell about Ruins. You know: adventurers go looking for it and disappear, or they find it and lose it, and no one believes them when they get home.”

“Like the city in the Broken Lands?” asked Skender.

“Not really,” said Fairney, “because we know that’s real.”

Shilly wasn’t giving up so easily. “How can you be so certain it doesn’t exist?”

“Because it doesn’t appear in the Book of Towers.”

“Neither does the Divide,” countered Sal.

“True, but I know people who have seen the Divide. You yourself have crossed it, twice. No one has seen the Golden Tower, and Surveyors have looked for it. On balance, I think it’s safer to believe that it doesn’t exist than that all of them are wrong.”

“Like the Weavers, then.”

Fairney stared at Sal for a good second before turning away. “Yes,” he said. “Now, if I can return to my lesson, we’ll run through the exercises I gave you yesterday. I don’t suppose, Sal, you’ve reconsidered your unwillingness to join us…?”

Sal glanced at Kemp, then shook his head. The albino bully glowered threateningly at him.

“Right,” said Fairney, undeterred, “then we’ll move to Shilly. Take my hand and show me the purification charm I asked you to memorise last night.”

It might have been Skender’s imagination, but from then on Fairney worked the three of them much harder than the others in the class. If so, it was probably to keep their minds from wandering off on tangents, but he could have been punishing them for being too inquisitive.

Who, Skender wondered then, did Fairney work for? The Weavers wouldn’t trust Sal and Shilly with any old tutor. Perhaps he, like Radi Mierlo and Shom Behenna, was waiting for word to come from hidden masters with equally hidden motives. Perhaps nothing Fairney told them could be trusted. Just because he said that the Weavers or the Golden Tower were legends, that didn’t automatically make Skender believe him.

Skender chided himself for being paranoid. It was only much later, after their lesson had finished and they had had their evening meal, that Skender realised that Fairney hadn’t said that the Weavers didn’t exist. He had, in fact, said that the Golden Tower was like the Weavers. If one existed, then the other might too.

Skender didn’t notice that he’d fallen asleep in the middle of the homework session until Kemp shocked him awake by grabbing his hair and rattling him. He jerked out of a dream in which he had found the Golden Tower, but it was nothing but a giant hollowed-out carrot in which the Weavers lived, dressed in green robes woven from the enormous vegetable’s leafy top.

“Now,” leered the bully into his face, “where were we, Tom?”

Skender cursed his tiredness as Kemp moved away. If only he hadn’t stayed out so late the night before, he might have been able to think straight now—and keep himself out of trouble into the bargain. That wasn’t part of the deal at all.

He rubbed at his eyes to wake them up. There was no point wailing at what he couldn’t change, as his mother used to say. He would catch up on his sleep as soon as he got the chance. And the night was far from over yet.

Shilly had the tattooing gear laid out on her bed when Sal and Skender descended through the hole in her ceiling. For a moment, she felt as though they were back on the road again, the three of them pretty much free to do whatever they wanted as long as they didn’t leave the caravan. Visiting Belilanca Brokate had been like seeing a long-lost friend. Although pleasant, it had also reminded her of just how constricting their present circumstances were.

More or less…

“You really went all the way to the library?” Sal was querying the younger boy in disbelief. “On your own?”

“Sure.” Skender perched beside Shilly on the bed, less dusty than he had been last time. “It’s not that hard, as long as you keep your head. Everything connects, and no one suspects anything. I mean, it’s not as if anyone’s tried to invade the Haunted City before, have they? Everyone who comes here is pretty much vetted beforehand.”

“Or put under control,” said Sal, raising his bound wrist.

“Exactly.” Shilly grabbed his hand and pulled him closer. “Time to do something about this, I think.”

Sal looked nervous. “Skender explained some of it. You’re giving me a tattoo to break the bracelet?”

“Not break,” said Skender, “bend. If that seems strange, remember that they’re both charms. All they do is channel the Change in particular ways. The bracelet keeps you within certain bounds—and the fact that you’re here, now, rather than in your bedroom—demonstrates that those bounds are flexible. The charm I found last night will help flex those bounds even further. I think,” he added.

“You’re not sure?” For the first time, Shilly felt doubt. She had assumed that Skender knew completely what he was doing.

“Well, you know, it’s not an exact science, and I’m not what you’d call an expert.” He held out his hands palm up and exhibited a crooked grin. “Hey, I’m just a kid.”

“No ordinary kid,” Shilly admitted. A good memory made up for lots of shortcomings.

“So how are we going to do this?” Sal seemed more nervous about the procedure than the theory behind it. His gaze kept sticking on the needles lying on the leather binding before her.

“You’ve never seen a tattoo applied before?” Skender asked him. “I thought you knew, and that was why you looked so nervous.”

“They’re not common in the Strand,” said Sal weakly. “There are tattoo houses in the borderlands, but I’ve never been in one.”

“Well, they don’t paint them on,” Skender sat up to examine the implements, “and I guess this means I’m going to be the one to do it. I don’t have a tattoo myself, but I’ve seen it done. Seeing it once is enough; I know the principles. The needle pushes the ink down under the skin, where it will stay forever. Everything else is just window-dressing.”

Shilly couldn’t help but notice that, although Skender sounded confident, his hands were shaking.

“I should do it,” she said, “I’m the best at drawing here.”

“This isn’t the same thing as charcoal, Shilly—” Sal began.

“No, but the pattern has to be exactly right or it won’t work. You don’t want us to have to do it twice, do you?”

“No.” He shook his head quickly. “That is, I doubt I will.”

“And you can probably do it smaller,” said Skender, nodding enthusiastically. “That’ll take less time, and be, um, less painful.”

“Great.” Sal was beginning to look giddy. Shilly decided the time for talk was over, before he backed out.

She pulled the pattern from under her pillow. It consisted of three flattened circles intersecting at a common point. “Where are we going to do it?”

“Somewhere it can’t be seen.” Skender helped Sal take off his top. “Here. On his back, under the shoulder blade. That’s not too close to bone.”

Shilly sketched the tattoo in place with an ordinary nib pen. Skender declared himself satisfied. Next she took a needle and rubbed it against a smooth, orange crystal Belilanca Brokate had given her. She had seen Lodo performing the same action once, after she had cut her foot, and she knew what the crystal did. The touch of the metal needle made the crystal heat up, sterilising it.

Skender showed her how to apply the ink—a rich, deep black—to the tip of the needle. She held the image of the charm in her mind as she bent over to press the needle into Sal’s skin at a point just to the left of his spine. There was a thick ridge of muscle at that point, developed by weeks of helping Brokate’s drivers with their gear.

Just like a drawing, she told herself, to distract her from the fact that she was drawing on skin, not on paper. One dot at a time…

The instant the hot needle went in, Sal jumped halfway across the room with a strangled, “Ouch!”

“What?” Shilly spread her hands innocently. “You knew it was coming.”

“I did, yes, but…” He rubbed his back with one hand. “It hurt!”

“I think that’s the idea,” said Skender, swallowing a grin. “Come back here. Shilly can’t work with you hopping around the room like a mad roo.”

Reluctantly Sal obeyed. He lay face down on the bed, and Skender sat on his legs. Shilly was able to work much more easily from that position; her leg was less twisted, and his back was better lit.

“Okay,” she said as she sterilised the needle again. “This time, no acrobatics.”

Sal clutched the sheets as the needle went in, but apart from stiffening he didn’t move.

Shilly felt only a slight resistance as the needle went smoothly in and out. She dipped it in the ink and repeated the movement slightly to the right. The tiny puncture wound produced a drop of blood that mixed with the black ink and got in her way for the third try. She wiped it away, and stared at the spot in puzzlement.

“Hang on.”

“Now what?” asked Skender.

“It’s not working. See? The ink’s not staying in.”

“What?” asked Sal, twisting to see but not able to turn far enough.

Skender came up to stare at the spot. “That can’t be. We’re doing it right. There must be—” He stopped and slapped his forehead. “Your ward, Sal! It’s protecting you. You’re going to have to take it out before the ink will take.”

Sal did as he was told, tugging the silver ring from his ear and putting it on the pillow beside him. “You’re not deliberately torturing me, are you?” he asked. “The sooner we get this over with, the better.”

“Believe me,” said Skender, sitting back on his legs to stop him twitching, “I agree.”

Shilly went to work. Third time lucky, the ink went in and stayed in. A tiny, thin line gradually formed under her fingertips in Sal’s skin. Encouraged, she bent all her energies to the task. She soon acquired the rhythm of inking the needle then applying it, pausing every ten times or so to wipe away the blood with an alcohol-soaked rag. Her mind adopted that rhythm like a meditation, and soon she noticed nothing else. She forgot about the ghosts, about Lodo, about Kemp, and about her leg. There was just the ink and the smooth skin of Sal’s back; nothing else.

Slowly, the shape of the charm began to emerge.

Midway through, she sat up to wipe her hair out of her eyes. Her spine was stiff, and her eyes ached from staring at something so close for too long. She didn’t know the exact time, but she guessed that an hour had passed.

Skender had fallen asleep, draped across Sal’s legs like an exhausted puppy. Sal was wide awake, although he appeared not to have moved even slightly since she had started. His hands still clenched the sheets as a defence against the pain. Shilly noticed, though, that the muscles in his arms were quivering, and there was a strange wildness in his eyes that she’d never seen before.

“Are you okay?” she asked, lying down beside him.

He blinked and focused on her. “It hurts.”

“It’s just a needle. Hey, try breaking your leg in half. Then you’ll know what pain is.”

“I know. It shouldn’t be this bad. But it just keeps going…”

His left hand was shaking more than his right. She glanced at it and saw the tender skin around the bracelet burning bright red. She realised only then that he didn’t mean the needle when he said that it hurt, but the charm Shom Behenna had placed on him. It knew what they were doing, and it was punishing him for it.

Sal’s eyes had lost focus again. His hair was damp with sweat, and she guessed the sheets beneath him were the same. She could see muscles twitching, not just in his arms, but also in his jaw and down his neck. She wished there was something she could do to ease the pain. Engenius Lutz, the surgeon from Yor who had betrayed them at the Lookout, had given her a vial of powerful painkillers to help her get through their journey with a broken leg, but she had used them up long ago. If she’d had just one left, she would have happily given it to him. Anything to make it easier.

She wasn’t used to seeing boys express pain. The boys at School in Fundelry had revelled in their cuts and bruises and gone out of their way to show them off to anyone who would look. Around other girls, they would risk new injuries as though keen to prove their valour. It was the same with men, she gathered. She’d overheard stories of husbands straining backs from carrying heavy loads, tearing muscles by digging too deep, breaking limbs by climbing too high. It was almost as though pursuing pain was a way of proving their worthiness as mates. Or perhaps it was the other way around, she thought: the presence of a potential mate was so distracting that the pain simply didn’t seem so bad.

Either way, Sal’s pain was bad, and she felt terrible for being the one to inflict it on him.

Before she could examine the logic, if any, behind the impulse, she leaned across the gap between them and kissed him on the lips.

It was awkward, and it was brief, but it had all the effect she hoped for. Sal was so startled at first that he almost pulled away. Then he realised what was going on and he responded with surprising force. Then his mind caught up, and he really did pull away, flushing furiously. Her own face felt just as hot. There was a terrified excitement bubbling away in her gut.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice creeping back up into the higher register it had had before breaking weeks earlier.

“Taking your mind off the needle. Did it work?”

“I—but—” The feverish fragility in his eyes was gone. His attention was firmly on her. He moved hesitantly to kiss her again, as though to make sure he hadn’t imagined it, and she met him in the middle, suddenly feeling self-conscious and awkward. The element of surprise had given her the upper hand the first time. Now she was more vulnerable.

She could taste salt on his lips. His breath was slightly sour, but no more than hers, she suspected. Her breathing sounded like air roaring in a blowhole and she was acutely aware of Skender at the foot of the bed, still sprawled unknowing across Sal’s legs.

Bending over him was awkward. She went to put her hand on his arm, but thought better of it. His skin had gone from being a blank canvas to something far more potent in just a matter of minutes.

She sat up, away from him. “We’d better get back to it.”

“I guess.” He cleared his throat and moved uncomfortably on her bed. “The sooner we’re finished, the better. I can’t feel my feet any more.”

They both glanced at Skender, and exchanged a quick smile. Then she turned to pick up where she had left off. It was harder to concentrate, this time, and she still felt him go rigid with the pain at the first pinprick, but the tension was a different one.

Destined? she thought to herself. Bugger that.

But it was difficult to maintain her usual scepticism at Lodo’s prediction for the two of them, and eventually she stopped trying. Next time the smile returned, it stayed right where it was, and she didn’t mind.

CHAPTER 6

AMONG FAMILY

The following day began on a decidedly positive note. Sal woke feeling different, as though his life had changed overnight. The red welt around the bracelet was down, and the memory of Shilly’s kiss was still bright in his mind. He got out of bed to check her handiwork in the glowing mirror, standing on a chair to see his back clearly.

It was then that the day took a turn to strangeness.

He twisted to peer over his shoulder. Under a crusty cotton bandage was a bloody scab about the size of a large coin where the multiple needle wounds had bled. The tissue around it was inflamed, but not looking infected. He could see a slight bruise where the heel of Shilly’s drawing hand had pressed into his muscle.

There was, however, no sign of the tattoo.

Frowning, he lifted his shirt higher and peered more closely. Maybe it was a trick of the light. He brushed at the scab and winced as dried blood peeled away. There were no lines beneath. The tattoo appeared to have vanished.

That didn’t make sense at all. Shilly had worked hard applying the pattern to his skin, yet the evidence of his senses couldn’t be denied: the morning after, it wasn’t there. It had disappeared—unless he had dreamed the whole thing, of course, in which case where had the scab come from? And what about the kiss? Had that not happened either?

He sat down on the bed to think, disappointment and disbelief warring for control of his mind. He couldn’t have dreamt it. The tattoo had taken three hours to apply, in all. At the end, he had felt utterly drained yet filled with a strange exhilaration. Every muscle had been quivering as Shilly wiped away the blood one last time and applied the bandage to the wound.

“What’s happening?” Skender had moaned as Sal had rolled over, waking from his deep sleep at the foot of the bed and sitting up, rubbing his eyes.

“We’ve finished,” Shilly said, folding away the implements in the leather pouch.

“About time.” The boy stood up. “Come on, Sal. I’ll show you back to your room.”

“It’s okay. I can find my own way back.”

“What are you talking about? You’ve seen it up there. You’ll get lost in a second without me to show you the way.” Skender had grabbed his hand and tugged him to where Shilly’s cupboard stood below the vent. “I’m tired and don’t feel like sitting around here all night.”

Shilly and Sal had exchanged glances. Sal had a perfectly good reason to want to stay longer. He hadn’t told her about the golem’s comment the previous night for fear of disturbing her concentration. They also hadn’t decided what to do about finding the Golden Tower. Mainly, though, he wanted to know if her kissing him had just been a way of keeping his mind off the tattoo—in which case it had worked perfectly—or if it was something she wanted to repeat.

Skender was insistent, and it was hard to read what Shilly was thinking.

“Okay,” he conceded with reluctance, “there’s always tomorrow.”

“Avoid sleeping on the wound,” Shilly said as she helped him up onto the cupboard.

“I’ll try.” Skender guided him through the vent, and would have crawled off into the dusty darkness without a word of goodnight, had Sal not lingered.

He turned to peer back down at Shilly. She was standing in the middle of her room, leaning her weight on the cupboard, as though she had known he would look back. She was smiling.

“Git.” She winked. Then Skender had pulled him away with a muffled complaint and taken him back to his room, where sleep had been difficult to achieve and his dreams had been even more bizarre than usual.

And now this. If he had dreamt it, there was no way he was going through it all again.

Sal looked yet again, daring his eyes to repeat what they had already told him. The tattoo definitely wasn’t there. The second morning bell went, reminding him that his time was limited. He couldn’t stand around all day, waiting for the answer to come to him. He had lectures to go to, or else he would be in trouble. Claiming to be locked in wasn’t an option, as the attendants had explained to him that the door was charmed to unlock itself at the second bell.

Grabbing a change of clothes, he opened the door and joined the other boys for a shower.

This was only the second time he had used the bathroom with other students present, and he had assumed that he was still immune to the rivalry that typified the relationships between boys of his age. Not making eye contact was the key to avoiding confrontations in the short-term, he knew, but he hadn’t learned what to do in the long-term, since he and his father had moved around so much. He hoped he wouldn’t find out the hard way in the Haunted City.

But the usual ploy wasn’t working that morning. As he lathered up the soap and gingerly applied it to the scab on his back, he became aware that he was being pointed at. He ignored the sensation as long as he could, but when a small knot of boys gathered to stare, he turned to face them, trying to ignore the fact of his nudity before them.

“What?” he asked.

“You tell us,” said one of the boys.

“Does it hurt?” asked Weyn, the student from Fairney’s tutorial group who had spoken to Sal on his first day.

“Does what—?” He didn’t get any further. Glancing down at his right leg, he saw what they were pointing at. It was the tattoo. Somehow it had moved from his back down to a point just below his knee. And it was still moving.

He goggled at it for a good five seconds, in which time it slid slowly across his knee and a hand’s width up his thigh. Then he grabbed his towel and ran from the showers.

In his room, he stood back on the chair and studied himself more closely in the glowing mirror. The tattoo, spinning slowly as it went, had crawled as far as his hip. Without warning, as though it had bounced off something he couldn’t see, it suddenly changed course and headed off at an angle across his stomach. He felt nothing at all as it moved. When he put his fingers in its path, they registered nothing either. The ink seemed somehow to have developed a life of its own, underneath his skin.

“It’s impossible,” he breathed. Skender hadn’t said anything about this. The tattoo drifted under his armpit and up his back. It curled around his neck and made a beeline for his left ear. He thought he heard a faint hum as it passed, then it ricocheted again and, instead of vanishing beneath his hair, went diagonally across his face. His vision faded to black for an instant as it crossed his eyes, one at a time. From there, it went back down his neck and out of sight.

So much for hiding it, he thought. They might as well have tattooed it in the middle of his forehead for all the effect putting it on his back had had.

There was a heavy knock at the door.

“Who is it?” he called. “I’m not dressed yet.”

The stern attendant’s voice replied, “You’re to miss your lecture this morning to be somewhere else. Hurry up and get moving.”

Goddess, Sal cursed under his breath. Now what? “Okay, hang on!” He thought furiously. There wasn’t much he could do except get dressed and hope for the best. He chose a long-sleeved top and long-legged pants in Novitiate grey. That way, with luck, the tattoo wouldn’t draw too much attention to itself.

As he pulled his left arm through the sleeve, the tattoo crawled up his forearm and ran into the bracelet.

There was a soundless flash that left Sal sitting on the floor, shaking his head. The bracelet fell from his wrist like a strip of dead skin, leaving a pink band in its wake. When he struggled to his feet and checked his back, the tattoo was exactly where it was supposed to be, as though it had never moved.

That solved that, he thought. Still slightly dazed, and amazed as always by the mysterious workings of the Change, he picked up the loose leather strap and tied it back around his wrist so it looked as though the charm was still in place. Then he opened his bedroom door and let the attendant in.

“Are you ready?” asked the gruff voice.

“Yes. Does every student get to skip classes like this?”

“Of course not.”

“I guess I’ll enjoy it while I can, then. Where are you taking me this time?”

“Your grandmother wants to show you something.”

“Are Shilly and Skender coming?”

“No.”

Great, Sal thought behind the brave face he was trying to put on. That’s all I need.

The attendant led him through the corridors of the Novitiate and out into the morning light. The day was clear and smelled of salt. Seagulls called raucously on the air above him, as though gloating. The ghosts moved silently behind the glass windows of the gleaming towers, and Sal wondered if they noticed the difference between day and night. Perhaps they didn’t notice anything at all. For all he knew, they could have been optical illusions—like a mirage of life. The towers could be as dead as those in the other cities he had seen, despite their appearance.

His mind turned inevitably to the golem. When he had first encountered it in the Broken Lands city, it had told him three things: that Lodo was still alive; that they would meet again; and that creatures such as it congregated in certain places. Sal hadn’t seen any golems in the Nine Stars, but that didn’t mean there weren’t any, or creatures like them.

Given that the golem had come to him so readily meant that there were golems in the Haunted City—or one, at least. Why it hadn’t come to him a second time was a mystery, though. Either the fact that he hadn’t used the Change, as he had the night before, made a difference, or else it had been deterred by the charm Shilly had tattooed on his back. Or it was still playing with him. Whatever the reason, he was no closer to knowing what he should do about the deal it had offered. He didn’t want to do the wrong thing. But he had few other options to choose from. He could either stumble around in the dark, hoping to trip over the information they needed, or take it from the one person—creature, anyway—who had offered it.

Wherever the attendant was leading him, it was somewhere new. The towers around him assumed a uniformly slender, pointed aspect, as though he was a bug crawling among giant, crystal stalagmites. His stomach gurgled loudly. He hoped there would be breakfast, wherever they were going. He felt as though he hadn’t eaten for weeks.

They came to an open space between the towers, a triangular depression where numerous paths converged. Since Sal had arrived in the Haunted City, he hadn’t seen a single motorised vehicle and there weren’t any animal-drawn buggies. There wasn’t room between many of the towers for such traffic, and everyone got around on foot happily enough. But there were some gaps large enough to accommodate normal city life. The reserve where Belilanca Brokate’s caravan was parked was one such, as was the space before him now. It was easily as wide across as Fundelry, and stretched a surprising distance away in front of him.

The space was covered with moss and seagrass, the only vegetation he had seen anywhere on the island. It had been clipped neatly back to form a green swathe across the dead earth of the city. Paths wound across the lawn, skirting numerous wooden and stone monuments in myriad shapes and sizes. Sal couldn’t guess how many there were, but his first estimate put them in the thousands.

He knew where he was the moment he saw the tree in the centre of the space. It was either very dead, or a very good likeness carved out of a dark grey stone. Its crooked, pointed arms reached in vain for the sky far above, while around its trunk multicoloured bunches of flowers had been placed to wilt and die.

He was in a memorial to the dead—probably the same one he had heard about on his travels with his father, for he doubted there would be many such places in the city. It honoured those who had fallen in the service of the Alcaide: everyone from the highest Sky Warden to the lowest administrator was remembered by name, if not actually buried there. Most wardens, Sal recalled, were despatched to the sea upon their deaths, just like most Stone Mages were cremated.

When he saw his grandmother and his real father standing among the monuments, he understood why he had been brought there. The attendant led him to them, then departed.

“This is your mother’s memorial,” said Radi Mierlo. She was wearing a flowing grey robe, and her grey hair was held back in a silver web. She didn’t look up from a rounded column that came up to Sal’s shoulder height, standing alone in a patch as broad as his bedroom. It was carved into three distinct segments around which his mother’s name had been written. There was an inscription that Sal recognised from the poem in his mother’s book:

For no ripples curl, alas!

Along that wilderness of glass—

No swellings tell that winds may be

Upon some far-off happier sea.

Below that were the dates of her birth and death, which Sal hadn’t known before. He did his best to memorise them through a growing fog of unreality.

This was all that remained of his mother. He would never get closer to her than this. Yet he felt nothing. It was just a lump of rock. It revealed nothing of her that mattered. It couldn’t hug him, sing him to sleep, or teach him to love her as much as she had once loved him.

It was dead, just like she was.

“Will you eat with us?”

Highson Sparre’s voice surprised him. He hadn’t realised just how long he had been staring at the memorial, as though expecting it to do something. His real father was watching him, waiting for a reply, and the yawning emptiness in his gut urged him to say yes.

“All right,” he said, hunger winning over his natural wariness.

Highson smiled tightly, but he didn’t say anything else. He turned and walked slowly up the path, leaving Sal’s grandmother to guide him.

“I’m glad you’ve decided to be sensible this morning,” she said, going to take his arm.

He pulled away, giving her a don’t-push-your-luck look. She tutted and raised her eyes in irritation to the sky above.

“You’re a wilful boy,” she said. “Where that came from, I’ll never know. Your mother was a perfectly obedient child, and Highson knows his place. Personally, I believe that the man you insist on calling your father was responsible for corrupting both you and your mother, but I know you will refuse to believe this. You prefer the explanation he gave you: that the three of you were victims of injustice. And that I am the main vehicle of that injustice.”

“I was never taught to hate you,” said Sal as they walked across the memorial’s grassy paths. “I didn’t even know you existed until a few weeks ago.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He glanced at her and saw what might have been a flicker in the cool facade. “It’s not supposed to make you feel anything,” he said. “It’s just the way it is.”

She walked steadily on through the memorial grounds without looking at him. Her arms were tightly folded over her chest, as though she was trying to keep herself warm. “We are in limbo, Sal. You and the rest of your family. I’m still housed at the Novitiate, by the grace of the Syndic, and I have managed to find accommodation for the rest of us nearby. I want you to know that we are here for you if you need us. But we cannot be here forever. We cannot settle while your intentions are in doubt.”

“I don’t understand how you can have any doubt at all about my intentions,” he said. “I thought I’d made them perfectly clear. I never wanted to come here. I don’t want to be here. I’d go back to the Keep in a second if you gave me a chance.” He tucked his left wrist behind his back in order to hide the fact that the bracelet was simply tied on rather than permanently attached. “If it’s so difficult for you to be here, go home to Mount Birrinah where you belong and stop pretending that you’re trying so hard for my sake.”

She did look at him, then, but only briefly. Her eyes conveyed an impression of great fatigue. “We have no home, Sal. We abandoned all claim to that when we came here with your mother.”

“To make her marry Highson Sparre.”

“We didn’t make her, Sal. She did it willingly enough.”

“Why should I believe that?”

“Because she was my daughter,” Radi Mierlo said with no trace of rancour. “She was one of us, and she wanted to do the right thing. The problems only began when she lost sight of what was right, and I don’t blame her for that. I blame me. I should have done more for her, made it clearer for her. Even though she betrayed her family, I am still proud of her. She did what she thought she ought to do, and that takes great courage. Consider what she gave up, Sal: wealth, prestige, power. I couldn’t have done it. Never.”

Sal softened slightly at that. It must indeed have taken great courage to throw away the fine future his mother had once had—as a powerful Change-user married to the man everyone had said would one day be the Alcaide—and she had done so not just willingly, but with unflinching determination. If his grandmother could appreciate the strength of will behind such actions, then she wasn’t as blind as he had thought.

That didn’t mean, though, that he would ever sympathise with her goals, or condone her motives.

“We are homeless,” she said, hammering home her point with an iron sledgehammer. “You are our only chance of security.”

“I didn’t ask for this,” he said. “I have enough problems of my own without taking on yours as well.”

“Our problems are your problems, Sal. We are family. That makes us one.”

“You aren’t my family. You’re strangers. Just because some of your blood flows in my veins doesn’t give you a hold over me.” He thought of the baker of La Menz, who had died to make a similar point. “You don’t just waltz out of nowhere into my life and declare yourself part of it. You don’t have the right.”

“Oh, it’s a right, is it?” his grandmother shot back with a trace of her usual fire. “And you’ve set yourself up as judge and jury over our fate, I suppose. Don’t you think you should get to know us, first? You’ll find we’re not so contemptible if you give us a chance. At least grant us that boon, mighty Sal Hrvati. Maybe we won’t prove so unworthy after all.”

Sal retreated into himself, embarrassed by the accusation. Who was he to damn every one of his mother’s family just because his grandmother was acting in ways he didn’t like? Aron, the cousin who carried the man’kin Mawson for her, may not have said a word to him on their journey to the city, but that was because he was mute. In his silent way, he displayed no antipathy toward him. The others had avoided him on the long journey south just as he had avoided them. Perhaps because he had avoided them. From their point of view, he was the one to blame.

They walked in restrained silence for a long moment, until his grandmother said, “This man you call your father. Did he teach you to talk like this?”

“No,” he replied, “I had to learn it all by myself.”

“You probably think of it as a survival trait.”

“At the moment, yes.”

His grandmother tilted her head back in something that might have been a silent laugh. “That’s not so far from the truth. You’re honest, and you’re strong. I admire that in a person, even—especially—if they’re locking horns with me. Don’t ever think that I don’t admire you, Sal. We may not see eye to eye, but I think we deserve each other’s respect.”

Sal wasn’t sure he agreed. Was this the buttering-up part of the discussion, where she praised him in order to make him look more favourably upon her? He wouldn’t put it past her.

But he didn’t want to accuse her of it, just in case she really meant what she was saying. And also because he hadn’t told her the entire truth, either. When he stopped to think about what was coming out of his mouth, it wasn’t him he heard at all.

It was Shilly.

They reached the northern edge of the memorial, where Highson was waiting for them. Two paths led off into the distance at angles between the towers, and Sal’s grandmother chose the left. They walked with Sal in the middle along a series of narrow thoroughfares lined with shops. This was the first sign of trade that Sal had seen in the Haunted City, and he studied the area closely as they passed. It wasn’t the sort of market he had seen in Fundelry or Ulum. These shops sold finely crafted goods from all over the Strand and beyond. There were mirrors, waterfalls, sculptures of glass, pottery dishes of all shapes and textures, and carved wooden poles that reminded Sal of the memorial stones behind them. There were also knives, jewels and stone ornaments from the north. The sellers didn’t holler to advertise their wares; they sat among their glinting produce with welcoming smiles, confident that the quality on display would be lure enough.

Sal had only ever seen markets like this in the richest areas of the Strand’s larger towns. He had never bought anything from one, and he doubted he would ever be able to. His grandmother walked determinedly forward with a pained expression on her face. He couldn’t decide if she found the market beneath her, or if she was yearning for lost affluence. He was still watching her, trying to work it out, when they turned a corner and left the market behind them.

At the end of a short lane between two looming glass monoliths they came to a narrow, irregularly-shaped building perfectly filling the available space in its corner of the ghostly metropolis. Its whitewashed exterior had seen better days but it was elegantly designed, with sharp corners and boldly angular windows. His grandmother produced a key to open the front door, then guided him inside, along a corridor barely wide enough for the two of them, and to a kitchen. Through a wide, glass window, in a narrow garden lined with closely pruned trees, Sal could see the rest of the Mierlos waiting.

As the door separating them opened and Highson ushered him into their midst, Sal reminded himself that he’d survived walking into the lecture theatre and the Syndic’s awkward diplomatic party. How bad can it be? he asked himself.

The answer unfortunately was: Very bad indeed.

First, although he already knew everyone’s name, having spent four weeks in the same caravan with them and unable to avoid at least the awareness of their existence, his grandmother insisted on introducing him to each of them in turn and giving him a potted history of who they were. His uncle, Ranan, a burly man with ornate moustaches, was trained in finance and had worked for many of the large bureaucracies and businesses in the Interior. His aunt, Roa, was a camel trainer, a profession seemingly ill-suited to her slight frame and delicate crystal necklace. Her husband was a tall, stringy man with hair like a mushroom cap who spoke only in monosyllables.

Between them, his uncle and aunt had five children. Sal’s cousins ranged from the enormous mute, Aron, to a young girl with the annoying habit of wailing in high-pitched tones whenever denied anything. One of them, Etheria, was about his age but had acted on the long caravan ride south as though she thought herself too good to mingle with anyone other than adults. While her mother wasn’t watching, she made it clear that she still didn’t want to have anything to do with a mere boy, and went to talk to her older brothers instead.

That would have been bad enough. His stomach was growling almost constantly by the time he had run the gauntlet of his mother’s family, and he was looking forward to getting some of the food he could smell from the far side of the garden. Just when it looked as though he was finally going to be allowed to, three more guests arrived through the kitchen door.

Sal didn’t need an introduction. Two of the three were Shom Behenna and Tait. The ex-warden was torc-less and dressed in sand-coloured robes. Tait still had the uniform of a journeyman, but he wore it uncomfortably, as though it didn’t quite fit any more. The third was a square-faced, fair-haired woman of middle years who he recognised as a member of the Stone Mage Synod. Her name was Luan Braunack, and she had travelled with two junior mages as a diplomatic emissary to the Alcaide and Syndic. Sal hadn’t exchanged more than a dozen words with her throughout the entire journey. What she was doing at his grandmother’s breakfast party he couldn’t guess.

Mage Braunack was the only one who seemed genuinely pleased to see him, though. She manoeuvred herself through the Mierlos until she was standing in front of him. Her light skin was a match for those around her—Sal was amazed at how quickly he had again become used to the darker complexions in the Strand—but her rust-red robes stood out among the pallid colours of the other guests. She greeted him warmly, then went off to talk to his grandmother. Behenna scowled at him and followed.

That left him alone with Tait.

“How’s Shilly’s doing?” the tall young man asked him.

Sal was thrown off-balance by the question. A vivid memory of the kiss surfaced, and he felt himself flush.

“Fine,” he said. “That is, she’s settled in and her leg is doing well.”

“Good.” Tait nodded awkwardly, then asked, “What about Tom. Seen him about anywhere?”

Ah. The studied nonchalance of the question revealed the point of the conversation. “Yes. I presume you already know that he’s not talking to you.”

“But why?” Nonchalance gave away to grievance. It was clear that Tait has already aware of Tom’s decision.

“If you don’t already know, me telling you isn’t going to help.”

Sal went to walk away, but Tait caught his arm. “Tell him I’m sorry, will you? We shouldn’t be fighting like this. I want my brother back.”

Sal nodded slowly. “I’ll tell him, but I don’t know how he’ll respond.”

“I know.” Tait looked glum. “He’s always been a strange one. But he’s the only one who can help me get back in. Master Warden Atilde won’t see me; the Alcaide and the Syndic act as though I don’t exist. Tom can put a good word in for me, I’m sure—”

Sal pulled his arm free and walked away, shaking his head. Tait deserved what he’d got. He had betrayed his brother and allied himself with the ambitious Shom Behenna in order to advance himself, and both actions had worked out badly for him. If he’d been tarred by Behenna’s failure, that was a just punishment as far as Sal was concerned.

Tait fitted in perfectly among the Mierlos, Sal decided. He’d had it with all of them. He was about to go up to his grandmother and ask if he could leave when she chose that moment to announce that breakfast was ready. He was ushered forward to the front of the group, where Highson handed him a plate. Sal stared at the servings heaped on it by a dark-skinned chef in a white hat, with a deepening feeling of dismay. His appetite was gone.

When breakfast finished, he told himself, he would surely be able to leave. But there was more to come. He was forced to endure conversations about places he’d never seen and people he didn’t know. Small grievances and triumphs flew backwards and forwards like darts. What did he care if Etheria had already caught the eye of a well-placed local dandy? Why should he mind if the house they were renting was a huge step down from their digs at Mount Birrinah?

He managed to extricate himself from the conversation by saying that he needed to use the bathroom. Highson Sparre, the man who would claim him as his son, given half the chance, showed him the way. Sal bet that he would be waiting for him when he came out afterward. It was beginning to feel as if Highson was always there, wherever he went, a compact but powerful presence. The Change swirled around him like an invisible cloak, making Sal’s ears tingle. Sal was beginning to feel utterly closed in by it all.

When he walked out into the garden, Highson a pace behind him, his grandmother waved him over.

“We were just talking about your grandfather, Sahen,” she said. “He was a good man, and a good father.”

“I never met him,” said Highson, “but Seirian spoke about him often.”

“He passed away when she was a teenager.” Behind Radi Mierlo’s social mask he glimpsed a brief hint of sadness. “She was always his favourite, Sal. She cried for weeks after the accident. He made her the ward she gave you, remember? I told you that when we first met.”

Sal reached instinctively for his ear, and only realised then that it was missing. The hole in his ear was empty. “Uh, yes,” he said, hoping the alarm he felt wouldn’t show. “I remember.”

The social mask cracked. “You haven’t—?” His grandmother’s eyes darted to his ears, then narrowed as dismay turned to anger. “You have! How could you lose something as precious as that? Sahen made that ward especially for your mother’s fifth birthday present. It watched over her all her life, until she gave it to you. And now you’ve lost it. You stupid, careless boy!”

Sal fought the natural sense of shame that rose up in him in the face of her bitter words, conscious of the crowd watching. “N-no,” he stammered. “I know where it is. It’s safe.”

And it was, too. He knew exactly where it was. He had taken it off when Shilly tattooed the charm on his back the previous night, and he must have left it in her room when Skender hurried him off to bed.

“I want to see it tomorrow,” she said, her expression stern. “If you’re lying—”

“I’m not. I swear.”

She accepted that with a look that told him she still didn’t entirely believe him. He caught Behenna staring at him from one corner of the garden, and suddenly he felt naked. The last time he had taken the ward out of his ear had been in Fundelry, and even then he had worn it on a thong around his neck. He couldn’t remember ever being without it before. The sooner he got it back, the better.

“I wouldn’t worry about her,” said a warm, female voice in his ear. A hand on his elbow guided him away. “Your grandmother’s under a lot of stress at the moment,” Mage Braunack added. “It’s not a good time for her.”

So what? Sal wanted to retort, but he held his tongue. It wasn’t a good time for him, either.

“Tell me how young Skender is doing,” she said. “I was speaking to his father just last night and he enquired about him. Has he got up to any antics yet?”

Stone Mages, like Sky Wardens, could communicate across vast distances by using the Change, but Sal didn’t realise that Skender’s father was in such regular contact with the diplomatic party. He wondered what Skender Van Haasteren the Ninth would think if told that his son had been crawling around in the roof of the Novitiate every night. Instead he explained that Skender seemed to be doing well in classes.

“It’s a unique opportunity for him,” said Braunack. “We encourage cross-cultural experiences in the young. Especially those who will teach the next generation.”

“You should talk to Skender about that,” he said. The boy was destined to take over his father’s school one day, but he had said many times that he found the idea stiflingly dull. “I think he’d rather follow in his mother’s footsteps.”

“Yes, who wouldn’t rather be a Surveyor than a teacher? On paper, the job looks much more interesting. But I think Abi Van Haasteren could tell a thing or two that would curl her son’s hair.” Braunack nodded with a certainty Sal couldn’t fathom. “He’ll change his mind in time. As will you. Mark my words. Sometimes when we’re young, we’re so busy running from what we think other people want us to be that we don’t notice we’ve come full circle, until it’s too late.”

Sal frowned at her, not understanding at first what she was trying to say. Was she telling him that he would accept coming to the Strand, one day? He couldn’t imagine doing that. And why would she, a Stone Mage, want it to happen?

Then he remembered that Mage Braunack had been one of the nine Judges who had decided to send him back to the Strand. The elderly Mage Erentaite had insinuated that the mysterious Weavers were behind Sal’s expulsion, and that they were everywhere, influencing every decision. Could Braunack be one of them?

It did make sense. Skender had’ said that he’d heard Shorn Behenna and his grandmother talking about the Weavers two nights ago. They’d been waiting for word from their masters. And now here Braunack was, socialising with them—and smiling at him as though appreciating a fine, subtle joke.

“Tell the Mage Van Haasteren that I look forward to seeing him again soon,” he said, and walked away.

His grandmother began winding things up soon after the incident with the earring, as though that moment had soured the entire occasion for her. Sal felt nothing but relief as his relations said goodbye to him one by one, and the various other hangers-on filed out the front door. Cool farewells from Tait, Behenna and Mage Braunack mattered nothing to him. As the moment of his own departure came closer, he found himself longing to be back at the Novitiate. Anything, he thought, was better than this.

Finally they were on their way. Sal’s grandmother walked in sullen silence through the Haunted City’s convoluted lanes, Sal and Highson following her.

Nothing was said until Sal realised that he didn’t recognise where they were going.

“This isn’t the way we came,” he said.

“No,” said Highson, his hoarse voice firm. “You’re not going back to the Novitiate just yet.”

“But I have my tutor class—”

“I know, Sal, and I’m sorry. This is important, too. I want you to meet the other side of your family.”

“The other—?” Sal stopped in mid-sentence. He belatedly understood with a sinking feeling who Highson was referring to. Just as his mother had a family he had never known, so too did his real father. The only one he had ever heard of was the Syndic, Nu Zanshin, but there had to be others. He had never given them a moment’s thought.

He groaned on the inside. More strangers claiming to be uncles, aunts, grandparents, cousins…It was unbearable.

But he was in no position to argue. He could make a run for it, he supposed, but he doubted he would get far. He would certainly be unable to escape the island; they had yet to find a way to cross the channel between the Haunted City and the mainland. And it would expose the fact that he and his friends had managed to break the power of the bracelet. The next restraint wouldn’t be so easy to break, and when the wardens found out where their knowledge of tattoos had come from, as they surely would, he doubted Skender would get another chance to browse through the library unimpeded.

He had to grit his teeth and endure it. It wouldn’t last forever. When it was over, he would have homework and Kemp to look forward to—but that wouldn’t last forever either. Nothing was permanent. All he had to do was persevere. They would find Lodo and a way out eventually, he was sure. Even if he did have to ask a golem for help…

They came to a section of the island that sloped steeply around the bases of the mighty towers. Sal was becoming quite used to the gleaming glass and ghostly presences surrounding him in the Haunted City, but when the ground level rose up and the towers didn’t rise with it—as though the towers had been there forever and the island had formed around them, partly burying them—he lost all sense of familiarity. Rows of small houses lined the roads they travelled along, some of them piled three or four high around the tower bases. He sensed great age in the crumbling brickwork and salt-damp, in the way paint had peeled and wood had swelled. But the houses were all well made, and stood the ravages of time with grace and strength. There was a patient, unimposing solidity about the suburb, as though dynasties had risen and fallen in such houses, unconcerned by fashion or fad.

They came to a single house at the summit of a hill. It stood alone behind a small, sandy front garden. The door opened at Highson’s touch, and he waved Sal and his grandmother through. The interior was neat and clean, and smelled of a flower Sal recognised but didn’t know the name of. Soft music filtered from a room out the back.

Highson put a finger to his lips and walked ahead of them. As they wound through a portrait-filled corridor and a simple kitchen, Sal identified the musical instrument as a small harp. A gentle lay rippled from its strings, trickling in the weak afternoon light that crept down through the towers looming over the small house and past the lace curtains. Sal saw dust motes dancing as Highson indicated that they should come through a curtain of beads and into a bricked-in veranda at the rear of the house. He was moving very quietly, as though wary of startling someone. Sal did as he was told and then he learned who that someone was.

In a wooden rocking chair by the back door, with a crocheted shawl over her thin knees, a very old woman sat sleeping by herself. She was easily the oldest person Sal had ever seen—even older than the Mage Erentaite. Her hair was white and wispy; her shoulders were narrow and hunched, and her skin was a blotchy, faded brown. She looked as though she weighed less than the shawl keeping her warm.

But she made a peaceful figure, sleeping softly in the sunlight, listening to the music.

Sal had enough time to be amazed at the beauty of the slender, silver harp standing in one corner—and the fact that it seemed to be playing itself—when Highson leaned in close to the old woman and took one of her hands in his.

“Gram, it’s me,” he said softly.

The old woman started softly and opened disconcertingly large eyes. They were as clear as a child’s, and a light honey-brown in colour.

“Harun?” she said, looking up at him in momentary confusion. Her voice quavered but wasn’t soft.

“No, Gram. It’s Highson. I’ve brought someone to meet you.”

The old woman looked around and noticed the two other visitors. “I know you,” she said, stabbing a crooked finger at Sal’s grandmother. “You’re the girl’s mother.”

“It has been a long time, Mistress Sparre,” said Radi Mierlo, dipping into an unexpected curtsy. “I’m pleased to see you again.”

“Didn’t think I’d last this long, eh?” The old woman—who had to be Highson’s grandmother, Sal decided—shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “Well, I didn’t think so either. That daughter of yours has given us some grief. When are you going to sort her out?”

“My daughter?” Radi Mierlo looked completely flustered. “She’s—that is…”

Highson shook his head to silence her, and moved his hand to the old woman’s shoulder. “Gram,” he said, more firmly than before, “this is Sal.”

“Sal? Who’s Sal?” The ancient woman’s upper body swivelled to bring her lined face square-on to his. Sal felt an almost physical force sweep over him when she locked eyes with him. “I suppose you must be Sal,” she said, nodding to herself. “Would you like to see a picture of your mother?”

The question momentarily flummoxed him. Of course he wanted to see a picture of his mother, but he wasn’t sure the old woman really knew who he was. Whose mother might he be shown if he said yes?

“Of course you do,” she said, putting her hands on either arm of the rocking chair and struggling to get up. “It’s over here. You can keep it if you want.”

“Please, um, Mistress Sparre,” he said, worried that she might hurt herself, “don’t trouble yourself—”

“Call me Gram,” she said, giving up on the attempt and pointing Highson in the right direction instead. “Everyone does. Except you,” she added with a reproachful glare at Radi Mierlo, who sniffed huffily.

Highson returned with a small picture in a frame. “Here,” Gram said, taking it from him, turning it over once in her quavering hands then giving it to Sal. “There she is. What do you think, eh? Quite a looker, isn’t she?”

Gram cackled to herself while Sal stared dumbly at the woman in the picture.

It showed a young woman in half-profile, as though looking just past the camera. Her features were narrow and delicate with hair black and flowing like a waterfall down one shoulder. Her eyes were the same colour as Radi Mierlo’s and Sal’s, and her mouth curved in a half-smile. Dressed in a simple white robe, she held a bouquet of red flowers in her lap and wore an elegant silver band across her temple.

Sal looked up and caught Highson’s eye. He nodded.

“I always liked her,” said Gram, shaking her head. “You were a fool to let her go, Highson. A fool.”

Highson cleared his throat and asked if anyone would like a cup of tea. Sal returned his attention to the picture. This was the woman who had married Highson and then left him for another man. This was the woman who had escaped with her lover into the wilds and survived for a year without being found. This was the woman who had given birth to Sal and loved him as much as any mother had loved a child. This was the woman who had been wrenched away from her son and died alone in captivity.

Highson hadn’t let her go. She had escaped from him and her family and everyone else who had tried to hold her back.

This was Sal’s mother.

“I won’t have tea,” Radi Mierlo was saying, as though from a great distance. “I have business to attend to elsewhere.” Sal glanced up and noticed his grandmother’s eyes gleaming. “Can I leave the boy with you?”

Highson nodded. “I’ll keep him safe.”

“Thank you.” She bent down to address the old woman. “It’s nice to see you again, Mistress Sparre.” Her voice was a little too loud. Sal thought he caught Gram wincing. “We must catch up soon.”

“Yes, yes.” The old woman snapped her fingers and the harp changed its tune.

Sal felt his grandmother’s breath on his ear as she leaned in close to him. “Find that ward,” she whispered, “and do as your teachers tell you. You offend the memory of your mother and your grandfather by wasting your talent like this. I expect to hear more positive reports soon.”

She was gone in a rush of silk before Sal could even think of a retort.

While Highson showed her from the house, Gram fixed Sal with a piercingly alert stare.

“Highson would’ve been Alcaide, you know,” she said. It was hard to tell with all the lines around her mouth and the faint tremor that affected her every movement, but she might have been smirking. “Would’ve been Alcaide, but for her. And I liked her, you know. Never saw it coming. Sometimes I miss her.”

She cleared her throat as Highson came back through the bead curtain.

“What’s that you’re saying, Gram?”

“Nothing, Harun, nothing. Where’s that tea?” She snapped her fingers again and the harp switched to yet another tune. With a contented chuckle, the old lady settled back into her chair.

They finished their tea before Sal began to realise that this was it: Gram was all the other family he was going to see that day.

Highson had produced two rickety chairs from elsewhere in the house and placed them before the old woman. Her conversation had rambled through subjects and years, and Sal had done his best to keep up. It didn’t seem to matter if he did or didn’t. She chatted quite happily into her cup half the time, and he couldn’t always hear what she was saying.

When her tea was drunk and the empty glass taken from her, she exhaled heavily once, closed her eyes, and fell sound asleep. The room instantly felt empty.

Highson straightened her shawl and folded her hands.

“I hope this doesn’t disturb you,” he said. “She did get your name right most of the time.”

“You told her about me?” Sal felt uncomfortable, alone with his real father for the first time. It wasn’t somewhere he’d ever planned to be; the situation had crept up on him unawares.

“Of course.” Highson drained his own cup and put it aside. “She’s strong, and has heard worse stories in her time, I’m sure. I wanted you to meet her because I don’t think she has long left. The others…” He shrugged. “They can wait.”

So there were others. Sal had been wondering if Highson was also an orphan.

“I understand that this is awkward for you,” his real father went on. “We don’t have very much to talk about, or it doesn’t seem so at the moment, and I don’t want to force anything on you because that will only drive you away. Similarly, I don’t want to justify anything I did because I trust you to make up your own mind when you know the whole story. I have faith in…” He hesitated. “Well, I was going to say that I have faith in any child Seirian and I produced—but it feels wrong saying that. You’re no more my child than Shilly or Skender. Dafis Hrvati raised you, and he earned the title of father. But you did come from us, from our bodies, and I have faith in that raw material. Seirian was a good person. I know that you have a lot of her in you.”

The speech was surprisingly long, and startled Sal further by bringing a lump to his throat. He looked down at his hands, at the picture of his mother still clasped between them. She seemed to be looking at something just over his shoulder. Her smile was mysterious; he longed to know what had amused her at that moment. Was it something Highson had said? Had he made her laugh? Or was it the thought of her lover, the man whose name Sal claimed?

In that instant, his feelings for his real father became more complex than he could ever have imagined. Highson spoke of his mother fondly, not with anger and bitterness, unlike her own family. He had shown Sal more consideration and respect than anyone else in the Haunted City to date. Radi Mierlo had claimed in the memorial that Seirian had married Highson willingly enough, and for the first time he could see that it might be true. And if it was true, but for the crossed fate of falling in love with another, might they not still be together right now—husband and wife and child in the Haunted City?

No. He shook the fantasy from his mind. Highson Sparre, the jilted husband, had chased his wife all across the Strand, not resting until he had found her. He had snatched Seirian from the bed she’d shared with her lover and child, and incarcerated her in the Haunted City. And there, alone, she had died of a broken heart.

Highson may have loved Sal’s mother, but he had killed her, too, and Sal would never forgive him for that.

“Thank you,” he said, not hiding the stiffness in his tone. And then, because he could think of nothing else to say, he said nothing at all.

Highson nodded. He looked down at the ground, then back at Sal. After a long moment, in which Sal sensed he was hoping for something more but didn’t get it, he put his hands on his thighs and stood up.

“Well,” he said, “I have chores to do about the house before I leave. Do you mind sitting here with Gram while you wait? It could be some time.”

Sal glanced nervously at the old woman. “Uh, I guess.”

“There are books in the next room, and cushions to make yourself comfortable. Rest. Sleep if you want. I’m sure you’d rather be here than locking horns with your tutor and lecturers.”

That was exactly true. Sal couldn’t remember the last time he’d had nothing to do but read. Highson would be elsewhere, doing his chores, and Gram was likely to sleep for hours. He could relax, if he let himself.

“Thanks,” he said, meaning it, and wondering what Shilly would think if she heard him saying that to the man he had sworn he would never even talk to, given a choice. But she was a long way away at that moment, and the strangeness of the afternoon seemed to permit him to relax for a while.

That nothing ever went as he expected was a lesson he had had drummed into him many times since Fundelry, and it seemed so patently true of this day that he was becoming numb to the surprises. Instead of questioning this one, he took it in both hands and, finding himself a thick book from the shelf in the next room, settled back to relax for a while.

There was no idle chitchat between him and his real father on the walk through the towers of glass when the time came for him to return to the Novitiate. The silence was thick with unspoken words that Sal was content to leave that way.

“I think Gram enjoyed your company,” Highson did say at one point. The old woman had woken several hours after he had begun his chores, which had consisted, it turned out, of cleaning the house from top to bottom, then preparing an evening meal for the three of them. Sal had felt compelled to help at one point, but had been encouraged to sit with the old woman and listen to her stories instead. She seemed to enjoy having an audience, even if she did forget he was there sometimes. After a while, he read to her from a book he picked from her small library, and she had enjoyed that most of all.

“She’s nice,” Sal admitted, glad that there was at least one member of his new family that he could honestly say that about. Gram had liked his mother. She had given him a picture of her to keep, which he had wrapped carefully in tissue paper and placed in his pocket.

“I think so, too,” said Highson with a faint smile, then he was quiet again. The only sound was the distant thunder of waves breaking against the cliffs of the island, and wind whispering faintly, high up among the towers. The Haunted City was very still. Had Sal not known better, he might have imagined that he and Highson were its only inhabitants.

The full moon was rising when they reached the entrance to the Novitiate. Silver light poured like water through the steep valleys between the mirror-finished towers, echoing and re-echoing in a silver torrent. A robed attendant was waiting for him by the door, painted eerily by the moonlight. Luminous ghosts moved restlessly in their cages, thin and faceless, silently clamouring to be let out.

Sal shivered even though he wasn’t cold.

“Thank you for joining us today, Sal,” his father said. “I know it’s not something you wanted to do, so I appreciate the effort you’ve made. It was a long day, and you must be exhausted.”

Sal shrugged. The effort lay not so much in what he had to do, but in what he had to stop himself from doing. He was supposed to be the troublemaker; sometimes it was harder to endure than to fight back.

“I’ll see you again,” Highson went on. “If you ever need me, I can come at any time. I want to help you, Sal.”

His real father’s expression was intense. Sal shied away from it, and mumbled his thanks. He didn’t know what else to say.

Highson nodded. “He’s all yours,” he told the attendant, not looking at either of them. “Look after him.”

Then he was gone, walking back the way they had come through the winding streets of the Haunted City, lit from all sides by the liquid light of the full moon. The set of his shoulders was tense, but no more so than Sal’s, whose muscles from his neck right down his back felt as though they were made out of stressed stone.

“It’s late,” said the attendant. Sal nodded distractedly. The day had been wasted in just about every sense: he was no closer to finding Lodo, or a way off the island, and the option of staying was as unattractive as ever, with the Mierlos and the Syndic jockeying to take advantage of him, Tait wanting to use him to regain favour with the wardens, his real father trying too hard to be nice…

He was startled out of his thoughts when the attendant grabbed him by the left arm and whirled him around.

“What—?”

“I need your decision, Sayed Hrvati.”

Sal froze at the voice issuing from the attendant’s mouth. The shadows inside the hood seemed to swarm with malignant energies. Sal’s breath fogged in the cold issuing from it. His voice deserted him as he realised what it was talking to him.

The golem.

“How—Why are you here?”

“It’s the full moon, boy. Rules bend. I will return this one when I am done with him. As to why: I do what I must in order to hear your decision. Do you accept my terms or not?”

“I don’t know,” Sal said, wincing at the iron grip on his arm. Without the ward in his ear, he felt vulnerable, exposed. Yet the fact that the golem had taken a physical form—was more than the nebulous, hostile energy inhabiting the air all around him as it had been the last time—reassured him. There was a target, if he needed it. If he dared. “I still don’t know what your terms are,” he said.

“What’s to be unsure of? I have offered to help you in exchange for your help.”

“Yes, but how exactly will you help me? What do you want me to do? I can’t agree until I know what I’m agreeing to.”

The grip tightened. “I told you that I would give you the body of the old man you call Lodo.”

“Why not just tell us where he is so we can get him ourselves?”

“He is in darkness. His body is hidden. You will never find it. They will not let you. Only I can bring it to you.”

“How?”

“Do not concern yourself with my side of the deal.” Sal felt the golem draw in breath. He tried to pull away, but couldn’t. “Worry only about what you must do in return.”

The golem tugged him closer to the dark maw under the hood. Sal wasn’t sure, but he thought it might be smiling. “I want you to open the Golden Tower.”

Sal blinked, not knowing how to respond at first. He had been expecting far worse—for him to steal something, perhaps, or to hurt someone.

“Well?”

“I, uh—that is, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t be a fool, Sayed Hrvati. I was there when you read your mother’s letter. I know what you seek. Your friends have been searching for the Golden Tower all day. They will not find it. Only I can show you where it is. I can show you how to open it, too.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I walk the old places, the hidden places of this city. Nothing is secret to me.”

Sal didn’t believe the last part for a second, but was tempted to believe the rest. Bodiless, it could go anywhere at will, unhindered by locked doors or walls. It was in a far better situation to explore than Skender would ever be.

“I don’t understand,” he said, trying to think. “Why do you want us to do that? What’s in it for you?”

“Just that. I want you to open the Tower.”

“Why?”

“Because I cannot!” The golem hissed icy breath across his face. “Do I ask you why you want the old man?”

“But how do you know we can do it? What if we fail?”

“I will be there to guide you. Failure is not likely, not when you want success enough. I know you will want it very badly.” The golem wrenched Sal’s left arm upward so the sleeve fell back. The bracelet that had once bound him slid into view. “And I know that you are resourceful.”

“You’ve been spying on me?”

A hissing laugh issued from under the hood. “I spy on everyone. That’s how I know where Lodo and the Golden Tower are to be found. You can’t have it both ways.”

“I can have nothing to do with you.”

The laughter stopped, and Sal found himself released. He backed away, rubbing his wrist.

“That is true,” said the golem. “Let me go, and I will leave you in peace. You will never hear from me again. But in doing so you will lose this opportunity to gain both things you want. Lodo and the Tower. You cannot escape without them, and I can give them both to you. Only a coward would turn aside such an opportunity. Are you a coward, Sayed Hrvati?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. Which is it, then? Will I give you what you want, or will I leave you forever?”

Sal thought hard and fast. He was being offered Lodo in exchange for a favour that happened to be something he wanted too. Perhaps he could have it both ways. But what if it was a trick? What if the golem had something up its sleeve that it hadn’t told him?

Undoubtedly, he thought, that was the case. The golem was malignant. It would want to hurt them if it could, while they helped it to undertake its dark mischief. But in its non-physical form, it couldn’t touch them, and in a physical body it would be vulnerable to attack. Sal was confident he could stop it if it tried to put something over him.

And the thought occurred to him that maybe—just maybe—the golem was also trying to escape the Haunted City. If that was the case, then their goals were exactly the same. There would be no mischief. There would just be freedom.

The attendant hunched over and began to shiver, as though huddling against the cold.

“Time is running out,” came the muffled voice of the golem from under the hood.

Sal decided. There was just one way to find out if the golem was as good as its word. And if it wasn’t, it was hard to imagine how he could be worse off than he already was.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll do it.”

“Ahhhhh…” The golem’s sigh was a thin wind whistling between them. The attendant straightened, staggered back a step. One hand came up to touch the face beneath the hood.

“I’m sorry,” said the man in a more natural voice. “I don’t know what came over me. I—” He stopped and seemed to gather himself. The attendant straightened. “This way, Sal. It’s late, and the streets are dangerous in the full moon. You’ll be safe in your room.”

Sal let himself be led inside, even though he suspected that he wouldn’t be safe anywhere again. This day had shown him the worst he had to fear. What would come of it was another story entirely.

CHAPTER 7

A BAD ENDING

“He’s not there.”

“So where is he then?”

“I don’t know.” There wasn’t much else Skender could say as he lowered himself carefully through the hole in Shilly’s ceiling and dropped to the floor. He was becoming heartily sick of the crawlspace, and beginning to wish he’d never gone up there in the first place.

But that was a stupid thought. The crawlspace was his gateway to the unknown. It might be dusty, dark and even dangerous in places, but it was better than being cooped up in his room all night long, as Shilly was. If she’d only stop worrying about Sal, he planned to sneak out and take in the full moon flying high over the Haunted City. If he missed that, he would wonder forever what it looked like.

She was sitting on her bed wearing the bottom half of her Novitiate uniform and the top of her pyjamas. Her bad leg was stretched out in front of her, bent slightly. She worried absently at a fingernail like a dog chewing a bone.

Sal hadn’t come to breakfast. He had missed both the morning lecture and the afternoon tutorial, prompting annoyed remarks from their lecturer and irritation from Fairney. He had then failed to appear in his room when the day came to an end. None of the attendants would tell them where he was, saying it was none of their business, and Fairney simply hadn’t known. Skender could understand why Shilly was puzzled, but he couldn’t remember seeing her so worried before.

“He must have gone,” she said with wooden finality. “He’s run away. He has escaped.”

“He can’t have,” Skender said, sitting next to her.

“Why not? What if your charm worked and the bracelet came right off? He’d be free to go, then.” Shilly looked at him as though hoping he would disagree.

He obliged. “Sure, but that doesn’t mean he would. And we would’ve heard something, even if he had decided to leave without us. Which I’m sure he wouldn’t.

She rubbed her leg. “He tried to leave me behind once before,” she said.

“On the way to the Nine Stars, when he summoned the storm?”

“No. This was earlier. In Yor, before we reached the Broken Lands. He thought it would be better for me if I stayed behind while he went on.”

“So? That was weeks ago.”

“What if he thinks the same thing now—if he really believes I want to stay here to learn? He might leave me so I wouldn’t get into trouble. But I don’t want to stay here. I just want to find Lodo and go home!”

“Hey, take it easy. Sal wouldn’t do that now. You know he wouldn’t.” Skender put all the certainty he could into his voice, hoping it was warranted. “He wouldn’t leave us here on our own.”

It seemed to work. “No,” she said, glancing away, “he wouldn’t.”

Her expression was strange. “What’s up, Shilly? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

She wouldn’t meet his eye. “No.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I am not!” She pushed him hard enough to knock him off the bed. He went over in a tangle of arms and legs and hit the floor with a thump.

“Hey!”

“Wait.” She helped him back up, looking less chastened, more as though she’d had an idea. “I’ve thought of a way to find him.”

“How?”

“Mawson will know.”

“Why is that?”

“Because Mawson knew what was going on when Sal called the storm. He knew that Sal was trying to lead Behenna into a trap.”

“That doesn’t mean he’ll know now. Or that he’ll help us if he does—”

“He’s our only chance, Skender. We have to ask him.”

She was clutching his arm and her eyes were pleading. He collapsed flat on the bed in mock exhaustion.

“You want me to go back up there again—”

“Yes.”

“—crawl to where Mawson is kept, and crawl all the way back? Possibly for no reason at all?”

“Please, Skender. I’m sorry to make you do it. I’d do it myself only I don’t know where Radi Mierlo’s room is, and my leg—”

“All right, all right.” He brushed aside her protestations; that they were genuine didn’t make him feel any better about it. “Just let me get my breath back.” Clutching for a distraction, his eyes fell on a sketch she had put on her bedside table. “Who’s that?”

“None of your business,” she said, tugging the picture out of sight. “Skender, could you go now? I’m seriously concerned that Sal’s in trouble. What if he’s lost somewhere, or hurt? Or the Syndic has kidnapped him? I won’t be able to think about anything else until I know he’s safe.”

Skender groaned loudly. If there was one thing he hated, it was emotional blackmail. He, too, was worried about Sal, but he didn’t like being made to feel guilty for not jumping at her command.

“What’s up, Shilly?” he asked. “It’s not like you to be so soft. You’re the tough one of us three. Sal said he’s never seen you cry. Not once. And you never ask for help.”

“Sal’s wrong.” Her face tightened. “You’ve seen me cry, in the Keep. And I’m asking you for help right now. Why do I have to be the strong one all the time? Maybe it’s your turn for once. Are you going to be tough with me, Skender? Are you going to tell me to shut up and turn my back while our friend’s in danger? Or are you going to stop your whining and do your best to help him?”

“Of course I’m going to help.” He sighed and sat up. “Okay. I’ll go ask Mawson now.” The muscles in his calves and back cursed him for giving in so easily as he shimmied up the cupboard and reached for the vent.

“Thanks, Skender,” she said without a trace of victory in her voice. “I owe you a big one.”

He looked back at her before raising himself up into darkness. The fingernail was back in her mouth. She looked very small, very different to the Shilly he had first met. Her short hair made her look younger than he knew she was, and she had lost weight on the trip. There were bags under her eyes.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said, and meant it.

Shilly collapsed onto the bed as the sound of Skender moving across the ceiling faded into silence. There was nothing to do now but wait. She hated it, being trapped in a cage while everything went to pieces around her. She was like some useless chattel dragged around from place to place as everyone else did the work. She was sick to death of it.

She tried to make herself useful as best she could. The afternoon’s tutorial group had been held in the library. While Fairney thought she and Skender were dutifully looking for the information he had sent them to research, they were instead scouring every available tome for information on the Golden Tower. Sal’s mother hadn’t come right out and said in her note that it would help them get out of the Haunted City, but why would she when the letter was being kept for Sal by the man who had robbed her of her own freedom? If Highson Sparre ever learned that the way to salvation lay in the Golden Tower, he would do his utmost to keep Sal away from it.

Shilly wasn’t convinced that finding the Tower would solve everything. It wouldn’t necessarily help them find Lodo, for instance, and the warning to beware was still vivid in her mind. But she found herself caught up in the mystery, in the thrill of the hunt. Through dozens of dusty old books she pored for any hint of the mysterious tower. Skender took one section, and she took another. They crossed paths every now and again to compare leads, or to show off strange new details they uncovered, but all they got in the end was trouble for not doing the work Fairney had given them. Kemp made certain that their inattention was discovered, and Fairney scowled at them, genuinely disappointed by their delinquency. Shilly had felt some remorse, although she knew he would be worse than disappointed if he knew the truth. And he was only half as disappointed as Skender was: she suspected Skender had honestly believed that with just one afternoon’s effort they would unravel the mystery that had puzzled Sky Wardens and their novices for generations. Finding the charm for Sal had given him a false sense of confidence.

The image of presenting Sal with the secret of the Golden Tower when he finally turned up had been a pleasing one, Shilly had to admit. All they had to do was stumble across something: a clue, a map, a picture. A single mention would have been good. She wasn’t unduly crushed by their failure, though. She was realistic enough to know what they were up against. And she remembered something that she suspected Skender had quite forgotten.

The secret message from Sal’s mother said The Golden Tower, but that wasn’t all. There was another part, one that had struck her as odd at the time but which neither of the boys had mentioned since.

The message also said, Ask the ghosts.

It wasn’t in any way clear how they were supposed to do that. One couldn’t simply walk into one of the glass towers, pick a ghost and ask it. There were no doors or windows into the towers, and the ghosts had shown no sign of being remotely aware of the people outside.

Except once.

She pulled the sketch she had drawn from under the covers where she had hidden it after Skender had shown interest in it. The likeness was good. She felt that she had captured the high cheekbones and eyes well, from memory, although she was a little unsure about the mouth and hairline. There was a gauntness to the visage that matched the original perfectly, and that was something to be proud of. She had economically defined the essence of the ghost she had seen through glass that first morning in the Haunted City. It was very clear in her mind.

Fine, she thought scornfully to herself. So I’ve got a picture. Now what? Asking it is not going to do any good.

She screwed the picture into a ball and threw it across the room. The paper bounced off the glowing mirror and rolled to a halt by the wardrobe. Maybe if she had some sort of talent, she might have used a charm to link her thoughts with those of the ghost—if it had thoughts. But she didn’t have any talent. All she could do was lie uselessly on her bed and draw. That was never going to help her and Sal escape.

The thought of Sal brought a new brand of gloom to the evening. All day she had been questioning her motives for kissing him. Yes, she had been hoping to distract him from the pain of the tattoo…but why that way? What had possessed her?

Part of her understood perfectly well why she had done it, and it was that part of her that worried her the most. She’d had, briefly, a crush on Tait because of his ordinariness. In the end, he had helped betray her, but the shine had already begun to wear off him by then. Tait was too ordinary. He reminded her of everything she had left behind in Fundelry—and most of it she had been happy to leave behind, eventually.

Sal was almost the exact opposite of Tait. He was the exotic stranger who challenged everything she took for granted. He was constantly surprising her, and pushing her in directions she’d never imagined she could go. She learned more from him in two months than she had from ten years of School with Mrs Milka.

And now he was gone. The absence of him was a hole deep inside her chest where normally resided a strange certainty of his presence: a shared sensation of nearness, of belonging, that had puzzled both of them in Fundelry, but to which they had become quietly accustomed. The lack of it nagged at her like the mending cracks in her leg. It ate into her confidence, into her sense of things. What if he had already escaped? Without her. Why was she busting her gut to help him when he cared so little for her in return?

She balled her fists into her eyes, feeling like she was going in circles and wishing she could switch off her mind. One fist contained the ward he had left behind the previous night. She had been carrying it all day, waiting for him to appear so she could give it to him. She hoped it wasn’t going to be all she had left to remind her of him—and that he didn’t need it, wherever he was—

Enough! she cried silently. There’s nothing I can do, but that’s no reason to torture myself.

A faint rustling sound drew her attention from her misery. She uncovered her eyes and looked up, expecting to see Skender’s feet descending from the hole. But there was nothing there. And the light in the room was different—bluer, brighter, colder.

She looked down—and drew the covers around her when she saw what was staring out of the mirror.

“Yes,” said a soft, sibilant voice. The lips of the face in the mirror moved in time to the syllable. It was the ghost, standing behind glass and peering at her as though through a thin mist. Its features were exactly as she had remembered them. “A unique combination: moon and glass and image. Resourceful. Well done.”

“Who—” Shilly’s voice failed her for a second. “What are you?”

“I am one of the unliving. You brought me here, or partly here, anyway. This isn’t a full summoning. I can come to you like this, tonight, because of the full moon. We see in you the ability to go much further than this.” The headless face smiled. “You are a very special young woman. I knew you would be. What are you called?”

“Shilly.” She glanced at where the balled-up sketch had come to a halt on the floor. The paper had flattened itself out and was blank. Somehow, the face she had drawn had disappeared—and reappeared on the other side of the mirror. “I didn’t mean to do anything.”

“Don’t look so worried. You haven’t done anything wrong. Quite the contrary. This is something to be proud of. Many people have attempted to speak to us and failed. The requirements are quite strict.”

“What—” She stopped, about to repeat her first question. Instead she asked, “What do you mean by ‘unliving’?”

“Just that. I am not alive. I am not dead, either. I have never been born, and I will not die. I am…something else.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’m not sure I do myself.” The face smiled again. “Can you explain what you are, what your ‘life’ is? There are fundamental properties of this world that evade definition. I suspect that this is one of them. Sometimes we must accept that two things are simply different and move on.”

Shilly stared at the face in the mirror, far from certain that she agreed. All things could be explained, surely. She wasn’t the sort to give up just because something was difficult. Whatever “unliving” meant, she wasn’t getting the same impression she had received from the golem in the Broken Lands city. There was no cold, no taint of evil. There was an emptiness to its eyes that unnerved her slightly—and the appearance of a young man felt entirely wrong in the context of the voice issuing from it.

“You must have called me for a reason,” the ghost prompted.

“Yes,” she said, glossing over the fact that she had called it by accident. “What can you tell me about the Golden Tower?”

“Ah,” the ghost nodded slowly, “I am here for a reason. Good. I like a sense of purpose. And what could be more noble than opening the Golden Tower?”

The question was clearly a rhetorical one. Shilly waited impatiently for the answer.

It came in the form of another question. “Do you know the secret of the cities?”

“I thought there wasn’t one,” she said.

“How do you know?”

“A golem told us, and golems can’t lie.”

“A golem, eh? I see.” The face in the glass rolled its eyes. “Golems can’t lie, but that doesn’t mean they’re honest. There are ways to deceive using only the truth, and golems mastered the techniques millennia ago. The secret of the Towers is technically not a secret because someone did find out about it, once. It may never have been common knowledge, and it may have been forgotten since, but that’s enough to make the golem’s statement true. Technically it wasn’t lying, even though it didn’t tell you the truth. Remember this next time you talk to the creature.”

She nodded. “So there is a secret?”

“Yes, and that secret is the Golden Tower.” The ghost adopted a slight frown, as though aware it was going in circles and looking for a better way to put it. “The Golden Tower is the heart of the city, its core, its foundation, its cornerstone. Without it, everything would unravel.”

“How?”

“It is difficult to explain. The nature of the Tower is inextricably bound up in the Change, and the Change itself is a mystery. We understand how it works, and what it does, but why is an eternal question. It is the beginning of a road that has no end. Like life, for some.”

“So where is it, then? The Tower, I mean. No one here seems to know. If it was like the other towers, but gold, you’d think it would stand out.”

“Indeed, so therefore it’s not a tower like the others. You would have seen it if it was, all the times you’ve been in the city.”

She frowned. “We haven’t been here before.”

“You have. You just didn’t know it.”

“When? I’m completely lost now.”

The ghost tilted its head apologetically. “I’m sorry. This isn’t easy for either of us.”

“Obviously. But you’ll have to try harder. There’s not much I can do at my end.”

The ghost did try harder, or seemed to. “You see the world in ways we do not. We live in the city, and experience only the city. You see as separate that which we see as joined. The Golden Tower is the thing that binds everything together. It brings the ‘far away’ to the ‘near’ and vice versa. It is a means of crossing between.”

“A means of crossing between…” she repeated, comprehension slowly dawning. “Are you saying that the Golden Tower is a Way?”

“You might call it that.”

“Of course!” Now she understood. The Golden Tower, wherever it was, held an entrance to one of the space-folding Ways the Stone Mages used to cross great distances underground. Lodo had used one to connect a hole in the side of a sand dune to his workshop a hundred odd kilometres from Fundelry. Similarly, the road from Ulum to the Keep travelled only a dozen or so kilometres but ended up many times that north of the city. Shilly didn’t know anything about the way they worked, but she knew what they could do.

If there was a Way in the Golden Tower, it could be an escape route. And that had to be why Sal’s mother had encouraged them to find it. In hindsight, it was so simple.

She leaned forward, her worry about Sal pushed out of her mind by the excitement of discovery.

“If there’s a Way, it must lead somewhere. Tell me where, and how to find it. I need to know!”

“The Golden Tower isn’t easy to find. I’m not sure I can help you there. And as to where it leads, we are back where we were earlier. I cannot answer that question in a way you will understand. There will be others who can help you, I’m sure.”

“Like who?”

“Your inquisitive mind will find a way.” The ghost beamed as though it had provided a perfectly satisfactory response.

Shilly disagreed. The ghost was right: she was exactly where she’d started. She didn’t know where the Golden Tower was or how to find it. All she had learned was that it contained the entrance to a Way that might lead out of the Haunted City. The possibility was exciting, but at the moment far from likely to become anything more than that.

“Sal’s mother told us to ask you about the tower,” she said. “Why would she do that if you can’t tell me anything?”

The ghost bristled at that. “I have told you something. It’s you who fails to understand. I can’t do everything for you, you know.”

“Well, can you tell me about the Weavers, then? Where do they fit into this?”

The bristle became a snarl. There was a flash of light so bright that Shilly was momentarily blinded, and a noise that sounded like lightning.

The ghost’s voice said, right in her ear, “Find your heart-name, necromancer. Only then will I have an answer for you.”

Then the light was gone, extinguished as suddenly as though a blind had been drawn. Shilly reeled back on the bed, blinded by bright red after-images. She flung out one hand to steady herself, and gasped as something seared her palm. Hissing, she brought the burnt hand to her mouth, and blinked to clear her vision.

As her eyes readjusted, she saw that the mirror was back to normal, casting a cool, silver light over her room as though it had never done otherwise. The ball of paper still lay flat on the floor, but it was charred and crumbled into ash as she stared at it. Her sheets were also burned on the bed beside her, where she had flung out her hand. In the centre of the burnt patch lay Sal’s ward, glinting innocently.

She stared at it for a long moment. The best explanation that she could devise was that the ghost had attacked her and been deflected by the ward, which she had still been holding at that point. The ward had radiated some of the excess energy of the attack as heat, burning her and the sheet in the process. But why would the ghost attack her? Simply mentioning the Weavers didn’t seem so bad. But what else had she said? What else could she have done wrong? Had it been warning her from the topic?

The ghost’s parting words were burned in her mind as surely as the mark of the ward on her palm. Sal and Skender both had heart-names. She had thought it was just an Interior or borderland custom, no more significant than that. It had to be if the ghost was making it a condition of her return. And…

Necromancer?

The only other person she had heard called that was Lodo, and he had been driven in disgrace from the Haunted City for it. Even though the charges had been trumped up, judgment had been swift and severe. Was that what she wanted to become?

Shilly wrapped her arms around her legs and tried to quell a rising sensation that, somewhere, something terrible was happening.

Crunch.

The skeleton of another dead mouse turned to dust under Skender’s knee. He didn’t break rhythm, concentrating solely on keeping quiet and moving quickly. Occasionally, pillars of light shone up into the crawlspace from the rooms below; sometimes he heard voices. He wasn’t tempted to stop and see what was going on. All he wanted to do was find Mawson and get back to Shilly as quickly as he could.

There was something in the air, something strange that hadn’t been there before. He had an odd feeling that he was underwater, as in one of Fairney’s illusions. Liquid currents seemed to swirl and tug around him, making his skin crawl. But the dust, inches high against some rafters, undisturbed for generations, didn’t stir. It reminded him of the night the Synod had met in the Nine Stars, one month ago, when the moon had last been full. He had assumed that the feeling was the side effect of a charm laid over the Judges’ deliberations, slowing time and concealing their debate from those outside. He wondered now if he was wrong. Perhaps the full moon was responsible. Or the full moon—and the city. Perhaps he wasn’t so keen on seeing them in conjunction, now…

He told himself to get a grip. He was just tired and annoyed that he was running chores instead of sightseeing. Sal hadn’t escaped. He was as certain of that as he was of his name. There was a perfectly sensible explanation for his absence, even if they couldn’t see it at the moment. If talking to Mawson was the only way to reassure Shilly, he would do it. And then he would go back to bed.

When he arrived at Radi Mierlo’s room, he inched slowly to the vent and peered inside. The mirror was aglow, but the room appeared to be empty. The man’kin called Mawson, a bust of a long-faced man with a proud, high forehead, was resting in the centre of a table against one wall. It looked as dead as stone.

Skender hissed through the vent. “Mawson! Can you hear me?”

“I hear you.” The bust’s mouth moved, but the reply came directly into his head, not via his ears. Mawson moved in a series of discrete steps, as though propelled by ratcheted wheels inside. It was never possible to see him move from position to position, though; each jump was instantaneous. Skender had no idea how he or other man’kin did it.

“Do you know where Sal is?”

The stone head twisted to look up at him. Mawson’s eyes were the same colour as the rest of him; whether they actually saw anything or not was another open question.

“I know.”

“Will you tell me, Mawson?”

“Why?”

“Shilly’s worried about him. She’s afraid he’s done a runner.”

“He has not. He is in his room.”

“He can’t be. I was just there.”

“You came to me from his room?”

“Well, no. I came via Shilly. Are you telling me I missed him?”

“I’m telling you that Sal is in his room,” the stone head intoned.

Skender studied the man’kin’s expression as best as he could through the grille. “Is that the truth, Mawson?”

“It is the truth as I see it. The stones feel his presence. Perhaps he returned a short time ago, as you would say it. On that score, I am uncertain.”

“Where has he been all day? Can you tell me that?”

“Your conception of the past is foreign to me. I am cogent only with the present.”

Skender could accept this, although he wished it were otherwise. The man’kin had incredible powers of perception thanks to his links with the rocks and earth around him, but he didn’t really understand how humans thought. He knew the words, but the meanings were different for him. Communicating with him was like trying to conduct a conversation about the weather with someone who had never left their house.

Skender was free to go back to Shilly, now that he had an answer, but he was exhausted from his third long crawl in an hour and wanted to rest. And there were so many questions to which they still needed answers. He didn’t know when any of them would next have a chance to talk to the man’kin alone.

“Mawson, where is the Golden Tower?”

“The flaw runs deep.”

“The floor?” he repeated, not understanding. “Which floor?”

“That which you call the Golden Tower. It is buried.”

“Here? Under us?”

“Yes. It makes the bedrock ache for release. The tension…” Uncharacteristically, the bust sought for words. “…increases.”

“How do we find it?”

“I don’t know. Dig?”

Sometimes Skender wondered if the man’kin was poking fun at their lack of knowledge. He certainly had a sense of humour, usually exercised, it seemed, when he had run out of answers. This was perhaps one such occasion. Mawson certainly wasn’t making much sense—although the possibility that the tower was underground might explain why they’d had no luck finding it.

“Do you know who I mean when I mention Lodo?” he asked next, knowing that Shilly would forgive him for being late if he brought back information on her old teacher, but knowing also that for Mawson to understand who a person was, he had to have been near them at some point. Mawson had never met Lodo, to Skender’s knowledge, but that didn’t mean that they wouldn’t meet one day. Since the man’kin’s timesense worked both ways—future to past as well as past to future—a positive answer would mean that Mawson did meet Lodo in times ahead, indicating that Shilly might be successful in freeing her teacher.

The man’kin answered, unhesitatingly, “Yes.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“He is nearby.”

“His body or…him?”

“I do not differentiate. The stones see only flesh.”

Skender nodded. That was reasonable. “How near?”

“One hundred and seventy of my body-lengths in the direction you are currently facing.”

Skender estimated the man’kin’s height to be a little more than a metre. Say two hundred metres away. That covered a large amount of ground, but was a much smaller area than the entire city. That was encouraging.

“Where is he being held?”

“He is not being held.”

“He must be. He’s a prisoner here, or at the very best in hospital.”

“He is neither. He is walking freely.”

That Skender didn’t understand at all. This time, though, he resolved not to get bogged down in details. He had enough to convince Shilly that he hadn’t been wasting his time.

There was just one more question he wanted to ask.

“What about the Weavers? Is Shom Behenna really working for them?”

“You know that he thinks so. You overheard him talking about it.”

“Yes, we both did. But is he? And does he know who they are?”

“I don’t know what he knows. I only know what I know.”

“And what is that, Mawson? Do you know who the Weavers are?”

Another pause, this one considerably more protracted. When the man’kin spoke, his voice was more grating even than usual.

“Human lives are like threads to those who live only partly in what you call ‘time’. The threads vibrate when their ends are fixed. They curl like whips when one or both ends fly free. They snap taut when pressured to do so, and can even break completely if pushed too far. This property, this malleability, is what the Weavers exploit.”

Skender struggled to visualise what the man’kin was saying. He could see that life might be like a thread, with birth and death at either end, but he couldn’t see how the path a life took could change from what it was supposed to be.

“I don’t get it.”

“Life forms tapestries and knots; patterns abound in all shapes and sizes. Some lives intertwine for a while, like you and your friends, then separate to form new patterns with others. You believe that the shape of your life and its place in the tapestry is yours to ordain. Perhaps that is true for some. For others it is not true. Unknown, unseen, the Weavers fashion the tapestry into the shape they desire.”

“But how is that possible?”

“Their methods are many and complex.”

“Then why? What do they get out of all this?”

“Aesthetics.”

“That’s all?” Skender was increasingly sure that Mawson was having a lend of him. Cosmic clothmakers didn’t sound all that scary. “You said that the Weavers are not to be taken lightly.” He quoted the man’kin’s words to him, the memory of when he had heard them crystal-clear in his mind. “Why not?”

“Like real weavers,” the man’kin said, “when a thread or threads have served their purpose, sometimes they must be cut short.”

The word struck Skender with the force of a light slap. “Cut short? You mean they—?”

“Be quiet.”

Skender swallowed the words as the door to the room below clunked and swung open. He pulled back from the grille to avoid any chance of being seen. Mawson adopted his usual impassive pose.

Skender could see the top of Radi Mierlo’s head as she entered the room and shut the door behind her. With a sigh, she tugged her hair loose and put something on the bed.

Afraid that she might be about to undress, Skender inched backwards and began to turn around.

“Stay,” said Mawson soundlessly into his mind.

He froze, torn between the man’kin’s command and commonsense. Shilly would be waiting for him, and he didn’t want to see this.

“You must see,” the man’kin insisted. “It will change the path of your life.”

Reluctantly, Skender returned to his bug’s-eye view from the vent. Sal’s grandmother wasn’t undressing. She was sitting on the bed, writing rapidly in a small notebook. Skender could just see her face, and its lines ran deeper than he had ever seen them to be. She looked anxious and tired, as though she had been under pressure for a long time: with no need to put on a face for others, she seemed suddenly older. Her shoulders were slumped. The silver light of the mirror cast heavy shadows on half her face.

She stopped writing and threw the book across the room.

“What’s the point, Mawson? Why do I bother?”

“Are you expecting me to answer?”

“Well, yes.” She glared at the proud-faced bust. “That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“I was not created to serve you, although I do so at this time,” the man’kin reproved her.

“Don’t you like working for me?”

“I have a higher purpose than this.”

“Oh, I see. A purpose is it?” Sal’s grandmother got up and began to pace about the room. “When Sahen and Jack dug you out of the dirt at Quorn, you were grateful enough to pledge yourself to our cause. Begging to, if I recall correctly. You’ve really changed your tune since then, but who am I to argue with that? I’d be happy to put you back in that smelly pit any time you want. Or perhaps a garden somewhere. Just say the word, and you’re a flagstone.”

“You wouldn’t. I am too valuable.”

“To whom? You’re not helping me much at the moment.”

The man’kin was silent. Skender didn’t blame him. The woman looked furious enough to take a sledgehammer to him if he said another word out of line. He wondered if that would hurt Mawson, and supposed it would, otherwise threats would have no effect.

Radi Mierlo suddenly deflated, as though punctured.

“I wish Sahen were here,” she said, her voice infinitely weary. “Or Jack. They’d know what to do.”

That was the second time she had mentioned someone called “Jack”. The explorer Jack Gourlay, perhaps? Skender bet it was. The Mierlo matriarch had stayed at the house of Manton Gourlay in Ulum, so there was obviously a connection to the family. And buried man’kin didn’t just turn up in everyday backyards.

“Tell me what to do, Mawson. I need your help.”

“In which particular matter?”

“Nu Zanshin, of course. Now she has Sal, she’s reneging on our deal. She thinks she can turn him around to her cause simply by giving him time. But I know the boy. He’s not going to give her time. He’ll let her believe she’s making progress, then he’ll bolt when she least expects it. That’s assuming he doesn’t find a way to escape before then. He’s tenacious and stubborn. He’s one of us, in other words.” She sat down on the bed. “He will never admit that, but it’s true. He’s his mother, and he’s me. His poor father doesn’t stand a chance.”

“Highson is wiser than you think.”

“He’s a fool. Still in love after all these years. Does that strike you as sensible? There’s no coming back from where Seirian went; he should have let her memory die long ago. If he had, he might’ve recovered. He might still be on track to become Alcaide. Instead, what is he? He’s nothing, Mawson, except a means of getting Sal. And he knows it.”

She was silent for a moment, staring off into space. “He took Sal to see the old bag today.”

“Emelda Sparre?”

“Who else? She clings to life like a loose tooth. What he thinks she can do where I am failing, I don’t know. The boy is like granite.” She sighed heavily. “So, do you have any advice, stone man, or are you just going to ask questions all night?”

“Answers are binding,” the man’kin said. “It is hard to be certain when things are in flux.”

“But you must know something, surely. You see everything. What do you see right now?”

“I see that it makes no difference what you do. The end is the same.”

She frowned. “Well, that’s something. What sort of end is it, though? Who wins?”

“It isn’t that simple, Radi Mierlo.”

“Of course it is. Life is never a draw. Someone always comes out on top. Telling the losers apart is what’s difficult.” She half-smiled at the man’kin, as though enjoying the banter—or perhaps thinking that she was near to a definitive answer. “Tell me, Mawson. Who comes out on top?”

“From whose perspective?”

“From mine, of course. I don’t care about anyone else.”

“For you, it’s just the end.”

Sal’s grandmother opened her mouth to rebuke the man’kin, but the door burst in at precisely that moment, admitting a wild-haired man dressed in muddy brown robes. Radi Mierlo barely had time to turn her head before he was on her, pushing her back onto the bed and locking his hands around her throat. She struggled, flailing her arms and legs, kicking and pounding wherever she could reach him, arching her back and trying to push herself off the bed. But the man was too strong. He pushed down on her with unbending strength, oblivious to her resistance even when she grabbed handfuls of his hair and tore them out.

Apart from the soft smacks of flesh against flesh and the occasional shifting of the legs of the bed, the strangulation took place in absolute silence.

Skender watched in horror, terrified but unable to tear his eyes away. He wanted to call out—for help, or for the attacker to stop—but his throat had closed tight. He felt as though he too was choking. It was like he was caught in a nightmare, frozen as terrible things happened that he was unable to prevent.

It seemed to take an eternity, yet was over in a flash. The hammering and scratching gave way to purposeless convulsions. Radi Mierlo’s attacker maintained the pressure for a full minute after the convulsions had faded away.

Then the killer let go and stepped back to admire his handiwork. Radi Mierlo lay spreadeagled on the bed, her clothes and the sheets beneath her in violent disarray. Her bulging eyes were red, and there was a bloody foam on her mouth and lips. The crimson stain stood out in bright contrast to the unnatural blueness of her skin, especially around her mouth. Skender could see the dead woman’s tongue protruding from between her lips. There were vivid marks around her neck, where her killer had crushed her throat shut.

It didn’t seem real. It couldn’t be real, he told himself. Death was for old people, or sick people, or people prone to accidents. It didn’t happen to people for no reason at all—or even out of malice. Treacherous and grasping Radi Mierlo might have been, but she didn’t deserve to die like that. No one did.

She was dead all the same. And Skender had watched it happen. He hadn’t helped her; he hadn’t raised the alarm. He had just stared, dumbfounded, and now there was nothing at all he could do about it.

The urge to vomit almost overwhelmed him. The shock was fading, and his muscles began to tremble. He was filled with an urge to run and hide, to get away from the terrible reality: that there were killers and victims, and that the world was a dangerous place.

The man in the room below suddenly looked up into the vent. Skender found himself staring directly into the eyes of Radi Mierlo’s murderer, wondering in a panic what had given him away. The man’s face was cast in half-shadow by the angle of the light. Weathered and time-weary, it was contorted in a mask of loathing and adorned with numerous tattoos: tight-wound spirals on his temples; circles on either side of his proud nose, like an extra set of eyes; an up-pointed triangle on his chin.

But the eyes were the worst. Skender saw more than shadow in them. The light would never touch them, no matter how bright.

A blast of cold reached up for him, turning the tears on his cheeks to ice.

“You can’t escape me, Galeus Van Haasteren,” said the killer in a voice that was both far away and horribly close at the same time. He reached up as though to take the boy behind the vent by the throat.

Skender needed no further encouragement. At the sound of his heart-name, he had already turned and fled.

Part Two:

Falling

CHAPTER 8

IN THE FACE OF THE VOID

The storm was near, and growing nearer by the hour.

The stones felt it as a rumbling in the earth, like the combined footfalls of a mighty army trampling the soil flat far above. This army came and conquered without care or thought for those who lived in its path. It conquered, and then it relinquished the gains it had made. No barbarian horde had ever thundered so single-mindedly across the plain. No barbarian horde had ever been so unstoppable.

But where an army might bring only death, the storm brought life as well. The wind carried seeds for many kilometres; the rain brought clean, vigorous water to parched lands; lightning created fires that kick-started cycles of regeneration and renewal. In its wake, the storm left a trail of devastation and destruction, and flowers, too. Like a wildfire—and indeed the sound it made was the same as a wildfire, from deep underground—it killed in order to bring life.

That was small consolation, though, for anything other than a seed. Nowhere was the natural order made clearer than at the vanguard of such a storm, watching the avalanche of looming cloud engulf the sky, taking light and all hope with it. And no one knew that more clearly than the one who had brought it into being, and who could not now turn it back.

Only the stones did not fear its coming.

Sal woke to a pounding at his door. For a moment, he was completely disoriented, caught in a re-run of that morning. He had been trying to find his tattoo when the attendant had come for him. Was he still caught in that moment…?

No. The room was dark, and he was in bed. His head was thick and heavy, as though he had only just fallen asleep. He had been dreaming. Something about a storm again? And stone?

Heavy tendrils of sleep clutched at him, tried to pull him back down into unconsciousness.

The door crashed open. “Sal, get up,” said the looming, hooded figure of an attendant.

“What? Why?”

“Something has happened. You must move quickly.”

He forced himself to obey. It was the nice attendant, the woman, but there was an edge to her voice that he hadn’t heard before. If she said he had to move quickly, then that was what he had to do.

He had barely tugged on the previous day’s clothes when he was hauled out into the hallway and frogmarched into the depths of the Novitiate buildings. His escort consisted of no less than six attendants, all stepping in time. He felt like a prisoner being led off to a hearing. This, combined with his sudden awakening, contributed to a growing sense of unease.

“What time is it?” he asked.

“Almost midnight.”

Sal nodded. He hadn’t been in bed long, then. “Will you tell me what happened?”

“It’s not our place.” The attendant hesitated, then she added, “I’m sorry, Sal.”

He almost asked, “What for?”, but knew he wouldn’t receive an answer. He would just have to bide his time until he met someone who could tell him.

Luckily, he didn’t have to wait long. The attendants took him down the long corridor that led to the room in which they had first met Master Warden Atilde. The high-ceilinged chamber was as gloomy as he remembered it, as was the Master Warden herself. Her translucent features peered out at him from beneath her wide-brimmed hat as though she was in danger of becoming a shadow herself.

There were other people in the room besides her. Shilly and Skender sat on the same stools they had occupied last time. Skender didn’t look up when he entered, but Sal could tell that he was deeply upset. Shilly stared at him with wordless appeal, as though she was desperately trying to tell him something. Standing behind them, dressed in a robe coloured such a deep blue that it was almost black, her grey hair unadorned and her expression grim, was the Syndic, Nu Zanshin.

“Sit down, Sal,” she said, moving around the chairs to take his arm.

He pulled away, made more concerned than ever by the expression on her face. Everyone was looking at him as though he would fly into pieces at any moment.

“I’m not doing anything until someone tells me what’s going on.”

“You’ll be told in due course,” his great-aunt began to say in an effort to mollify him.

“Now,” he said, glaring at her.

“Your grandmother,” said the Master Warden, “is dead.”

The Syndic shot Atilde a sharp look and opened her mouth as though to issue a reprimand, but just as quickly backed down. With a sigh, she turned and went back to stand behind Shilly and Skender.

“She’s what?” asked Sal, staring from one face to the other. “Dead?”

Shilly nodded, and he could tell from her eyes that there was more to come.

The Syndic provided it. “It’s true, Sal. Radi Mierlo was found strangled an hour ago. The alarm was raised by Shilly, who was told about the murder by the man’kin your grandmother kept in her room. It saw everything, and also informed Skender. Mawson didn’t see fit to tell anybody else. Did you know?”

Sal shook his head. He was still getting his head around the notion that his grandmother was dead. Strangled? It didn’t seem possible. “I was asleep,” he said, wondering if he was still asleep. The news had the air of a nightmare. “I would have woken up if Mawson had called me. I’m sure of it. I wouldn’t sleep through something like that, no matter how tired I was.

“And how did—?” He stopped. The question was stupid; he knew how someone was strangled, although it was hard to imagine it happening to someone he knew. Hard to imagine it happening to his grandmother, whom he had defied from the first moment they met. She didn’t deserve to die like that. Murdered, alone…

“Who did it?” he asked instead.

The question dropped into the room like a heavy stone. The Syndic and Atilde exchanged a nervous glance. Shilly and Skender swapped roles: she looked away, biting her lip, while his hot, swollen gaze met Sal’s in something like defiance.

“We have evidence,” said Nu Zanshin, “suggesting that the necromancer Payat Misseri is responsible.”

“Lodo?” Sal couldn’t have been more surprised if told that his late father had done it.

“Or something inhabiting his body,” said Atilde.

Ice flooded through him. “Like what?” he heard himself say, weakly.

“We don’t know.”

“I’ve yet to hear a convincing possibility,” said the Syndic. Clearly they disagreed on that part. “All we know is that Payat left his bed in the Privity some time after sunset, overpowering two orderlies who tried to stop him. They are in no doubt that it was he. The murder itself was witnessed by the man’kin Mawson. The description it gives matches the man you call Lodo.”

“Payat has been empty-minded for two months,” said Atilde. “Why would he suddenly awake, escape from his room, and kill someone on the other side of the city? Indeed, how could he do this? His physical condition was poor. Under normal circumstances, he would barely have been able to lift his head.”

“You have a better explanation, then?” snapped the Syndic.

“No, but that shouldn’t stop us looking.”

Sal didn’t need to look any harder at the mystery. It was the golem. It had to be. The golem had promised to bring Lodo out of where he was being hidden, and it had certainly done that. It had neglected to mention that it would make him a murderer in the process.

He felt sick to the stomach. So much for his confidence that he could stop the golem if it tried to put one over him. It had been one step ahead of him before they’d even begun.

“What’s this Privity you keep mentioning?” asked Shilly. “Is it a prison? A hospital?”

Atilde turned to face her, and her expression softened. “More the latter. It’s a place where those who have lost their selves can rest. It’s usually a quiet place. No one moves; no one talks. Occasionally something disturbs the peace, taking residence in one of the bodies and causing a ruckus, but there are charms in place to make such events unlikely.”

“Exactly,” said the Syndic.

“Unlikely, not impossible,” Atilde asserted. “It has happened before that something particularly strong and particularly bent on mischief has broken through the barriers.”

“You said Lodo’s condition was poor,” Shilly persisted. Sal could see her chin trembling, as though she was on the brink of tears.

“Yes,” said Atilde, turning back to her, “Payat was losing strength. I don’t think he would have lasted much longer.” She spoke sadly, as though personally grieving.

“You knew him?” Shilly asked.

“We studied together, long ago—before he went to the Keep. And we renewed our acquaintance when he returned here.” Sal wondered if the liquid glassiness of the Master Warden’s eyes was solely a symptom of her disease. “I visited him in the Privity several times. He was—is dying.” She turned her attention back to the Syndic. “He could not have committed this crime. Not in his right mind. He did not have the capacity.”

“The man destroyed himself in order to summon an earthquake,” said Sal’s great-aunt frostily. “You do not know what he was capable of.”

Atilde looked away. “We’ll know for sure,” she said, “when he is found.”

Sal stared from one to the other. “You don’t know where he is?”

“No,” snapped the Syndic, “but we soon will. All routes to and from the city—our city—have been closed. He can’t hide for long.”

Sal’s legs felt weak. There was no way to get out of it now. Who else would the golem kill if Sal didn’t keep his promise?

Master Warden Atilde must have noticed his distress. “Here,” she said, “sit.”

Sal felt her hand on his arm, and he turned to look at her face. From close quarters, it really was translucent, like smoky glass. He could see her jawbone faintly through the skin and muscle.

He looked away, embarrassed and a little alarmed. The glimpse reminded him of the time he, Skender and Shilly had woken the light-sink that Lodo had given him. Its powerful glare had seemed—briefly, and to his eyes alone—to strip his friends back to their skeletons. He had brought the experiment to a halt, fearing what else the light might do.

At the insistence of Atilde’s hand, he sat in a chair next to Shilly.

“Are you okay?” Shilly asked.

“I don’t know what I am,” he said, feeling as though he was thinking through a dense fog. “What about you?”

She shook her head. He didn’t know if that meant she didn’t know, if it was too bad to put into words, or if she simply wasn’t able to talk just then.

Skender, on the far side of Shilly, had withdrawn into himself again. The boy sat, staring feverishly at the ground, worrying at his lip. He hadn’t said a word since Sal had arrived. Sal had no idea what was wrong with him. He seemed more shocked than Sal felt, and the victim had been Sal’s own grandmother. He may not have liked her, and hadn’t even known she existed until two months ago, but she was still his mother’s mother. Or had been. Now all he had left on that side of the family was his uncle and aunt and his cousins. He wondered what would happen now that the woman holding them all together was gone.

Don’t ever think that I don’t admire you, Sal, she had said.

He wondered what might happen to him next.

A Sky Warden robed in blue entered the room and whispered in the Syndic’s ear. She nodded, and the warden strode back out.

“The rest of the family are here,” she said. “I’ll give them the news. The Goddess knows how they’ll take it, beyond bitching about security. There’s no way an old maniac should have been able to escape and harm anyone in the Novitiate chambers. That’s what they’re going to say, and I agree with them, but I’m hardly going to admit it.” The Syndic sighed heavily. “These are dangerous times,” she said, looking at Sal but addressing all of them. “You will appreciate this better now, I hope. It is in your interest to let us help you. We’ll discuss how best to do that later.”

She swept out of the room with two attendants in tow before anyone could contradict her.

Sal exchanged a dark look with Shilly. He was in no doubt that his great-aunt would use the incident to clamp down on them even more than she had already.

Master Warden Atilde stood motionless before them for a moment, as though listening to an inner voice. And perhaps she was, Sal thought. There was probably a whole web of silent communication flashing around them that only she could hear.

Then she stirred.

“I’m reluctant to send you back to bed just yet,” she said to them, “and if I were you, I know I wouldn’t sleep. But keeping you here isn’t doing anyone any good. I’ll rouse one of the cooks and get them to make you a hot drink in the dining hall. You’ll be looked after and on hand if anything new eventuates. Please…” She hesitated. “Sal, Syndic Zanshin wasn’t exaggerating about the seriousness of this incident. I want you three to be careful. Do you understand?”

The glassy eyes, taking in each of them in turn, were concerned and suspicious at the same time. Sal wondered how much she had guessed. Did she know that Sal had made a pact with the golem that had inhabited Lodo’s body—or was she simply connecting their arrival and the outburst by Shilly’s former teacher? It could have been nothing more perceptive than educated guesswork. But she could also know more than she was saying.

Atilde didn’t say anything more than that, though. She just waited for confirmation that they would do as they were told. The three of them nodded obediently.

Sal had no intention of being anything other than careful, so he wasn’t lying. He just wasn’t telling the whole truth. He had no choice but to fulfil his side of the bargain with the golem. If he didn’t, he had no doubt that he or someone very dear to him would end up like his grandmother.

Failure is not likely, not when you want success enough, it had told him. I know you will want it very badly.

He shook that horrible thought from his mind and stood up. The attendants ushered them forward. He had to talk to Shilly and Skender soon. Shilly had to understand what he had done. Together, hopefully, they could work out what to do next.

The dining hall by night was an echoing, empty vault. Heavy shadows gathered in the corner, smothering the yellowish light cast by a gas lamp one of the attendants lit for them. Rows of chairs stood like angular, spindly trees on the long tables filling in the room. Shilly sat with Sal and Skender at the end of one of them, mugs clutched in their hands against a very real chill.

The attendants stood a respectful distance away, but the slightest sound carried far. Shilly felt as though she could hear the air itself flowing around them, whispering as it brushed their skin and hair. She detected no telltale twinkling of the Change, but there was definitely something odd about the night.

A woman had been murdered by a man Shilly had loved as a father. Odd wasn’t the word. Interminable, perhaps. It seemed to be lasting forever.

Shilly reached into her pocket for Sal’s ward. She hadn’t let it out of her sight, and had felt glad for its presence during the night, but it was time she returned it to its rightful owner. The relief on Sal’s face when she placed the silver ring carefully on the table before them affirmed that she was doing the right thing.

He picked it up and, with practised fingers, slipped it through the hole in his ear.

“I need to talk to you,” he whispered, sending streamers of steam dancing off the hot chocolate in his mug.

Shilly glanced at the attendants. They didn’t react. Skender likewise didn’t move from his inspection of the tabletop. He hadn’t said a word since he had left her room to go back to his, after he had told her what he had seen.

She remembered the horror in his eyes, and the terror that made his movements jerky and incomplete. He would raise a hand to cover his eyes only to run it over the back of his head instead. He would look at her, then look away. He wasn’t finishing sentences. She had only managed to get it out of him in frantic bits and pieces.

Radi Mierlo was dead, murdered by a man who, according to Skender’s description, sounded very much like Lodo. They had to tell someone. There was no doubt about that: what if someone else was murdered because they hadn’t sounded the alarm? But how would they explain what they’d seen without revealing Skender’s access to the crawlspace? To lose that means of escape would close the cage even more securely around them. Neither of them wanted that.

So they had decided to lie. From their separate rooms, they would both call for help. They would tell the wardens that Mawson had warned them of the murder. If it was important for them to get away with the lie, Mawson would know and go along with it. Thus far the lie had held. It was the one thing in the whole evening about which she could feel any satisfaction.

Getting Skender back into the crawlspace had been hard. She didn’t blame him for that; wild camels couldn’t have dragged her up into that darkness, no matter how important it was in the long run. And as she lay back on her bed, waiting anxiously to allow Skender enough time to return to his room, hoping the golem wasn’t up there, lying in wait, she realised that the thing she had been missing all night was back: the place inside of her that looked for Sal was at ease. He was nearby. He hadn’t escaped after all.

Skender’s journey through the dark had been for nothing.

I need to talk to you. Sal’s expression was urgent, almost fearful. She needed to talk to him, too, but she’d be damned before letting the attendants hear anything. With grim satisfaction, she reached out and took one of Sal’s hands from the mug in front of him and clasped it firmly in hers.

“Shilly, I—”

“Wait.”

Turning to Skender, she did the same thing. The boy looked up, startled but relieved. His hand gripped hers as though it would never let her go.

Something crackled through them—an energy that came not from Sal, but from Skender. It made the small hairs on Shilly’s arms stand on end, and brought with it a faint smell of vinegar. The current flickered backward and forward between the three of them, building in strength. Skender’s gaze danced away from hers, into the shadows, and she felt something begin to snap inside him—a barrier that had until then been holding back a terrible weight.

“I saw her die!”

It was like a dam collapsing. Feelings rushed through her and Sal in a torrent. She felt Skender’s horror at seeing the murder unfold before him; she felt the same paralysing fear that had frozen him at the grille, unable to stop watching; she felt the terror that had sent him running when the golem had lunged threateningly for him. She didn’t want to end up like that. She had to get away!

The murder of Radi Mierlo flooded through her, via Skender, with such emotional clarity that she thought she would scream.

And behind it all was the thought: I did nothing! I just watched it happen!

“It’s my fault,” said a voice in her mind.

She struggled to separate her self from Skender’s feelings. “What?”

“It’s my fault,” repeated Sal. “I made a deal with the golem we met in the lake city. It killed her, in Lodo’s body, and it would have killed you too, Skender, if you’d tried to intervene. So don’t blame yourself. She would have died whether you were there or not. She’s dead because of me.”

The tide of horror subsided. “No. They killed her,” the boy said, his mental voice shaky but clear. “The Weavers. Mawson said so.”

“The Weavers?” Sal was thrown by the response, Shilly could tell. “Why would the Weavers do something like that?”

“They didn’t need her any more. They cut her short.”

“But why kill her?”

“Why would you make a deal with the golem?” Shilly wanted to know, unable to suppress a flash of bitterness. “Don’t you remember the last time we met it?”

“Of course I do. That’s why I did it.” He wanted her to understand, that much was clear. “It was going to give us Lodo. Or so I thought. And the Golden Tower, too, although now I’m a little less keen on that possibility.”

“Maybe you should still be,” she said. “It’s a Way.”

“How do you know that?”

“A ghost told me.”

There was a momentary silence around the table as the three of them stared dumbfounded at each other. To Shilly it would have been comical, had it not been so tragic.

“We’ve obviously got a lot to talk about,” she said. She glanced over her shoulder at the attendants, who thus far had chosen not to intervene. “I suggest we do it now, while we’ve got the chance.”

“Okay,” said Sal. “I’ll go first.”

“Then me,” said Skender.

She nodded. “Then me.”

Sal took a deep breath. Steam from his mug made delicate shapes in the air as he began to talk.

Skender listened to Sal’s account of his day with half a mind. Afterward, the same half recounted his version of the story’s events, making the words come out as though from a great distance. The words were just a pale echo of what had happened in those few minutes, but he was relieved when he could go back to listening when it was Shilly’s turn. That half of his mind was wearing out.

The other half was fully occupied with reliving the murder, experiencing it again and again as though trapped in that moment forever. He saw the sightless eyes of the dead woman, heard the heavy effort required to hold an unwilling victim down, smelled the fear filling the room, tasted his own fear on his tongue, and felt the cold of the golem lashing out at him at the end.

And it wasn’t just the murder; there was the buildup to it. Mawson had virtually told him that the golem was on its way—or at least the body it inhabited. He had told him that Lodo was walking freely, not being held. He had also warned him about the Weavers just before the golem burst through the door. When a thread or threads have served their purpose, Mawson had said, sometimes they must be cut short. The clues had all been there, and he hadn’t seen them.

For the first time in his life, he cursed his perfect memory. Usually, he cursed those who had unrealistic expectations of him because of his gift. His father was one of those, as were some of his fellow students who resented his natural advantage over them. This time, though, it was the perfect recall he despised—the incredible detail with which the murder scene was etched in his mind, and the readiness for it to surface over and over again.

It will change the path of your life.

Yeah, thanks, Mawson, he thought. Thanks a lot. This wasn’t what he had wanted to see in the world outside the Keep. This wasn’t the sort of experience he wanted to carry home with him. It was exactly the sort of thing forgetting was for.

Given that forgetting wasn’t possible, no matter how much he willed the images to evaporate, he forced himself to concentrate on the conversation—anything other than the horrors in his mind.

“What’s a necromancer?” Shilly asked after they were all up to date. Their mugs sat empty and cold between them.

“Someone who brings back the dead,” said Skender, dredging the information up from a conversation he had heard between two senior students.

“And the unliving,” said Sal. “Your dad told me that in Ulum. If you create the illusion of a human, you make an empty thing, the sort of thing a golem could inhabit. That’s what Lodo was accused of doing.”

“Why would the ghost call me one?” asked Shilly.

“Well, you’re good at illusions,” Sal said with a shrug. “Perhaps you’ll do it one day.”

“Why would I?”

“I don’t know. Maybe to get yourself kicked out of the Haunted City.”

She almost smiled. “If I can’t think of a better way, maybe I’ll give it a try.”

“It also said you had to get a heart-name,” Skender said.

“Only if I wanted to hear its answer—whatever that is.”

“I guess you’ll have to get one, then,” said Sal. “It’s told us more about the Golden Tower than the golem’s ever likely to. It told us that it’s a Way, or something like that.”

“Mawson said that it’s underground,” Skender added.

“All the Ways I’ve seen have been at least partly underground,” said Shilly. “I’d assumed that was normal.”

“You might be right.” Skender had never noticed that detail, or read about it, but it made sense. If the Golden Tower wasn’t underground, people would have found it by now. It was exactly like Shilly to notice an interesting and potentially important detail about something he had taken for granted his entire life. It was she who had taught him that there was more to Blind than running and fighting, and she who had shown them how to activate the light-sink from patterns he had in his head but couldn’t have utilised on his own.

Skender was sure that she would have understood what Mawson had been telling him.

“Regardless of whether I think we should talk to the ghost or not,” she went on, “how do I get a heart-name? Is there a special ceremony or something? I don’t know anything about them. Sal was the first person I met who had one.”

“I have one,” said Skender, forcing down rising images of blue-toned skin and empty red eyes. “The ceremony is simple and short. It’s usually conducted by a parent when a child is young. Sometimes there are others present; usually it’s just the namer and the person getting the name. It’s supposed to be a private thing shared only with a few. Making a big deal of the ceremony would defeat the purpose.”

“But why go to the trouble at all?” she asked, looking puzzled. “Doesn’t it just make things more complicated, having two names?”

“No more complicated than the Strand custom of creating a new family name every time two people get married.” Sal explained that his mother, Seirian Mierlo, and his father, Highson Sparre, had chosen the name Graaff to symbolise their marriage, to show that they were a new entity belonging to neither of their old families. “A heart-name is like that. It’s a piece of you that you only give to those you trust the most. The ones you’re closest to.”

“But it’s nothing more than that?” she asked. “Nothing…magical?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

Skender shuddered, remembering the voice of the Golem, warning him away.

“My heart-name is Galeus,” he said, knowing that if he couldn’t trust Sal and Shilly, there was no one else for thousands of kilometres to rely on.

“Mine is Sayed,” said Sal.

“Great, but where the hell am I going to get mine from?” exclaimed Shilly. “I don’t even know who my parents are, let alone where they might be.”

“I guess you ask someone else to do it instead,” Skender said. “As Sal said, the person you trust the most.”

She rolled her eyes. “He’s either wanted for murder or lost in the Void Beneath, depending how you look at it.”

“Would there be anything stopping me from giving Shilly her heart-name?” asked Sal.

Skender noted an odd look pass between his friends. “Sure, you could do it,” he said, frowning slightly, “if Shilly wanted you to.”

“What would I need in order to do it?”

“Not much more than a name, really. The rest is just window dressing.”

Sal and Shilly exchanged another look. Their expressions were unreadable. If they were communicating with each other via the Change, he was most definitely being left out.

Shilly cleared her throat. “It’s good to know that it’s an option, but I think we have more important things to worry about. What if the wardens find Lodo’s body? How are we going to convince them that it wasn’t him who did it?”

By “it” she meant the murder. Skender understood that, but the word trivialised the awfulness of what he had seen, and was continuing to see.

“I don’t think the golem’s going to let itself be caught,” said Sal. “I think it wants the body, wants to be active. It said it knows the secret places of the city—which I guess it must do, assuming it does actually know where the Golden Tower is. If it wants to stay hidden, it’ll find a way.”

“So what do we do?” asked Shilly. “Just wait for it to show up?”

“There’s not much else we can do. Is there?”

“What about the Weavers?” asked Skender. “We’re no closer to knowing who they are, or what they want. I hate the idea that they can kill again, any time they want, while Lodo is loose.”

“Lodo’s body,” Shilly corrected him. “The mind of the golem.”

“That’s what I can’t work out,” said Sal, sticking to Skender’s point. “Shom Behenna thinks he’s working for the Weavers, and my grandmother helped him get us back here. Why would they kill her for helping them? It’s not as if we can ask anyone about it. The Weavers are a closed subject.”

“The ghost didn’t like me mentioning them,” said Shilly gloomily.

“No one does.” Skender looked around at the shadows. “It’s like a secret that’s either so big no one can see it, or so small it could be anywhere.”

Shilly looked at him hard for a long second, then barked a loud laugh. The sound echoed off the stone walls of the dining hall and seemed to dispel some of the darkness. Sal followed a second later with a tension-releasing chuckle that made the attendants glance curiously between themselves.

Skender shifted nervously in his seat. He hadn’t meant to be funny, and he didn’t feel like laughing, not with the death of Radi Mierlo still reverberating through his mind. But he was glad he had inadvertently given his friends something to feel good about. In time, perhaps, he would be able to join in.

CHAPTER 9

TRUTH AND LIES

The sound of Master Warden Atilde’s footsteps across the stone floor of the dining room was deafening in the silence of their mental conversation. Sal automatically pulled away from the others.

“As much as can be organised,” she said, without preamble, “has been organised. Your family, Sal, has been notified. They will arrange a suitable memorial when your grandmother’s body is released to them. There will need to be an inquest first, however, and the Syndic will hold that tomorrow. You will need to attend. I’m sorry to place you under additional stress, but the truth of this matter must be revealed.”

Her glassy gaze swept over them. “Security on your rooms has been doubled. You can sleep easy, knowing that nothing can get in to harm you.”

And we can’t get out? Sal thought, wondering how much the Master Warden had guessed.

She waved for them to stand. Skender yawned hugely, and immediately set Shilly off.

Atilde’s expression softened.

“This isn’t a good start to your education,” she said, “and I’m sorry for that. Under other circumstances, perhaps you would have enjoyed it here. There is much we would like to share with you, if you would only let us.” Sal sensed that she was talking almost exclusively to him, now. “Don’t let the actions of a few taint everything you see. Things are not and have not always been so in the Haunted City.”

Sal nodded warily. His habitual defiance of the wardens didn’t seem appropriate in the context of his grandmother’s murder, and when the head of the Novitiate seemed to be softening the tone of things for no other reason, it seemed, than to make him feel better, some sort of graceful response was surely required. He couldn’t think of one, though, so it came as a relief when Shilly spoke for him.

“Thanks. None of this is your fault. We know you’re just trying to do the right thing.”

Do we? Sal wondered. For all they knew, Atilde could be one of the Weavers, subtly influencing their behaviour.

But the way she inclined her head, with apparently genuine gratitude, made him suspect otherwise.

The attendants came forward as the Master Warden bade them goodnight. Sal had no idea what time it was. He seemed to have been awake for hours, and he wondered if there was any point in going back to bed. But that was where they were taken, one by one.

On the way to Skender’s room, first of all, he felt Shilly’s free hand nudge his, as though by accident. He slid his fingers into hers, thinking she had something else she wanted to say.

“What is it?”

There was a small silence.

“Uh, did the tattoo work?” she said.

“Oh.” Sal felt himself blushing, realising that her intention hadn’t been to talk to him at all. He forced himself to concentrate on the events of the previous morning. It felt like days ago: waking up to find the tattoo, first missing, then roaming his body freely. The scab on his back was itching, now that he was reminded of it, and he forced himself not to scratch. “It broke the binding charm, just as Skender thought it might,” he said. “Although it was a bit strange…”

“Strange how?”

The group of attendants ahead of them came to a halt. They had reached Skender’s room.

“I’ll have to tell you later.”

They broke apart as they said goodnight. Skender was quiet, but less upset than he had been before. His pain had been piercing through their linked hands in the dining room. Sal felt terrible for exposing him to it, and wondered how the Mage Van Haasteren would feel on learning what had happened. At least Skender wouldn’t have any trouble sleeping. He looked exhausted.

As they headed off to Shilly’s room, Sal found Shilly’s hand again. He didn’t know when they would next be able to talk in private.

“If I was to give you a heart-name,” he said, “it would be Carah.”

The pause was even longer, this time—long enough to make him wonder if he’d done the wrong thing.

But then she squeezed his hand. “I guess you just did.”

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. It was her turn to blush, but she didn’t pull away, and she didn’t say anything. They walked in silence the rest of the way to her door.

Alone in his room, he stood staring at the bed for a long time before getting into it. The day had been an arduous one—and one he had thought finished once already. He had seen more of his mother’s family than he had wanted to, met Gram—his real father’s grandmother—and made a deal with a golem that had gone on to make Lodo a murderer. He had broken free of Shom Behenna’s binding charm and given Shilly a heart-name. He had learned that his only chance of escape lay deep beneath the Haunted City, and he was more confused about the Weavers than ever. What could possibly come next?

There were only two things he was sure of: he had the consequences of the deal with the golem still ahead of him, whatever sort of new danger that would put him and his friends into; and he would never see his grandmother again.

The latter felt especially strange. He would have been glad of that certainty only a few hours ago, had it not involved her death. Now, she was the third member of his family whose death he had been forced to confront in recent times. Part of him was gradually beginning to accept that he too would probably die, one day.

At least, he thought, he wouldn’t have to show her the ward in a vain attempt to prove that he was trustworthy.

That thought was no comfort at all as he pulled the sheets up to his neck and the silver light of the mirror faded to black.

Carah.

Shilly carried the name with her as she prepared for bed. Her bad leg needed re-strapping, and she refused to sleep in her day clothes again. She had to get changed before she fell between the sheets and let long overdue sleep roll over her.

My name is Carah.

She didn’t know what the word meant, or where it had come from, but she liked the sound of it. The fact that it had been so simply, almost casually, given didn’t bother her either. The giving was the important thing; the rest, as Skender had said, was nothing. She liked the fact that it was secret, that it was a part of her no one else knew. Everyone knew Shilly. No one knew Carah. Carah could be anyone.

She wondered if Sal knew who Carah was. That he thought he might made her smile in the darkness of the room, as she drifted off.

How long she was allowed to sleep, she didn’t know. She was woken at what felt like a very early hour by an attendant informing her that she needed to dress. She did so, and ate breakfast with Sal and Skender in a private chamber set apart from the main dining hall. Her friends looked as tired as she felt. Sal had on the wooden expression he adopted when he wasn’t sure what was going to happen next but was pretty sure he wouldn’t like it.

A young, black-robed woman informed them of how the inquest would proceed. Because Radi Mierlo had not been a Strand national, both the Syndic and Stone Mage Luan Braunack would preside over the evidence, which would include the testimonies of both Shilly and Skender, since they had been the ones to raise the alarm. Five representatives of the Sky Warden Conclave would make a decision; once the ruling had been issued, the Mierlo family could dispose of the body as they saw fit.

“And that’s it?” Shilly asked.

“If there should be more,” the woman responded, “I can’t imagine what it might be.”

She wasn’t in the mood to waste words. “What about Lodo?”

“Until he’s caught there’s nothing we can do about him.”

“Is anyone looking for him?”

“Of course. His being at large constitutes a risk to life in the Haunted City. He must be found.”

“And then what?”

“That depends on what the Conclave representatives decide today.”

Shilly didn’t like the answer, but there was little she could do to dispute it just then. “What do we have to do, exactly?”

“You will be called upon to speak at the appointed time,” the woman said. “Until then, you will wait.”

And that was exactly what they did.

It was a sunny day outside, but they didn’t see much of it. They were whisked from the Novitiate chambers to a domed building filling a relatively large space between three large towers. There wasn’t time to enjoy the walk—or, in Shilly’s case, to study the ghosts watching her from their glassy prison. The attendants hurrying them along made it clear that they weren’t there to sightsee.

When they arrived at the public hall where the inquest was to be held, they were shown to seats on a curving bench toward the front and instructed to be still. Shilly looked around. The hall was large enough to hold several hundred people arranged in rows that stretched almost in a full circle around a central dais. On that dais were five seats where the members of the Conclave would sit. In front of the dais, in a cleared space separated from the audience by a circular wooden rail polished to a high gleam, were two more chairs for the Syndic and Stone Mage presiders. The ceiling above was domed, and tiled in a vast mural depicting the rising of some giant beast from beneath stormy waves. At the top of the dome was a slitted hole that let in daylight, corresponding with the creature’s single, flaming eye.

Shilly was impressed, for a while, and despite the obvious differences, she was put in mind of the Stone Mage Synod. As people filed into the room, dressed in various types of formal robes and headdresses, she watched them, wondering who they were and what functions they performed. Some of them were Sky Wardens; the others might have been lawyers, government officials, chroniclers, or simply curious. Attendants separated her, Sal and Skender from the gallery with impassive ease. Faceless black-robed watchers sat on either side of them and on the rows before and behind them. Even when the chamber began to fill and seats were at a premium, no one asked them to move along or to squeeze up. It was almost as though they weren’t even present.

The only one who acknowledged the three of them in any way was Highson Sparre. Sal’s real father took a seat on the far side of the hall, high and behind the central dais. He nodded in their direction, then turned his attention to the centre. Shilly half-felt Sal nod woodenly in reply.

The room was almost full when a deep chime sounded and Master Warden Atilde and members of Sal’s mother’s family filed into the room, led by blue-robed wardens.

“They’re going to an awful lot of trouble,” Shilly said, touching Sal’s hand lightly. She was genuinely surprised that so many people had turned up for a woman no one had seemed to like very much.

“She was an Interior national,” said Sal in reply. “That makes her murder a political incident.”

She nodded understanding. “Are you—?”

A hand came down on her shoulder, and she saw a shadowed hood shake behind her. She got the message, but gave Sal’s hand a squeeze before she let go.

There was a slam as the main doors closed on the hall. Two people she hadn’t seen were Shom Behenna and Tait. She had expected them to be there for sure. No doubt Behenna was wondering about his fate, too, if indeed the Weavers had killed Radi Mierlo despite her doing her best to help them. She hadn’t heard if his disciplinary hearing had reached a conclusion; perhaps he simply hadn’t been allowed to come.

The chime sounded again. The Syndic, in black robes, led Stone Mage Braunack and the five judges appointed by the Conclave into the hall’s central space. The judges wore silver and gold robes that covered every inch of their bodies: not even their hands or eyes showed. There was, therefore, no way to identify who was who. Even their heights were similar.

During the inquest, thought Shilly, they weren’t to be people. They were Justice, faceless and impassive. There would be no appeal to anyone’s human nature, no claim of special treatment.

The Syndic clapped the end of a slender wooden pole to the floor three times. The echoes had barely faded when one last person entered the room. The Alcaide was dressed in a crisp white suit that emphasised the brilliant red of the burns across his face and scalp. Without acknowledging anyone, the ruler of the Strand walked around the dais once, then sat in the very front row of the audience where a space had been set aside for him. Only when he had seated himself did the judges assume their seats and the inquest begin.

“We are gathered today,” Sal’s great-aunt announced in a firm, loud voice that carried clearly across the heads of those watching, “in the presence of the highest authorities of the Strand, to consider the death of Radi Mierlo, who died last night while under the auspices of the Novitiate. All pertinent evidence will be accepted for examination and a decision regarding cause and responsibility will be made on the basis of that evidence. If anyone has any objection to this process, they must speak now, or forever hold their peace.”

The Syndic waited a long moment, her gaze sweeping the crowd. When no one spoke up, she sat regally in her chair and handed control of the proceedings to someone else.

A blue-robed man with wild, white hair rose from the audience and stepped into the centre. He introduced himself as Warden Timbs and explained that he would be conducting the inquest, introducing witnesses and examining the evidence on behalf of the judges. It was his role to ensure that everyone had their say, and also to weed out anything spurious or nonsensical. He emphasised the need for order several times, pointing out that without strict adherence to procedure the inquest could last a week. He intended to see it finished within the day.

There were no objections, although Shilly did note muttering from the Mierlo contingent. For her own part, she was relieved that it wouldn’t drag on for days. Timbs moved briskly through a brief outline of the circumstances—that Radi Mierlo had been found dead in her room after the alarm had been raised the previous night—before moving on to examine all the issues surrounding her death.

First on the agenda was the exact nature of her death. To discuss this, Timbs called for the testimony of two medical examiners, who both confirmed that Radi Mierlo had died of strangulation. The second expressed an opinion that the murderer must have possessed exceptional strength to inflict such crushing injuries to the woman’s neck. The fact that she had been unable to put up much of a fight further supported this observation.

Satisfied that the cause of death had been established, Timbs moved onto the evidence found at the scene. This included hairs belonging to both victim and murderer, and skin found under the dead woman’s fingernails, suggesting that the murderer had long, grey hair and was of fair complexion. The means of entry was confirmed as the room’s only doorway, which had been broken open with a single blow, again suggesting great strength on the attacker’s behalf. The murderer was assumed to have left the same way.

Timbs called on the medical witnesses to give an approximate time of death. They agreed that Radi Mierlo had died between sunset and midnight the previous day. One went so far as to suggest a more precise time of nine o’clock, give or take an hour. Timbs nodded sagely.

“That,” he said, pacing restlessly across the space before the dais, “concludes the presentation of incontrovertible evidence—that which we can see before us in the present and examine in the cold light of reason. We move on to more speculative evidence, evidence that cannot be studied with a similar rigour, but which can, and often does, lead us closer to the truth. Here we examine witness testimonies, the means and motives of possible suspects, and other matters. I have a number of such to raise. Should I omit any matter that the judges, or those gathered before them, feel must be brought to public attention, please speak out. You will be heard.”

Timbs paused to allow his words time to sink in. Shilly’s stomach had turned over at the mention of witness testimonies. She wasn’t looking forward to lying in front of so many people.

Satisfied that he had made his point, Timbs continued. “Unfortunately, there exist no human witnesses to this terrible crime. There are, however, several avenues open to us. First, I call on Shilly of Gooron and Skender Van Haasteren the Tenth. Please come forward to address the judges.”

Eyes swung toward them across the large chamber. Shilly swallowed as the attendants moved aside to allow them to pass. Sal’s eyes didn’t leave her as she edged by, and she was grateful for the concern she saw in them, but there was no opportunity to respond. She concentrated on every step, swinging her crutch with extra care to ensure she didn’t trip in front of everyone—or trip Skender up. The boy walked woodenly beside her with a terrified expression on his face.

It worried her briefly that she couldn’t tell what he was thinking. They had agreed to maintain their story on the grounds that lying wouldn’t change the decision the judges would inevitably come to. Why get themselves needlessly into trouble? But she could understand how easy it would be to be overawed into telling the truth. She was in no doubt that the consequences of being caught lying would be severe.

Warden Timbs bowed when they arrived before him. Close-up, she could see that his skin was severely pockmarked and his eyes were bloodshot. He was also much taller than she had expected. His presence was a powerful one, although she felt no hostility directed towards them.

Not from him, anyway. When she half-turned to look at the crowd, the one pair of eyes she noted were those of the Alcaide, glaring at her beneath his red burns. He sat slumped in his seat, resting his head on one hand as though bored. His stare told a very different story.

She looked hastily away.

“Now, Shilly,” said Timbs, “please repeat your testimony.”

She cleared her throat. “I, uh—I was in my room last night—”

“Please speak loudly so all can hear.”

She nodded and tried again, hating the rush of blood she felt in her neck and cheeks. “I was in my room last night, trying to sleep, when Mawson called me.”

“Mawson is…?”

“The man’kin that travels with Sal’s grand—um, Radi Mierlo.”

Timbs nodded, not encouragingly but in simple confirmation of the fact. “What did the man’kin tell you?”

“It told me to raise the alarm. Its mistress was being attacked.”

“Did it say how, or by whom?”

“No.”

“Did you ask it?”

“I can’t really remember if I did. I might have, I guess.” The question threw her slightly. It wasn’t one she had anticipated. “If I did, he didn’t tell me.”

“So, the man’kin informed you that Radi Mierlo was under attack and asked you to call for help.”

“Yes.”

“What did you do then?”

“I banged on the door of my room. An attendant opened the door. I told her what Mawson had told me, and she went to tell someone else.”

“You were left alone during this time?”

“No. There was another attendant. I waited with him until I was summoned to see Warden Atilde. She told us then what had happened.”

“That was when you found out Radi Mierlo was dead?”

“Yes.”

Timbs nodded again. “I see. Tell me, Shilly, why you think the man’kin contacted you with this information. Why you and no one else?”

“It contacted Skender, too—”

“Why you two, then?” Timbs glanced at the boy beside her, but made it clear he was talking to her exclusively, for the moment. “Why not Master Warden Atilde, or one of Radi Mierlo’s family?”

She feigned a shrug. This she had thought through. “I don’t know for certain, but I can guess. We made friends with Mawson during the trip here. He knew us and could picture us. If you’re going to contact someone through the Change, you need to visualise them first.”

Timbs waved her explanation aside. “That doesn’t explain why he chose you over others he might have met or known—like Sal, or other members of Radi Mierlo’s family. Was this sort of communication usual between you and the man’kin? Has it taken you into some sort of confidence?”

Shilly thought carefully to answer the warden’s questions in the right order. “I can’t speak for Mawson, but I presume he had his reasons for calling us. Perhaps he couldn’t rouse Sal from sleep, or couldn’t reach the rest of the Mierlos because they were further away. Mawson doesn’t usually call us like this. We have to approach him before he’ll talk, and even then he doesn’t normally offer information off his own bat. I presume he only called us because the situation was an emergency. We were the closest people he knew who could raise the alarm. He used us because there was no one else, not because he regards us as being in any way special.”

Timbs seemed to accept that explanation readily enough, and Shilly began to hope that he had almost finished with her.

“Did you question the man’kin’s words at all?”

The question threw her. “What do you mean?”

“By your testimony, you accepted Mawson’s communication at face value, even though such information is not normally offered. You didn’t stop to ask yourself if Mawson was mistaken or lying. You didn’t ask who the murderer was—or don’t remember if you did. You simply did as instructed and called for help. Why is that?”

Flustered, she looked from Timbs to the Syndic and the Stone Mages watching her interrogation from a slightly higher elevation. Impassive, they looked down on her without any sign of recognition.

“I did as Mawson told me because I had to,” she said. “If he was right and Sal’s grandmother was being attacked, it would have been criminal not to try to help. Don’t you think?”

“It is not my thoughts that are under examination,” Timbs told her. “Thank you, Shilly. Your testimony is most valuable.”

He turned to Skender, and she stepped back flushing furiously. What was he trying to suggest? That she and Mawson were in league somehow? Or that she was hiding something?

That the latter was perfectly true didn’t make any difference to the sense of outrage that filled her. They had no right to put her through this—or Skender. As the boy beside her stammered through his answers to the same questions, she felt herself fill up with a cold fury directed at Timbs and the entire judicial process. They had been trying to help when they could quite easily have left Radi Mierlo to grow cold until morning. That they were trying to protect themselves at the same time was only natural, and not a crime.

But if the golem had killed Radi Mierlo out of nothing more than pure maliciousness while getting Lodo’s body out of custody…

Her rage broke on that particular fact. Like a wave whose energy had been spent, she felt her anger ebb and wash through her, leaving her exhausted and confused. Perhaps they should have told the truth, after all. What if their lie allowed the golem to escape, and someone else died?

Distracted by her thoughts, her gaze wandered across the crowd listening intently to Skender’s testimony. Once again, she was caught by the stare of the Alcaide. He was watching her again and smiling faintly, as though enjoying her confusion.

As Skender followed Shilly back to their seats, he felt the lie settle down over the memories like a shroud, hiding the awful truth from view. He hadn’t been there; he hadn’t seen Radi Mierlo die. The effect would only be temporary, he was certain, but he would take what relief he could from it.

He could sense Shilly’s relief, too, that he had stuck to the story. That buoyed him slightly. They had to stick together to get through this. There was no one else on whom he could rely. He didn’t suppose for a moment that she would understand what was going on in his mind, but the knowledge that she would try to help him if he needed her was a comfort.

Now that his moment in the spotlight had passed, he could pay more attention to the proceedings. The next witness called was Mawson, who was carried into the room by Sal’s enormous cousin, Aron. The blond-haired teenager put the stone bust heavily down on a plinth provided for it, then backed shyly away.

“Are you the man’kin known as Mawson?” Warden Timbs asked.

Mawson turned to look at the man questioning him, the jerky nature of his movement leaving no doubt that his nature was far from human. He held Timbs in his gaze for a long moment, then turned away, silent.

“You must answer my question.” Timbs tried again. “Are you the man’kin known as Mawson?”

“I do not have to speak to you.” The man’kin’s grating voice cut through the still air. “I am not bound by your laws.”

“You are bound to serve the Mierlo family,” Timbs said. “Radi Mierlo is dead. Don’t you want to see her murderer found?”

“She was of no consequence to me.”

“She was your mistress.”

“I served her unwillingly.”

“Yet still you served her, and will continue to serve her heirs. They are your masters now. If they order you to speak, you must do so.”

Sal’s thickset, moustached uncle, Ranan, rose to his feet, clearly intending to do just as Timbs had indicated.

Before Ranan could speak, Mawson fixed him with a contemptuous glare and said, “I serve the family, this is true. But I retain the right to choose one person from the family to act as my master.”

“This, I presume, is the capacity in which Radi Mierlo acted,” said Timbs, frowning.

“Yes.”

“Who do you choose as your master now?”

“I choose Sal Hrvati.”

Skender had seen it coming, but gasps of shock from the Mierlo clan indicated that they had not. Heads turned to look at Sal, who stared uncomfortably back at them, mouth open in shock.

Timbs gestured that Sal should stand up. Skender could sympathise with how it felt as his friend came under the combined scrutiny of all those in the room.

“Were you aware of this, Sal?” asked Timbs.

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Mastery over a man’kin is a rare gift—rarer than the Change itself, I dare say. Do you accept this responsibility?”

Sal hesitated momentarily, then said, “Yes. I do.”

“Very well. Will you tell Mawson to address this inquiry in the proper manner?”

Skender shifted his attention to the man’kin as Sal addressed him as master for the first time.

“Mawson, will you tell them what you saw when my grandmother died?”

“I have already told them.”

“They’d like to hear it again.”

“They should have listened properly the first time.”

“I haven’t heard it, Mawson. Will you tell me?”

The bust’s noble brow inclined in a nod. “I was alone in the room when a man broke in and strangled your grandmother.”

“Did you know the man who committed the crime?” asked Timbs.

Mawson sat in stubborn silence until Sal repeated the question.

“No. I had not previously met the murderer.”

“You described him in enough detail for an artist to draw a sketch. Would you confirm the accuracy of this sketch for us now?”

“If I must.”

An attendant brought in a picture drawn in charcoal on white paper. He held it up in front of Mawson, who confirmed that this was the person he had seen in the room, then he displayed it for the judges and the audience to view. It depicted a hollow-cheeked, wild-haired man with tattoos and bushy eyebrows.

Beside him, Shilly drew in a quick breath and looked away. Skender felt his guts go to water. It was the face of the old man she had known as Lodo, the man who had killed a defenceless old woman right in front of him.

You can’t escape me, Galeus Van Haasteren.

Skender’s right leg twitched as the lie was swept aside and the truth rolled back in. He clutched his errant thigh with both hands and concentrated on breathing slowly and deeply. It didn’t work. He still saw the gleam in those murderous eyes, the spittle on those thin lips. Closing his eyes didn’t help; the face was waiting for him there, in all the colours of life, not just charcoal. In desperation, to distract himself, he studied the wood panelling on the back of the curved pew in front of him and tried to remember all the useless details he had been taught by Fairney and the Novitiate lecturers. What was the precise acidity of a sea bass? How many stages were there in the life cycle of a brown-worm? Delicate whorls and geometric patterns that didn’t seem so much carved as grown teased his eye as his brain found solace in routine recollections.

He dimly heard Mawson being interrogated about why he had asked for help. This was a crucial part of the interrogation, since Mawson could easily undo the lies Skender and Shilly had told. Sal, though, was aware of that fact, and able to twist Timbs’ question so that Mawson didn’t have to answer it directly.

“What prompted you, given that you had so little regard for your mistress’s life, to call the children for help?”

“I didn’t call for help.”

“Why did you want someone there, then?” Sal asked.

“It was important that someone saw,” said the man’kin, and Skender looked up, realising that it was him Mawson was talking about.

Stay. You must see. It will change the path of your life.

“Saw what?” asked Warden Timbs.

“Aesthetics,” was the man’kin’s answer, and he would be drawn no further on the matter.

Skender physically relaxed as both the sketch and Mawson were taken away. There followed a series of witnesses testifying not to the crime itself but to the facts surrounding it. A guard described how one of his patients had overpowered him during lockdown and escaped from the care ward known as the Privity. A specialist in mental conditions defined Lodo’s state as empty-minded, and provided detailed descriptions of the elderly man’s failing health. Shilly’s eyes swam during the healer’s testimony. Without a sudden return of the patient’s full mental capacity, it was doubtful that the body would survive more than a week or two unassisted. When asked if it had been Lodo himself who performed the crime, as opposed to some other controlling intelligence, the healer was reluctant to commit himself. Without a direct examination, it was impossible to tell.

One of the black-robed Novitiate attendants came forward to testify to the degree of security surrounding Radi Mierlo’s accommodation. With his hood back, he was revealed as a broad-faced man with steely-grey hair. His voice and attitude were firm and unrelenting as he assured the judges that all due precautions had been taken to protect those within the Novitiate walls.

“We are dedicated to the care of all those who fall under our charge, for they are the future of the Strand. Our standards are as high for those visitors who stay within our walls.” His gaze sought and found those of Skender, Sal and Shilly. “No matter who they are or where they come from, they are our responsibility, and we do not lightly let them down.”

Skender believed him. The fact that the golem, in Lodo’s body, had got in and out of the Novitiate without being seen wasn’t the fault of the attendants. He had no doubt that there were numerous ways of gaining admittance—old tunnels and other such simple means as Skender himself used to get around unobserved. Who could tell what the golem had learned down the centuries?

Other witnesses were called to corroborate earlier statements, but there was no talk of motive, Skender noted. When Warden Timbs called for final statements from the audience, Sal’s uncle Ranan stood to address the judges.

“My mother was a determined woman,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Those who crossed her path learned quickly that getting in her way was inadvisable. Her goals were clearly defined. She strove to attain them for our benefit, the benefit of her clan, and she ended her life still striving. Her legacy is that determination, which we will all try to emulate. Whether she succeeded or not is irrelevant. The attempt is all.”

Ranan folded his arms in front of him before continuing, as though physically holding back grief.

“The name Radi Mierlo struck fear in the hearts of many. She had enemies, both here and at home. She didn’t let causing offence come between her and her aims. She once told me that she fought with words where others might use knives or poison—and she wasn’t one to back down from a fight. If there was a way for her to return from death to help us, she would do it without hesitating. She would readily sacrifice herself for our benefit, given half the chance.

“That she was not given the chance is the greatest tragedy for me and those who love her. She died alone and undefended, at the hands of a man who should have been incarcerated in the Haunted City’s deepest, darkest cell. A necromancer, a renegade, a man who knowingly abetted the kidnapper of one of our own. That this man was allowed to commit such a terrible act is the true crime here. Who will pay for this? Who will compensate us for our loss? There is no possible compensation, and we sit here endlessly turning over the details of a grisly death that has no bearing on the life that preceded it.

“There is no mystery. The only matter remaining is to see justice done. I request that this be accomplished speedily, with no further obfuscation, before another of my clan falls at the hands of this maniac.”

Sal’s uncle sat back down in his seat, fairly vibrating with restrained energy. Skender didn’t know if he had meant everything he’d said, but it had certainly had an effect on Sal and Shilly. Lodo’s depiction as a man who deserved to be locked up had set both their lips in lines. They stared furiously ahead as Warden Timbs wrapped up the proceedings.

There would be a break while the judges deliberated. The Alcaide led the procession from the room. When the dais was empty, the doors to the hall opened and the audience was allowed out.

“What do you think?” asked Shilly as their attendants led them to their private chamber. There was food: small pastries containing vegetables and minced meat, accompanied by a fruity dipping sauce.

“I don’t know what to think,” said Sal. “It’s all happening too fast.”

Skender agreed. So much had happened in the previous twenty-four hours; with ghosts and golems and murderers and Weavers all vying for their attention, he felt a strong urge to not think at all. He concentrated instead on the texture of the food in his mouth, the taste on his tongue. I will remember this, he told himself. This will be my anchor, for now.

Under the watchful eyes of the attendants, conversation went no further. When the time came to return to the inquest, they did so obediently enough. It didn’t seem to Skender as though the judges had deliberated for terribly long. Whether that was a good sign, he didn’t know. He was willing to hope on Shilly’s behalf that it might be.

As before, the Syndic and Stone Mage Braunack filed in first, followed by the five faceless judges in their silver and gold robes. This time, though, the judges did not sit down when they had assumed their positions. They stood as the Alcaide came out last of all and took the same seat as before. Warden Timbs stood silently to one side. His role was over.

The Syndic struck the floor three times with her wooden pole then spoke to the assemblage before her.

“The evidence has been presented to you all, and the examination of this sad affair is complete.” She turned to face the Stone Mage beside her. “Are there any doubts as to the process conducted here today?”

“I have none,” said Mage Braunack.

“All that remains, then, is to cast judgment.” The Syndic swivelled to address the judges behind her. “What say you? How does the Strand decide in this matter?”

It was difficult to tell which judge spoke. Skender thought it might have been the one in the middle, although it could have been any of them. Her voice wasn’t muffled as she replied to the Syndic’s question.

“In the absence of evidence to the contrary, we find Payat Misseri guilty of the premeditated murder of Radi Mierlo. There are no contributing factors.”

Skender glanced at Shilly. She shook her head. There was nothing else she could do.

“Very well.” The Syndic turned once again to face the audience. “The judgment of the Strand has been heard. Unless or until evidence to the contrary is presented, that is the way the ruling will stand. We offer our sympathies to the family, and our assurance that every effort to apprehend the guilty party will be undertaken. The deceased’s body will be made available for disposal upon application.”

She bowed to the Alcaide, who rose to his feet and left the hall as silently as he had sat watching. The audience began to murmur as the judges filed out.

“That’s it?” said Shilly as the attendants urged them into the aisle. “Lodo gets the blame?”

“I don’t think you’re the only one who’s disappointed,” said Sal, indicating the Mierlos. His uncle was deep in angry conversation with his aunt. Skender assumed that the Mierlos had hoped to heap some of the blame on the Novitiate and perhaps gain some “compensation” into the bargain.

“What do you think they’ll do now?” asked Shilly.

“I don’t know. Leave, I guess.” Sal turned to Skender. “Hey, Skender, there’s a thought. They’ll probably hitch a ride when Beli takes you back home.”

Skender pulled a face. “Lucky me.”

Before anything more could be said, Warden Timbs hurried up the aisle to intercept them, a roll of papers clutched in one hand. “Sal,” he gasped, red in the face from the exertion. “Wait! I need to talk to you about Mawson.”

Sal stopped in the aisle to speak with the warden. “What about Mawson?”

“Well, he’s your responsibility now. We’ve been keeping him since your grandmother’s death. What would you like us to do with him?”

Sal looked momentarily flustered, and Skender could imagine why. The idea of having a pet man’kin was more satisfying than the reality having to work out how to lug a hundred-kilogram slab of stone around.

“I suppose he could stay in my room,” Sal said. “Is that possible?”

“It can easily be arranged.”

Timbs bowed and went to hurry off, but not before Shilly grabbed the sleeve of his robe and hauled him back.

“What happens if Lodo is caught? No one talked about that.”

Timbs looked around nervously. “That’s not for the inquest to decide.”

“Whose decision is it, then?”

“The Alcaide’s, of course. He will pronounce sentence when it happens.”

Shilly let him go and he scurried off. “He’s never going to be free,” she said angrily. “If they catch him, he’ll rot in a prison somewhere, and I’ll never get him out of here.”

Sal put a hand on her shoulder. “That’s the least of his worries, I think.”

Shilly’s expression changed to one of intense weariness. She nodded and let the attendants guide them away. Skender trailed in silence, wondering how it would feel to have someone close to him in so much trouble. His father, for instance, although it was hard to imagine Skender Van Haasteren the Ninth possessed by a golem, hunted by Sky Wardens, and on the verge of death. The healer had said that Lodo’s body probably wouldn’t survive more than a week or two unassisted. If Lodo were to die soon, then any sentence the Alcaide gave him would be purely academic.

Skender could only be glad that it wasn’t his father who was in that position. It was Lodo. And although he knew it was wrong, Skender couldn’t find the strength in himself to be sad that he might never see that face again.

CHAPTER 10

SHADES OF LIBERTY

The inquest had taken most of the day, so they were let off joining Fairney’s tutorial group late that afternoon. Sal was beginning to wonder what the point was of them even pretending to study when they kept missing so many lessons and tutorials, but there was no escaping their evening homework session with Tom and Kemp. Master Warden Atilde had made it quite clear that the attempt to give them a normal education would continue irrespective of what went on in the world around them. The only concession she made to circumstances was to allow them to study in Sal’s room, so someone could be there when Mawson arrived.

“You missed another interesting day,” said Tom when he and Kemp arrived with two attendants in tow. “We learned how to use squid ink to write preventative charms. Did you know that ground scuttlefish mixed with sea wasp extract can protect wood from spray-rot?”

Sal shook his head. He didn’t know what spray-rot or scuttlefish were, and he didn’t much care.

“I heard about your grandmother,” said Kemp with an expression of very fake sympathy pasted over his overgrown, pallid features. “You’re running out of relatives, stone-boy. At this rate, you really will be an orphan soon.”

“Shut up, Kemp,” said Shilly.

“But I forget.” The bully wasn’t done yet. “That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

“How’s your dad?” Sal shot back. “Got the hang of a fishing net yet?”

Kemp sneered. “At least I have a dad. And a home. And maybe a future, too. That’s a whole lot more than you’ll ever have.”

“Sal has friends,” said Skender, poking the big bully on the arm. “You’re always going to be short of them.”

Sal saw a flash of hurt in Kemp’s eyes as he turned on the smaller boy, threatening Skender with his barrel chest. “Just give me a reason, runt.”

“I thought I just did. Are you deaf as well as stupid?”

“Right. You asked for it.” One meaty hand reached out to grab Skender by the hair.

Shilly pushed it furiously aside. “If you boys don’t stop this right now I’m going to knock your blocks off myself. Especially yours, Kemp. Is that understood?”

Surprisingly, the bully backed down. Glancing at Tom, who stood nearby clutching his notes to his chest with a frightened expression on his face, he said, “Yeah. Let’s all pretend we’re getting along just fine. Whatever makes you happy.”

“What’ll make me happy is a bit of sense from you idiots, for a change.” Shilly crutched herself to Sal’s bed and slid along the mattress so her back was against the wall. “It’s been a long enough day as it is. Let’s not make this any harder than it needs to be.”

His heart still pounding from the confrontation, Sal took a seat on the floor, opposite Skender. The boy looked strangely frustrated, as though he’d hoped that things would go further with Kemp than they had. Sal didn’t understand that. The boy was half the size of the big bully. What was so good about getting an unnecessary pounding?

Tom and Kemp shared the desk, spreading notepapers before them and—in quite different ways—clearly enjoying their roles as junior tutors. Tom was a veritable wellspring of information, bubbling from him with far more eloquence than he normally exhibited. It was hard to keep up with him at times, and Sal didn’t try any harder than he had to. He just listened, made some cursory notes, and hoped the more important aspects would sink in naturally.

Midway through the session, there was a knock at the door. Sal got up to answer it and found a burly man outside, straining under the weight of Mawson. The two attendants standing guard helped him bring the man’kin inside and place him on the table, between Tom and Skender.

“He’s really yours?” asked Tom, his large eyes bugging out even more at his close proximity to the animated granite bust.

“Birds of a feather, I guess,” said Kemp, failing to hide his amazement behind the insult.

Sal thanked the man who had brought Mawson to his room and showed him out. When he closed the door behind him, he found himself caught by the eyes of the heavy, stone man’kin.

“I did this for a reason,” Mawson said to Sal alone, via the Change.

“What reason?”

“I want my freedom, and you will give it to me.”

“How?” Mawson’s tone was so self-assured and cold that he read it as arrogance, at first. “I mean, what if I don’t want you to be free?”

“You don’t have to give it to me, but I will ask it of you. I have helped you, and will help you again in return for my freedom. I assure you that our relationship will not be dissimilar afterward. Ask yourself which you would prefer: a willing collaborator or a servant.”

Another deal, groaned Sal to himself, painfully reminded of where his bargain with the golem had led. What sort of trouble would this one get him into?

But Mawson’s point was quite pertinent. Did he want a slave, or someone who would help him because they wanted to? He didn’t care what the Mierlos would think if he gave away one of their greatest assets. His grandmother had treated Mawson like chattel. Even if the man’kin didn’t help him at all, that would be one weight off his conscience. And he doubted there was much mischief Mawson could do while sitting stonily on his table.

“All right,” he said, “I’ll set you free, if you help me. What did you have in mind?”

The man’kin smiled. “All in good time. You have begun our association with a wise choice. I respond much better to encouragement than what I became accustomed to under your grandmother.”

Mawson might have said more had not something thwacked across his face. The man’kin winced and recoiled as far as he was able. “Tell that fool to cease.”

“Does it do anything more than pull ugly faces?” asked Kemp, bending back his ruler for another smack.

Sal snatched it out of his hands. “It’s not a toy. Treat it with respect and maybe it’ll talk to you.”

“That’s what you were doing just then, was it?” jeered the bully. “And here I was thinking you were just staring off into space.”

Another knock at the door interrupted them. This time it was Sal’s aunt, Roa, standing in the hallway outside. She looked very frail and pale. Her eyes were red and accusatory, as though she blamed Sal for everything that had happened.

And well she might, Sal thought with a stab of compassion and remorse. But for the golem, her mother would still be alive right now.

“I came to tell you that we’ve set a time for your grandmother’s leave-taking,” she said.

Sal stared blankly at her until he realised that “leave-taking” was a way of avoiding saying “funeral”.

“When is it?”

“Tomorrow night at sunset. You have been given approval to attend.” She thrust a card at him with the same motion she might have stabbed him. “Don’t be late. She would want you there.”

Sal took the card. On it was a map indicating where he should go. “Can I bring my friends? I’d feel uncomfortable on my own.”

If his aunt objected to the notion that he would be alone surrounded by his family, she didn’t say anything. “I’m sure that would be all right, as long as they didn’t cause a disturbance.”

“I also would like to attend,” said an unexpected voice.

“You?” Roa peered around Sal at the man’kin with undisguised disgust. “You abandoned us the first chance you got. I suppose you want to gloat.”

“That is not my intention.”

The slight woman clicked her tongue in a manner reminiscent of her mother, but then abruptly folded. Her eyes filled with tears, kept barely in check. “Oh, very well. If you must. I’ll send Aron to collect you shortly before time. He can come with Sal and the others.”

She touched her pockets as though looking for something, then nodded at the map in Sal’s hand. “Yes, I’ve given it to you. I’ll go now.”

Without another word, she turned and hurried up the corridor, leaving a palpable trail of distress behind her. Sal watched her go, an uncomfortable feeling in his chest. Guilt? he wondered.

“What did you do that for?” asked Shilly as he came back into the room, grabbing his sleeve as he went past. “I can’t think of anything worse than hanging out with that sorry lot.”

“Really?” he shot back, glancing at Kemp. “You’d rather do this?”

“Good point.” She slumped back and let him by.

Kemp was watching them through narrowed eyes. “Whatever you’re talking about, I don’t care. And don’t think you’re dragging me along tomorrow night. I’ve got better things to do.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Skender, smiling sweetly. “I know how full your social calendar is.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” said Tom. Sal wasn’t sure if he meant the funeral or was just trying to avoid another fight. “What’s an Interior funeral like, do you think?”

“Nothing too exciting,” said Skender. “In Ulum, they feed bodies into giant compost heaps. No ceremonies there, of course. They just pile them up and let them rot, then plough them back into the soil.”

Tom looked slightly green as he stared open-mouthed at the boy from the north, not realising that what he had said was mostly fabrication. Even Kemp looked slightly disgusted at the thought. Sal smiled to himself, glad that Skender had shown a flash of his old self, at last. The first of many, he hoped.

Shilly slept restlessly that night. Her leg ached, deep in her thigh. When she wasn’t worrying about that, she was thinking about the ghost. Three things troubled her about the last thing it had said to her. The first was that, although she had a heart-name now, she didn’t know what difference that made. The second was that she was sadly deficient on knowledge of the forbidden art of necromancy. The ghost had said the conditions required to bring it into being were quite strict, and she had no idea what they were. The third thing…

Find your heart-name, necromancer. Only then will I have an answer for you.

She didn’t know what the question was, so even if she did obtain an answer, she might not know what it meant.

That didn’t stop her wondering, though. And in the middle of the night, she got up to try an experiment.

The first time the ghost had appeared, it had done so through a lucky coincidence. Her drawing of its face had collided with the mirror in her room during the full moon. The moon was past full, but she hoped there might be enough potency remaining to combine with the other two elements, if she could recreate them.

Leaning on her crutch, she stood in front of the softly glowing mirror and sought her reflection. Although she had no innate ability to manipulate the Change with will alone, she could sense it and the flows it naturally followed. The mirror was a gentle source, but deep. It had reserves it could call on. At that moment, it was barely idling, the faint light it provided just enough to illuminate her face and not quite enough to bury her reflection completely. It was hidden within the light, a shadowy, tenuous thing.

She reached out with her free hand and drew several smooth lines with a stick of charcoal. The lines it left on the glass were faint and smudged, but had exactly the right effect. When she lowered her hand, her reflection didn’t look like her any more. And it was moving…

The ghost stepped toward her out of the light and into focus. It was smudged and indistinct around the edges, as though seen through dirty glass, but it could just as easily have been someone standing on the other side of a window, not an illusion in a mirror. Its handsome features were the same, belying the hard lines around its mouth.

“You’ve called me back,” it said. “Why is that?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “That’s the problem, really. Sal’s mother told us to talk to you, but she didn’t tell us why.”

“You want to open the Golden Tower.”

“Yes. Can you tell us how to do that?”

“You will need a heart-name.”

“I have one now.”

“Good.” The ghost studied her searchingly, and nodded. “You are equipped, then.”

“How?” She kept a tight rein on her impatience, although it was difficult. There were attendants just outside her door, and she didn’t want them wondering who she was talking to. “How does me having a heart-name make a difference?”

“Names bind you. They define you. Heart-names and family names have particular power.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“I suspected you wouldn’t.” The ghost looked resigned. “You must trust me. Names are important. Wars have been fought over them, you know.”

“We’re not fighting a war. We’re just trying to get away from here.”

The ghost stared at her as though she’d said something stupid.

“Do you have a name?” she asked.

“That is irrelevant.”

“Then tell me something that is relevant. Or am I just wasting my time?”

“That depends on how you define ‘relevant’, doesn’t it?”

“Can you tell me where to find the Golden Tower?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me how to open it?”

“No. I told you last time that you would need to find this out yourself.”

“You told me I had to find someone who could tell me what was on the other end of the Way.”

“What Way?”

“The one inside the Golden Tower.”

“I never said it was a Way.”

“You said it was like a Way.”

“No. You said that. You believed what you wanted to believe.”

Shilly resisted an urge to smash the mirror with her crutch. “So it’s not a Way?”

“It’s exactly what I said: a means of crossing between.”

“Between what?”

“Between what you, in your ignorance, would call the cities.”

She nodded slowly. “I think I see, now.” If she understood the ghost right, the Golden Tower connected the three cities that she and Sal had visited: the Haunted City, the abandoned ruin in the Broken Lands, and the Nine Stars. The knowledge reassured her. The Golden Tower might not be a road to paradise, but when they stepped through the Way—or whatever it was—they would definitely end up away from the Haunted City. That was just fine with her. From the Nine Stars they could call for help via the people who lived there looking after the empty-minded the Stone Mages used as vessels during their monthly Synods.

And she understood more than that. The golem probably wanted the Way open so vessels could move more freely to the ruins in the salt lake. It needed hosts, wherever it was, and this was its way of getting its hands—metaphorically speaking—on them.

The job, she decided, would be to make sure that she, Sal and Skender didn’t fall victims to its plans—along with anyone else. Maybe, she thought, if they shut the Way behind them immediately on passing through it, that would stop potential victims following through after them. Forewarned was forearmed.

So the ghost had helped her, perhaps unwittingly. It unsettled her, watching her from the far side of an impossible mirror. It looked and acted perfectly human, but there was something missing from it. Its eyes were empty, as though the space behind its face was hollow. Unlike Mawson, who was solid stone all the way through but seemed perfectly animated, this creature, which had seemed perfectly real the first time she had seen it, was dead on the inside.

“You became angry the last time we talked,” she said, willing to risk the subject again. “Do you remember?”

“Yes,” it said with a scowl.

“Why?”

“This talk of Weavers is nonsense. I prefer not to waste my time.”

“And you have plenty of that, I suppose.”

“Enough to come when you call, yes. But don’t suppose that we see time the same way as each other. To me, every moment is an eternity. Would you like to spend eternity answering a question about something that does not exist?”

“Are you sure the Weavers don’t exist?” she asked, puzzled. She hadn’t expected that answer. “A lot of people seem pretty sure that they do.”

“Those who would have you believe that they are Weavers thrive on such rubbish.”

“No one’s claimed to be a Weaver, that I’m aware of.”

“They wouldn’t, not aloud, but they would let you think it.”

“I’ve never thought it of someone, either.”

“You will. As you near the centre of the lie, you will become increasingly certain that it is the truth. I have seen it happen before.”

“In who?”

“The last necromancer. She became convinced that they were against her.”

A thought sprang fully formed into her mind, as though it had been waiting there, biding its time. “That last necromancer,” she asked. “She wouldn’t have gone by the use-name of Seirian Mierlo, would she?”

“Yes,” said the ghost, looking surprised. “Did you know her?”

“No, but…” She stopped. But I wish I had, she thought to herself. She had met Sal’s father briefly before he died. When Sal did or said things that she hadn’t seen in Dafis Hrvati, she wondered if she was glimpsing Seirian, his mother. They obviously had more than just Sal in common. Shilly couldn’t imagine what it must have been like to be trapped in the Haunted City with nothing but ghosts for company.

A yawn surprised her. She had made some progress on both fronts; the ghost had told her something new, and her body was ready to let her sleep.

“I have to go now,” she said. “Can I call you back like this when I need to?”

“As the moon wanes, this will become increasingly difficult for you to accomplish.”

“How do I do it, then?”

“You must tap another’s power to bring me fully into being,” the ghost said with, for the first time, something like animation in its eyes. “Thus far you have but dabbled. It is time for you to complete the exercise.”

Shilly nodded, knowing instinctively what the ghost meant. For much of her life, she had wondered about illusions of human beings. She had been taught first of all that they were impossible to create. Only later had she learned that it was possible to create something very much like a human, but dangerously empty, ready for things to inhabit. That was the crime called necromancy, of which Lodo had been accused, and which the ghost now associated with her and, apparently, Sal’s mother.

She wasn’t sure she wanted to tread that path, knowing where the other two had ended up. She had come a long way along it already, but it was never too late to turn back.

“I’ll give it some thought,” she said. “Goodnight.”

“There is nothing good about eternity.”

With that, the ghost stepped backward into the diaphanous light. In seconds, there was just her blurry reflection staring at her and a slight smudge on the glass where her sketch had been.

She wiped it away and went back to bed.

“They either exist or they don’t exist. I wish everyone would make up their minds.”

Skender was half-listening to Sal and Shilly discussing the latest visitation of the ghost. It was lunchtime, and he was hungry. He was still growing accustomed to the Strand’s version of cuisine, finding it rather colourless and bland despite the large amounts of salt they used. He made sure he tried something different every day. At least the Novitiate’s rank-and-file system meant that Skender didn’t have to do any of the cooking himself.

He was determined—he refused to call it desperate—to squeeze every last drop of distraction from it, before the novelty wore thin. Anything to keep the murder of Radi Mierlo at bay.

“If the Weavers are just a myth,” Sal went on, revisiting very familiar territory, “who was Behenna really working for? And if they do exist, why doesn’t anyone seem to have a clue who they are or what they want?”

“Beli thought they were interested in breeding stronger Change-users,” said Shilly. “The Mage Erentaite said that they were interested in us. You think Mage Braunack might have been one of them, and she was one of the Judges who voted for keeping us together. Maybe that’s it. They want us to mate.”

Sal uttered an unconvincing laugh.

“I’m not joking, Sal,” she said. She looked as uncomfortable as he did.

What’s this? thought Skender, beginning to pay more attention. His two friends stared at each other for a long moment, then seemed to notice him watching. They both looked away and didn’t meet each other’s eyes again for a long while. Their avoidance was almost amusing to watch.

So that’s why they’ve been so strange, he thought. At the Keep, he’d seen plenty of his fellow students fall into and out of crushes; some led to more serious relationships. He didn’t understand it, but he knew the signs. Sal and Shilly were the right age to be looking for that sort of thing, and they had been through a lot together. And it wasn’t as if they had many other choices. It made sense to him that it might happen.

But was it what the Weavers wanted? He wasn’t able to second-guess a group of people no one was sure even existed. Apart from a few vague hints, he really had only Mawson’s words to go on. Unseen, the man’kin had said, they fashion the tapestry into the shape they desire.

Like real weavers, when a thread or threads have served their purpose…

He cut the memory off and forced himself to concentrate on finishing his lunch.

“I’m more concerned with working out how to find the golem,” Sal said, as though he was talking about slipping a note in class. They were trying very hard not to be noticed in the dining hall, choosing a corner table and keeping out of sight of Tom.

“That’s easy,” Skender said before he could stop himself.

“Really?” shot back Shilly with some of her old fire. “Fill us morons in, then, genius.”

He swallowed a mouthful of meat pie. “Well, you’ve got Mawson now, right?”

“Yes,” said Sal. “How would he know?”

“He wouldn’t. Not directly, but he can talk to other man’kin through the Change. They’re connected. It’s like they know what each other’s thinking without asking.”

“I wish I did,” muttered Shilly.

Skender put down his fork. “You’re forgetting something I know you know. I’m not being particularly smart. You showed Atilde an illusion when you arrived. It was an image of the necklace Lodo used to wear around his neck. You said it was a charm for predicting storms, but it was also—”

“Yadeh-tash!” said Shilly. “A man’kin!”

“Right.” Skender picked up the crust on the edge of his plate and determinedly stuffed half of it in his mouth. “Mawson and yadeh-tash can talk to each other. They can tell you where Lodo’s body is, via the Change.”

“How do we know he’s still wearing tash?” asked Sal.

“The golem said he was when we were on the salt lake,” said Shilly.

“But it could’ve come off since then, or been removed.”

“It wasn’t.” Skender shook his head firmly to cover the gooseflesh spreading over his skin. “I saw it.”

“When he—?”

“Yes.” Skender shuddered and put down the remaining crust. There was no point even thinking about eating now. “He was definitely wearing it.”

“That’s it, then,” said Shilly excitedly. “We can find Lodo any time we want.” She turned to Sal. “You can ask him tonight, after the funeral. Or beforehand, if we have time—”

“And then what?” asked Sal. “Turn Lodo in? That’s what’ll happen if we go looking for him. The attendants follow us everywhere now. We’ll never get a chance to talk without him being arrested.”

“Or worse.” Shilly’s excitement evaporated as quickly as it had come. “You’re right, Sal. Going blundering after him would be a disaster.”

“I hadn’t thought of that either,” said Skender. “Sorry to get your hopes up.”

“That’s okay,” Shilly said to him. “It was a good idea.”

“We’ll know if the golem tries to escape with him,” said Sal. “That’s something.”

“True.”

The end-of-lunch chime rang, and their chance to talk alone ended. Skender put his plates on the bench for cleaning, glad yet again that he wasn’t one of the ones on the other side of the wall facing a mountain of dishes. It was difficult to imagine an environment more different to the Keep, where a small number of students taught each other and performed all the chores between them. The fact that he didn’t have to do any work in order to be fed was appealing, but the rigid timetables and just-one-more-face-in-a-crowd mentality irked him. That morning, the lecturer had quizzed him on some of the finer points of pearl transubstantiation, no doubt hoping to put a student he considered an interloper and potential troublemaker firmly in his place. Skender had answered in precise detail, proud that his memory had come in handy in a subject he had no desire to expend any energy on, but instead of being surprised—let alone pleased—the lecturer had warned him against being cocky. The practical exams would sort the wheat from the chaff, apparently.

Exams? The very thought sent shivers down his spine. The Keep operated on a continuous assessment basis and had never stooped lower than the occasional weekly test. Better to fix a student’s mistakes while he or she was making them, his father said, than wait until it was too late and make them repeat an entire year.

Luckily, Skender thought, he wouldn’t be anywhere near the Haunted City when exams came around. He would be scrubbing pans with Raf and helping Bethe dust. He would mark the dates of the Novitiate exams in his diary when he got home. They would make the everyday drudgery almost enjoyable in contrast.

The three of them walked to Fairney’s tutorial on the edge of the unnamed island, not exactly in the mood to learn more irrelevant charms. Fairney was nice enough, but this wasn’t what Skender had hoped for in the Haunted City. At least, he told himself, he would see something new that night, when they went with Sal to the funeral. That would be a change of routine and an opportunity to see something outside the Novitiate, even if its connection to the murder was uncomfortably close. He hadn’t tested the new security in place on their rooms following the attack on Sal’s grandmother, telling himself that so much as lifting the grille off the air vent might sound an alarm that would bring an end to his exploring. Deep down, he knew that the real reason was because he was nervous of crawling around in the dark on his own. For the moment, it was worse than being locked in his room, unable to explore.

The thought dismayed him. What would his mother think? Abi Van Haasteren was a Surveyor, free to explore the deepest, most dangerous places in the Interior and beyond. He had always wanted to be like her, rejecting the staid, homebound alternative his father offered.

But if the world outside the Keep offered nothing but murder and boredom, why would he want to stay there? There had to be more to it. If he stuck it out a bit longer, he might see what it was.

As soon as the tutorial was over, he hurried back to his room to get changed so he wouldn’t be late for the funeral. He hadn’t brought many clothes with him, but his spare Novitiate uniform would do for something like this, he decided. Cleaners washed their clothes every two days. He shrugged into his spare set then left the room, his attendant dutifully trailing him.

As he rounded the first of the corners that took him to Sal’s room, he almost walked straight into Master Warden Atilde. With her hat pulled down over her face, as though fearing even the dim light allowed to seep into the Novitiate hallways, she didn’t see him until he walked into the billowing sails of her voluminous cloak.

“Goddess!” she exclaimed, disentangling them with gloved hands, taking care not to touch him. “My apologies, young Skender. I didn’t see you there. Are you all right?”

“I’m okay,” he said, feeling himself stare and trying very hard not to. The Master Warden’s hat had gone flying and part of her coif had come away, revealing a hairless, smooth scalp that looked more like a crystal ball than a human head. Light danced on it like the sun on waves. “It was my fault for walking too quickly. I’m sorry.”

“Let’s call it even, then.” She smiled and adjusted her coif. The disturbing glimpse of what lay beneath disappeared. Kneeling, she picked up her hat and returned it to its proper place. She stayed at eye-level with him for a moment.

“You remind me of your father when he was your age,” she said, studying his face with her glassy eyes. “Always in a hurry to get somewhere, never happy where he was. It was an endearing quality, for the most part.”

“You knew him?”

“I taught him, a very long time ago. He was one of my first students, and utterly memorable. His father—your grandfather—sent him here for a season, to give him a glimpse of how the other half lived. He was brilliant and unpredictable. That was when he met Payat Misseri, the man your friends call Lodo.” A wash of sadness spread across her features like nightfall down a cliff face. “It’s amazing to think that we’re still here, after all this time, fighting the same battles.”

“What battles?” he asked, confused and a little startled to hear his father described in such terms. He must surely have misheard “unpredictable”.

She shook her head. “Not the sort that can be won, unfortunately. They are necessary. I understand that. They drive the dynamos that keep both our societies vital. But even vitality has a price…”

She smiled again—at herself, Skender thought.

“But listen to me,” she said, standing up. “Trickling on like a leaky tap. On your way, young Skender, to wherever it is you’re hurrying. Be sure to admire the scenery along the way.”

He obeyed, thinking: Scenery? What scenery? All he saw around him were the walls of the Novitiate like bars in a cage. Even when they were let outside to go to lectures and tutorials, they followed well-worn paths through their quarter of the city. He had seen nothing else since their arrival that he hadn’t stolen for himself. It wasn’t his fault that he was unhappy when cooped up.

With a shake of his head at the craziness of adults, he hurried on his way to Sal’s room, there to wait for their guide to the funeral of the woman whose death he had witnessed.

CHAPTER 11

THE DEEPEST DARKNESS

Half an hour before sunset, Aron came to Sal’s room to collect Mawson. Skender, Shilly and Tom were there, ready to go. As promised, Kemp was nowhere to be seen. Sal was fidgety and restless, not sure what to expect but keen to get it over with regardless.

“I have located yadeh-tash,” Mawson had said just moments before.

“Where is it? Is it still on the island?”

“It is nearby. Its wearer has been watching you.”

“Watching me?” Something cold seemed to slide up Sal’s spine. “Where from?”

“Many different vantage points. Yadeh-tash is a simple creature. It thinks like stone, in slow waves, with little care for anything else. The activities of humans are transient events it barely notices.”

Sal had almost nodded, but turned the motion into a cough to hide from Tom the fact that he was talking to the man’kin. “Thanks for asking,” he had said, although the information didn’t help very much. Later, when he could talk freely, he would explore the possibility more closely. There might be a way for tash to pinpoint a precise location, if only by identifying stone features that were nearby.

Aron was dressed in a simple yellow robe edged in blue with a leather harness strapped around his shoulders. He said nothing when Sal opened the door, but his smile was genuine and uncomplicated.

“How come you get all the dirty work?” Sal asked, waving his burly cousin inside. “They could’ve got someone else to do it, if they’d asked.”

Aron shrugged and crossed to where Mawson sat on Sal’s desk. The man’kin watched the boy he had once referred to as a “steed” approach. There was no sign of familiarity in his expression as Aron turned around and hunched down to tie the leather straps of the harness about the base of the bust. Sal stepped forward, wanting to help, but his cousin was more than capable of doing it on his own. Three straps looped cleverly to anchor the man’kin to his back; then, with a powerful flexing of muscles, Aron stood up.

The man’kin rode his back like a limbless noble, surveying them from a lofty, albeit backward-facing, perspective.

“Let’s do it,” said Shilly. “You’ve got the map, haven’t you, Sal?”

Sal produced it from his pocket. “Right here.” He walked out into the hall and showed it to one of the attendants. “Can you show us the way?” he asked, pointing at where the funeral ceremony was to be held. “We’re allowed to go.”

The attendant nodded. “Master Warden Atilde has given her permission for you to attend. We will escort you there.” He waited until all of them—Sal, Shilly, Skender, Tom, and Aron bearing his heavy burden—were in the corridor with him and the door was closed before heading off. The second attendant brought up the rear as though making sure that no one split off to escape.

They left the Novitiate buildings by the usual way and headed into the city. It was a cloudy evening. The towers were gloomy and grey, ghosts barely visible in their crystalline depths. The additions to the city crouched around the bases of the towers like mushrooms in a forest, low forms greatly reduced in comparison. The streets were dark and narrow as Sal and the others walked on. What little light remained in the day was stretched thin in the artificial canyons. A breeze whistled around them. Sal shivered.

The sound of the sea became more pronounced and the roads more uneven. They passed through a section of the city that reminded Sal of where Gram lived. The shape of the island undulated around the towers, which stood as tall and solid as though they had existed that way for all time. They passed rows of squat houses with tiny windows and doorways, some with lights glowing inside, others that might always have been empty. The air was thick with the smell of old stone and mildew.

They came suddenly to the edge of the city and a wide shelf protruding over a high cliff. Vertigo seized Sal as the attendant led them out onto it. Even though the shelf was over twenty metres wide and there was a low stone wall around the edge to keep the people standing on it safe, Sal could still feel the weight of nothing below, sucking him down. On the northern horizon, barely more than a blur, was the mainland, while above and behind them, the sheer cliffs of glass reflected the last glimmers of the sun, poking through the clouds to the west. The wind was stronger, and tugged stubbornly at him. He felt like a tiny bug, liable to be swept away at any moment.

His mother’s family stood in the dying light at the centre of the platform, dressed in sombre tones. They made no move to greet him. They were clustered around a glass barrel filled with a substance he couldn’t identify—surely not wine, he thought—and a carved stone totem like the ones he had seen in the memorial, where his mother’s was displayed. Standing nearby but not with them was Shom Behenna. He was wearing a deep black robe, as though in mourning, and glowered at Sal when he arrived.

The attendants left him and his friends to their own devices. Sal felt momentarily lost. He knew he should talk to his relatives, but what would he say? He’d never been to a funeral before.

A small hand slipped into his.

“Carah,” he whispered through the Change. He would recognise Shilly’s scent anywhere. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“Well, I’m not,” she replied, shifting her crutch into a less uncomfortable position after the long walk. “Don’t get cocky, Sayed. That’s my advice.”

“Sal, you came.” He looked up to see Highson Sparre approaching. His real father acknowledged Shilly and the others with a smile. Sal introduced him to Tom.

“Quite a little gang, aren’t you?” Highson inclined his head to Mawson. “And you, the stone man. You’re in fine company now.”

“A distinct improvement,” the man’kin agreed.

“Is Gram here?” asked Sal.

“She doesn’t get out much any more. I’m afraid that something like this would only distress her.”

A throat cleared loudly and silence fell around them. Shilly and Sal turned with everyone else to face the seaward edge of the walled space, where a Sky Warden stood with arms extended as though to embrace them all.

“We are here,” said the warden, a thin man with long, solemn features, “to mourn the loss of a loved one. Radi Mierlo was a woman known to you all. A mother to some; to others an aunt, a grandmother, a friend, a colleague, and perhaps even an enemy.” The warden smiled faintly. “She was a powerful presence in all our lives. That presence will be deeply missed, and by this simple ceremony we honour her. Through us, her memory will persist. Her life and death enriches us, even as we grieve. Ranan, Roa?”

Sal’s uncle and aunt stepped forward. Between them they held the glass urn. As the sun slipped below the horizon, they raised it between them and held it aloft for a moment while the warden said a few more words.

“We consign these ashes to the sea, where they may mingle with the world’s waters and spread to cover the earth. Radi Mierlo, beloved of those gathered here today, may you rest in peace and be forever missed. From the Void you came and to the Void you return. So be it.”

With a cry of grief, Sal’s uncle and aunt hurled the glass urn over the edge. There was a moment’s silence, then from far below came the sound of glass smashing on rocks. Sal’s aunt fell sobbing into the arms of her brother, and her husband and children closed in to comfort her.

Sal didn’t feel any grief, but he felt bad for those who did. His guilt urged him to offer some form of apology or recompense, but how that would be possible was beyond him. As the stars came out one by one above them, and the blank faces of the towers turned from pink to grey to black, he stood in silence, unaware of just how tightly he was squeezing Shilly’s hand until he let it go.

“Is that it?” asked Skender restlessly.

“No, there’s more.” Highson smiled at the boy. “There’s a memorial to plant.”

“Why are they using Strand customs?” asked Tom. “I thought she was from the Interior.”

“Well, you thought right. She was cremated, which is an Interior tradition, but I doubt her family could afford a full burial at sea, so they probably had no choice there.” Sal’s real father shrugged. “I suppose it’s an appropriate blend of who she was and who she wanted to be.”

The knot of grieving Mierlos loosened. Sal’s uncle and aunt picked up the stone totem between them and led a procession from the stone lookout back into the city. Stars were beginning to appear in the darkening sky above. Sal, bringing up the rear with the others, was sad to abandon them quite so soon. He missed them in the claustrophobic canyons of the city, where the sky was little more than a remote sliver.

They wound in silence through the narrow streets. Passers-by occasionally stopped in respect, but most walked on, wrapped up in their own concerns. That struck Sal as the most profound thing of the entire ceremony: that no matter how important Radi Mierlo was to her own family and how dramatic an effect she had had on Sal’s life, or how awful her death had been, most of the world had never known who she was. Her absence would be noted only by a few dozen people; whether they mourned or celebrated was largely irrelevant.

He wondered if it would be the same with him. After all the effort some people had expended to ensnare him in their traps, would his death make much difference in the greater scheme of things? Would the Weavers—whoever they were—just shrug their shoulders and move on to the next promising wild talent?

The procession reached the massive clearing in the centre of the city and fanned out around the section containing his mother’s marker. The one other time he had seen the stone pole carved with Seirian Mierlo’s name, Sal had been unaffected by it, unable to connect it with a living person, especially one he had never known. This time, however, as his grandmother’s marker was planted firmly in the ground next his mother’s, it began to sink in that his mother had been as real as his grandmother—had been a woman who had left behind loved ones and friends, and enemies. She had been a real person, not an iconic image from his distant past with the barest bones of a story attached. He knew her face, now. The picture Gram had given him was kept close, in a pocket near his heart.

Highson Sparre was standing nearby, hands folded in front of him. “What happened to my mother’s body?” Sal whispered to him.

His real father didn’t seem startled by the question. “She was cremated, like Radi.”

“And thrown into the sea?”

“No. She was sown into the soil on the mainland, as was her wish.”

“By who?”

Highson hesitated. “By me.”

One of the mourners shushed them, and Sal was forced to let the obvious question go unasked. Why would the man who had expended so much energy to track down his treacherous wife honour her with the burial she wanted, when he could just as easily have tossed her remains off the edge of the island, as had just happened with her mother?

The warden finished installing Radi Mierlo’s marker with a simple charm to protect it from weathering. It stood next to her daughter’s, slightly taller and broader and carved with the names of the family members she left behind. As Sal filed past for a closer look, he was surprised to see his own name there, at the very bottom of the list. He wasn’t surprised, however, to see it written incorrectly as Sal Graaff, his parents’ married name.

Could I alter that? he wondered. Could I reach down with one finger and make the stone melt to cover the name? Could I make the letters themselves change shape until they spelt “Hrvati”?

He was tempted to try, knowing how it would irk the Mierlos. But he didn’t seriously consider it. The Change was supposed to be put to more important uses.

It’s a powerful gift and a terrible responsibility, that’s for sure, Lodo had once said, and big things don’t mix well with little people.

Sal didn’t want to be a little person—but he was increasingly unsure he wanted the big things, either. It seemed sometimes that he had little choice about the latter. Only the former was under his control.

Stone Mage Luan Braunack, resplendent in a deep rust-red robe, stepped forward out of the shadows to place a brass collar around the top of the memorial, like a metal cap. Sal hadn’t seen her during the first part of the ceremony. He assumed she had joined the procession on its way back into the city. She didn’t stick around, either. Having put the metal cap in place, she bowed stiffly and left, apparently unaware of the dark looks she earned doing so.

“What was that all about?” hissed Skender.

“Point-scoring,” Highson replied, his brown eyes turning to black in the deepening night. “The cap signifies that the person remembered by the memorial was an Interior citizen. Mage Braunack was reminding the family that, try as they might to believe otherwise, the Mierlo Clan remains just that. It will never be a Line of the Strand.”

“My mother’s doesn’t have a metal cap,” Sal said.

“That’s because we joined the Rain Line when we wed.” Highson shrugged. “It’s splitting hairs, I know, but there you have it. Politics is ever about this sort of thing.”

The long-faced warden closed the ceremony with a word of thanks on behalf of the family to everyone who attended. They were grateful, he said, that so many people had turned up to honour their loved one. The words rang hollow at the obvious fact that so few had turned up, beyond the family itself. There were only a few faces Sal didn’t know in the mourning party. If he hadn’t brought his friends with him, it might almost have been just Sal and his real father watching from the sidelines as the family grieved. He hoped his grandmother hadn’t been expecting military honours.

Shom Behenna was still hovering in the background, glaring from the shadows.

Shilly nudged him. She too had noticed the ex-warden’s baleful stare.

“What’s up with him?” she asked.

“Didn’t you hear about his disciplinary hearing?” asked Tom, whispering conspiratorially.

Sal and Shilly both turned to face him. “No,” she said, “what happened?”

“He was formally stripped of his rank.”

“I thought they did that already,” said Skender.

“They had to give him a chance to appeal. It didn’t get him anywhere. The charges stuck. Yesterday, the Alcaide destroyed his torc and took away his robes. He has until the end of the week to leave the city.”

“Where will he go?” asked Shilly.

“I don’t know,” said Tom, blinking at her as though the question had never occurred to him.

“What does it matter?” asked Skender. “The point is, he’s taken a well-deserved fall for what he did.”

“But what was it you said?” Sal tried to remember how Skender had summarised his grandmother’s conversation with the ex-warden the night they arrived in the Haunted City. “Wasn’t there something about the Weavers contacting him before the hearing?”

Skender shrugged. “I guess they didn’t.”

“And I guess they didn’t help him out, either,” said Shilly. “What does that tell us about them?”

“That they don’t care,” said Sal, “or they don’t exist at all.”

A twinge of guilt nagged at Sal, deep down. I did this to him, he thought. I encouraged Behenna to break his vows, and the Mage Van Haasteren—who had guessed Sal’s plan and could have warned Behenna—did nothing to prevent it from working. We’re as guilty as the Weavers, in his eyes. We destroyed him.

But there was nothing he could do about it now. Sal had done the best he could in a difficult situation; it wasn’t as if he’d done it out of malice. Sal had simply opened the trap and let Behenna step into it.

The ceremony ended. The attendants closed in as the grieving family moved off in a group to their temporary home, not inviting Sal to join them. They seemed to be making a point of not noticing him, even though his aunt had asked him to be there. That was fine with him. When they did notice him, their resentment was obvious. He could live without that.

“Well, that could have been worse.” Highson’s expression was one of sober relief as the small crowd thinned around them. “I presume you don’t intend sticking around here all night…”

“No,” said Sal, “we have to get back to the Novitiate.”

“You know the way?”

“Yes. Thanks.” Sal felt awkward. “I, uh, guess we’d better go.”

Highson nodded farewell to him and his friends. “I’ll see you again—soon, I hope.”

Sal didn’t know how to respond to that, so he let himself be led away in silence. When they reached the edge of the memorial grounds, he looked back. Highson was already gone.

“He’s not so bad,” said Skender.

“What do you mean?” Sal responded, more sharply than he intended.

“Well, just that. He’s not as bad as I thought he would be.”

“And what did you think he would be?”

Skender laughed. “Look at you, Sal. You don’t know whether to attack or defend him. I can’t tell you what you should do. I just know that he answers your questions. That counts for something in my book.”

“And did you notice that no one talks to him?” put in Shilly. “The Mierlos ignore him as much as they ignore us.”

“Probably for the best,” Skender joked.

Sal felt his face grow hot. It was true. He didn’t know what to think any more. The reality of Highson Sparre conflicted with the image he had built up in his mind. It had been so much simpler before, when his real father had been a terrible ogre far-off in the distance, someone to avoid and fear.

The small of Sal’s back itched as they hurried through the streets of the Haunted City. He imagined that he could still feel the cold weight of Behenna’s stare dogging his footsteps, even though there was no sign of the ex-warden behind them. Apart from Sal and his friends, the streets were now empty; the citizens of the Haunted City seemed to have retreated into their makeshift shelters, wary of what else might walk the night. And there was definitely something in the air. For the first time, Sal was glad of the two attendants accompanying them. It was with some relief that he recognised the Novitiate buildings ahead.

They passed through the entrance without incident and walked the long, windowless corridors to Sal’s room. The lead attendant opened the door and both attendants positioned themselves outside it once Sal and his friends had filed inside. Sal closed the door while the others went to help Aron remove Mawson from his harness. The man’kin had remained silent throughout the funeral ceremony, and Sal was unsure why he had felt the need to be there, but there was no point questioning him. Mawson kept his own counsel.

Barely had Aron begun undoing the first buckle, however, when there came a solid thump from the other side of the closed door. It didn’t sound like a knock. Opening the door, Sal came face to shadowed face with a hooded, black-robed attendant.

“What is it?” he asked, not yet alarmed.

The figure took one step toward him, forcing him back into the room. Only then did he see the bodies of two attendants slumped in the hallway.

His first thought—bright and sharp, fuelled by fear and guilt—was: Behenna.

Then the attendant spoke. It wasn’t Behenna. It was far worse.

“It’s time,” said the golem.

From the depths of the hood, cold eyes glittered.

Shilly looked up from helping Aron to see Sal take a hasty step backwards. It was almost a small jump, he moved so quickly. Wrapping his arms tightly around himself, he said, “Did you kill them, too?”

Fear leached all strength from her good leg as the golem pulled back the hood of its robe and smiled at Sal. It was worse than she had imagined.

There was Lodo’s face before her—the craggy, tattooed features that were more familiar to her than her own—but they were thin, haggard, and filled with a malevolence that he had never possessed. Lodo’s hair had been torn out in patches, and hung in lank, dirty tangles where it remained.

This wasn’t the man who had been the only family she had ever known—the man who had raised her, taught her, and ultimately sacrificed himself to save her from those who wanted to take her and Sal captive.

Skender uttered a small cry, and the face turned to him. “Did I kill them, too?” the golem repeated, drinking in the boy’s fear. “A fair question. Why don’t you find out, Galeus?”

The use of Skender’s heart-name seemed to give him a speck of strength. “Don’t call me that. I didn’t tell you my name, so you can’t use it.”

“You’re wrong.” The golem’s smile stretched even wider. “I can use whatever name I like. You!” The creature inhabiting Lodo’s body suddenly pointed at Tom, who recoiled from the attention. “You’ve seen me before. You know what happens. You check the bodies. Galeus will help you drag them inside before someone sees them.” When Tom didn’t move immediately, the golem’s smile disappeared. “Do it,” it snarled, its fingers curling like claws, “or your time will come early.”

Tom edged around the golem to where the two attendants lay in the hallway. He nervously checked their pulses, and looked up with something like relief. “They’re alive.”

“That’s right,” said the golem. “I don’t kill unnecessarily. But they’ll be unconscious for a long while. Drag them inside and put them under the bed. If they’re found, there’ll be hell to pay.”

Skender, barely able to take his eyes off Lodo’s twisted face, edged around the golem and helped Tom drag the bodies into the room. It took all their strength, and Sal went to lend them a hand.

The golem stepped between him and the others. “Stay away from the door. You’re not going to escape me now.”

“Why would I?” said Sal, his expression flushed and angry. “We have a deal. There’s no need for all this.”

“Oh, there’s need.” The golem poked him hard in the chest, making him stagger back a step. “I’ve tried to approach you in the open, but you’re watched too closely. Only in here could I get near you, and even then it was difficult. Ever since your grandmother so tragically passed away, they’ve been extra careful with their prize student. With both of you. You’re watched from the moment you enter to the moment you leave.”

“But you’ve got us now,” said Sal, “and you’re going to take us to the Golden Tower.”

“Yes.”

“You still want us to open it?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“That you will find out in good time.”

“Why did you kill her?” Skender blurted, pale-faced.

The golem turned on him with an awful, gleeful grin. “Why? Because I could, and to attract Sal’s attention. That’s reason enough.”

“No one told you to do it?”

“Of course not. I obey no will but my own.” Skender quailed as the golem loomed over him. “I kill as I please. It would be wise to bear that in mind.”

“I don’t believe you,” Shilly said, finding her voice but hating the tremor in it.

“I can’t lie,” the golem spat. “Remember?”

“You can still trick us. You can let us believe something that’s wrong. You can still…” She stopped as the cold, grey eyes turned to her.

“Is that so, Carah? Such a pretty name, by the way. The old man couldn’t have done better, had he the chance.”

The golem reached out a hand to touch her hair. She slapped it away. Its skin was clammy to the touch, and there was too much bone showing even for an old man.

“Don’t touch me.” Her anger flared brightly. “We didn’t ask for this. This isn’t what we wanted.”

“Yes, it is. You want the old man back. And you—” The golem pointed at Sal, “—you want to escape. Well, this is the way to get both. If you turn back now, you’ll have neither.”

The golem didn’t try to touch her again, but that was only a small victory. She hated the way it took things that were dear to her and twisted them into something horrible. First Lodo, then her heart-name. What next?

I kill as I please. It would be wise to bear that in mind.

If it was telling the truth, that meant that the Weavers hadn’t ordered it to kill Radi Mierlo. But as the ghost had said, there were ways to deceive using only the truth. Perhaps it was still lying to her, in ways she couldn’t decipher. She didn’t know what to believe, except that Lodo’s body was standing right in front of her, animated by a creature that had already murdered one person and might easily kill again.

The golem turned away. She sagged against the desk, glad to be released from its stare and feeling like she was going to throw up. Tom and Skender had dragged the bodies inside and were in the process of rolling them under Sal’s bed. While the awkward job of poking various limbs out of sight was under way, the golem shut the door.

“Don’t do that,” it said to Aron, who had undone two of the buckles on his harness and was preparing to lean Mawson back onto the table. The man’kin was as stiff and unresponsive as inanimate stone, and just as heavy. Aron looked up questioningly in mid-movement.

“No one stays,” said the golem. “You’re all coming.”

“That’s not fair,” said Sal angrily. “The deal was with me, not them.”

“They’ve seen me here. If they stay behind, they’ll sound the alarm. I cannot allow that to happen.”

“Can’t you lock them in here?” Sal looked desperately around him, as though hoping an alternative would appear out of thin air. “Tie them up or something?”

“Not unless you want me to do to them as I did to the attendants—”

“No,” said Sal quickly, “don’t do that.” To Shilly and the others, he said, “I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”

Tom was breathing heavily from the exertion of moving the bodies and staring at the golem. “You’re not Lodo,” he said. “You’re something else.”

“That’s right, boy. Very quick. Didn’t your dreams tell you that?”

Tom nervously shook his head. “Where are you taking us?”

“Down. Deep underground, via the unseen places.” The golem’s depthless stare swept over them all, one by one. “When we leave here, you will follow me wherever I take you and do everything I say. Even you, Mawson.”

The man’kin’s name didn’t provoke a response.

The golem flipped the hood back over its head, hiding Lodo’s ravaged face from view. Shilly was glad for that, even though it didn’t dim the malignant presence.

“It’s time to go.” The golem opened the door.

“Wait a second.” Sal grabbed his pack from where it lay in one corner and slung it over his shoulder. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”

Shilly forced herself to look away as she crutched after Sal through the doorway. The cold, dark place where Lodo’s face had been followed her hungrily.

At the far end of the corridor she thought she saw movement.

Help us! she wanted to scream. Don’t let it take us away!

But the movement wasn’t repeated, and no cry of warning went up. They were on their own.

Skender followed the others numbly. He felt like a puppet. His body moved of its own volition while his mind cowered deep inside it, deliberately cutting itself off from that face and those eyes and the memory of what those hands had done. Interspersed with the golem’s veiled threats were vivid images of those threats made real: kicking limbs growing limp; bright red blood on blue lips and cheek; cooling flesh where once had been someone real and alive.

That could be any of them. He knew the golem’s threat wasn’t an idle one, and he didn’t want it to be him.

You can’t escape me, Galeus Van Haasteren.

Skender felt the cold eyes of the golem on him as it urged them along the corridor. He hadn’t been taught about golems at the Keep, but he had chanced across numerous references to them in old books and other texts. They were disembodied creatures that lived in areas around which reservoirs of the background potential of the Change were concentrated. That Sal and Shilly had met this particular golem in the Broken Lands city was no surprise, nor was the fact that it had also appeared in the Haunted City, since both places were enormously rich in the Change. That was what made the cities so dangerous: they were like oases in a desert, around which predators congregated.

Worse than any physical goad was the knowledge of what it was that had captured them. Golems survived by inhabiting bodies that had been otherwise vacated. Some people lost their minds naturally, through age or illness; others forced themselves out by overextending themselves through the Change. In either case, a golem could take up residence in the husk left behind. Change-workers were particularly at risk, and it was in just such a victim that this golem had appeared both times to Sal and Shilly. Lodo was probably the latest in a line of such hosts for the powerful, ancient mind that now inhabited it.

Where it had come from originally, though, Skender didn’t know. Golems were mysterious creatures and difficult to study. Some people thought that a golem could inhabit more than one body at once; others wondered if the boundaries between individual golems were blurry—so blurry that there might be only one individual golem in all the world, manifested in many different forms. Few people had communicated with golems in disembodied states, as Sal had, and no one knew exactly what they were made of when they had no bodies. Perhaps they were presences woven out of the background potential; perhaps they took their form from the Void Beneath. Speculation was rife among scholars.

Nothing Skender had ever read or heard could tell him how to exorcise a golem from a victim’s body. And no one that he knew of had managed to kill a golem. Attacking it using the Change was futile, since that would only make it stronger. For all he knew, they could be invulnerable to any method of removal, and they would be stuck with this one forever.

Until it grew tired of them…

“Left.” The golem directed them deeper into the Novitiate buildings, through arched tunnels they hadn’t visited before. The fog of remembered terror separating Skender from reality lifted slightly in the face of new experiences, new memories to be laid down. The stone walls grew darker and smoother, as though worn down by more than time. The constant swish of robes, the brushing of fingers, the air itself circulating through the dark passages—all must have contributed to give the rough stonework a round, blunted feel. The ways were lit every four metres or so by mirrored panels in the ceiling, casting second-hand moonlight on the worn tiled floor.

“Quietly, now.”

They passed two large glass doors through which they saw a black shadow pacing to and fro. Skender bit his lip to stop himself from crying out. As afraid as he was of where they might be going, he didn’t want to end up like Radi Mierlo. He would do as he was told.

They came to a shadowy dead-end. The golem rolled up the sleeves of its host body and reached to touch two points high in each corner. There was a metallic click. Skender felt something crawl across his skin, like bugs—then the wall before them fell heavily away into darkness. The golem had opened a secret entrance.

“Inside,” it said, “but go no further than four paces. I will guide you further when the door is shut behind us. Make no sound at all.”

Sal went first, clutching his pack, followed by Shilly, then Skender, who stood nervously in the utter blackness. Damp, chill air entwined itself around his neck, wrists and knees as Aron came through the opening behind him, silently bearing the heavy weight of the man’kin strapped to his back. Sal’s cousin wasn’t as blank as usual; his face showed signs of worry, perhaps even fear. Skender felt sorry for him as the golem shut the door and darkness fell with a soft thud.

“Wait.” The golem held them still with its cold presence. “Your eyes will adjust.”

Skender hugged himself as images of murder and blood loomed out of the darkness. If the golem killed them now, would anyone ever discover their bodies? If they escaped from it, would they ever be able to open that doorway? They were completely at its mercy.

Out of the sides of his vision, a deep green glow appeared. It seemed to spread across his eyes like ink through water, revealing what lay before them in degrees of shadow. The first things he saw were the faces of his friends. Shilly’s eyes were wide and reflected the pallid, sickly light back at him; Sal watched the golem as it moved fluidly around them, wary of its sinister grace; Mawson was looking back and forth as though searching for something. Tom’s eyes were tightly shut, too afraid to look…

Only then did Skender realise what lay beyond, on the walls and ceiling pressing in around them. What he had at first assumed were just random bumps and protrusions suddenly became faces: thousands of them crowding in on all sides, from the very large, with exaggerated bulbous, twisted features, to tiny mask-like heads peering from the cracks. They loomed out of the darkness like a manic crowd, threatening to overwhelm him.

“W-what are they?” he heard himself say.

“Bas-relief.” The reply came from an unexpected quarter. Mawson had finally broken his silence.

“Are they alive?” asked Shilly.

“No. They do not answer my call.”

The light, Skender realised, was coming from fungus growing on the wider, flatter sections of the carved faces. Foreheads and cheeks were brightest, making the faces appear as though they were lit from above, but when Skender looked up, all he saw were more giant, waxy visages, leering grimly down at the others.

“We’re not here to sightsee,” said the golem. “We have a long way to go.”

“Lead the way, then,” said Sal. “We’re not stopping you.”

The shadowy, hooded figure loomed in the near-darkness. “Where I step, you will follow. Tread carefully. Touch nothing unless I tell you to. We are in places not meant to be visited. The less we disturb, the better.”

Skender nodded automatically. He could feel the Change swirling around him in the oily, thick air. Something about it reminded him of the Divide, the unnatural canyon that separated the Interior from the Strand. There were things that lived on the bottom of the Divide that made crossing it perilous. A whisper at the back of his brain told him that the place they were heading to was just as perilous, and not only because of the golem taking them there.

The golem’s shadow seemed to foreshorten and shrink. When Skender’s turn came to follow Shilly, he realised that the face-lined tunnel descended sharply down into the earth, turning in a tight spiral. The ceiling was low in places, forcing Aron to crouch awkwardly in order to spare Mawson a solid crack across the back of the head. As they wound their way underground, they passed an endless procession of painfully depicted emotions: exaggerated grins, teeth-exposing grimaces, wide O’s of surprise. It was like travelling through a world of madness, Skender thought, where everything was too vivid, too intense.

“The dark side of the city,” said Mawson into his mind. “The underbelly of civilisation.”

“Are you reading my thoughts?” he shot back through the Change.

“Only when they want to be read.”

What that meant, Skender had no idea. “Why didn’t you warn us when the golem was nearby? You could sense yadeh-tash. You must have known it was coming.”

“I knew.”

“Well? Why didn’t you tell us? We could all be killed down here!”

If Mawson was bothered by the accusation that he had been negligent, it didn’t show in his voice. “I do what I must.”

“You’re supposed to be serving Sal. Or so I thought. Some help you’ve been to him so far. You could at least have called for help.”

“I cannot. I am—”

“Silence!” hissed the golem. “No unnecessary talking of any kind. You will do as I say, or I’ll leave you here alone!”

Skender shuddered, imagining how it would feel to be left in the dark for hours on end—or forever. It didn’t bear dwelling upon. Instead, he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, and avoiding looking at the ghastly stares of the bas-relief faces surrounding him. The slope was steep and occasionally rough underfoot. He didn’t want to slip and wrench his ankle. He kept his eyes on the shadow of Tom directly ahead of him, watching his rate of descent and noting when he stumbled. By narrowing his universe to just the metre or two around him, he was able to avoid thinking about what they were doing and why they were doing it—and murder—as they descended through the bowels of the city.

Time passed with nightmarish slowness. Their footsteps and the regular tap-tap of Shilly’s crutch were loud, but not as deafening as the sound of Skender’s breathing to his own ears. No one dared speak, except to mutter a curse when they stumbled. He began to feel as though he had been trapped in the tunnel forever, and would never leave.

He had no idea how long they had been descending the hideous spiral when, with a sharp cry, Shilly slipped. There followed a confusion of sounds from Sal and the golem, and everything came to an abrupt halt. Skender bumped into Tom’s back, and Aron very nearly walked right over both of them, struggling to deal with Mawson’s momentum as well as his own.

“Are you okay?” Sal’s words sounded shockingly out of place in the darkness.

“I—uh, I think so.” There came the sound of Shilly’s crutch scraping the tunnel floor. She was being helped to her feet, Skender thought. Strangely muffled echoes swept around them, making it hard to tell what was happening.

“Can you walk?”

“I’ll try.” Shilly’s voice was strained. “I’m not sure how much longer I can go on like this, though.”

Skender concurred wholeheartedly. The atmosphere in the tunnel, now that they were no longer moving, was suffocatingly dense. He felt as though it was pouring down his nose and throat and filling up his lungs with choking blackness. The walls and ceiling were drawing in around them; he was sure of it. They were going to be crushed, buried alive, lost forever.

They weren’t moving. The golem hadn’t warned Sal and Shilly to be quiet, and it wasn’t urging them forward. Had it left them to their fate? A whimper came out of the greenish darkness. Skender couldn’t tell where it came from. It sounded like Tom, but it could have been anyone—even him. He was melting into the walls, losing all sense of himself. The faces pressed in, leering and mouthing unheard obscenities. They wanted to eat him—to make him one of them. He felt a scream bubbling up inside him, and he was afraid to let it out in case the faces caught him in the act and preserved his terror forever in the walls of the tunnel—another victim of some terrible, ancient magic.

A flash of yellow light split the darkness. Skender shrank down as though someone had struck him. The walls and ceiling reared up over him. Faces pulled back in alarm as the light bloomed, dispelling the shadows with a powerful white glare. He straightened, and sensed the others doing the same. Tom looked around in dazed shock, his pupils pinpoints and his dark features washed out by the brightness. Aron, light-skinned like Skender, seemed to shine with a painful intensity as he leaned on the nearest wall for support, straining under Mawson’s weight. Even the man’kin, grey and age-scarred, looked shocked.

Only one of them stood upright, holding the source of the light aloft in both hands. Skender barely recognised Sal: his features were tight, as though with pain; every muscle strained. Skender watched, amazed, as the light grew brighter then receded with a sudden flicker.

“I can’t hold it for long,” Sal said through gritted teeth. “Shilly—you have to help me.”

Shilly put her hand on Sal’s shoulder. The light stabilised, bright enough to see by but not too bright. Sal’s fingers made a semi-transparent cradle around the light, painting the stone faces around them an almost natural shade of pink.

The light-sink, Skender realised. Lodo had had the rare talent of making glass globes that absorbed light during the day then released it at night. The globe he had given Sal had been much smaller than usual, and a deep, dense grey, indicating that it had absorbed a very large amount of light. The one time they had tried to waken it in the Keep, its intensity had seemed almost dangerous, as though it might explode.

“The golem,” said Tom. “Look!”

All heads turned to where he pointed. Lodo’s body lay on its side a half-turn down the spiral. It lay unmoving as they shuffled toward it, keeping the light high above them.

“I knocked him—it—over when I fell,” said Shilly.

“Is he dead?” asked Skender, not sure what to hope for.

Tom tentatively pulled back the hood. The old man’s eyes were open but empty of life. There was nothing in there at all, good or evil.

“I—I can’t tell.” The boy reached under the robe to touch the man’s tattooed neck. “There’s a pulse, but—”

Lodo blinked, and something dark and cold settled back into place behind the old man’s features.

“What are you doing?” asked the golem, pushing Tom away. “Get that light out of my eyes!”

“What happened back there?” asked Shilly.

The golem scowled and struggled upright. “This vessel is old and weak. I yearn for something younger, stronger.”

“It wasn’t just you,” said Sal. “We all felt it.”

The golem looked at him darkly before replacing the hood. It seemed rattled beneath the thin facade of annoyance. “Our presence has been noted, now. The unseen places are dangerous, and we mustn’t linger. The light is a good idea. Keep it burning steadily, but no brighter. No funny business. We’re almost at the bottom.”

The golem headed off down the tunnel at an increased pace. They followed as though trapped by its wake.

Skender bit his lip. He wanted the golem to answer Tom’s question. What had happened to change the atmosphere in the tunnel from oppressive to actively dangerous? Was it Shilly’s fall that had triggered the change, the brief pause in their descent, or had they done something else wrong? What might they do next, and what could be the response?

“There is another,” said Mawson.

Skender glanced behind him. The man’kin was reading Skender’s thoughts again, not to mention risking the ire of the golem by giving him what he assumed was supposed to be an explanation.

He wondered, another what? Another person in the tunnel with them?

But all he saw behind them was Aron slogging on, sweating and red-faced beneath his burden. If the man’kin was still listening, he made no sign.

CHAPTER 12

A SMALL AMOUNT OF LIGHT

Sal was more relieved than he’d ever been when they reached the bottom of the tunnel and found themselves in a smooth, straight passage free of hideous faces. Light shone softly in the distance. The last stretch had been awful beyond imagining, as the formless pressure in the air had closed around the light like a suffocating smog. He had begun to hear voices—or imagined that he could—just beyond his hearing. Strange, silent cries, wordless and agonised, seemed to hang frozen in the air, demanding a response. He had to bite his tongue to stop himself from shouting out—not in reply, but to beg it to cease.

As soon as the light ahead of them was bright enough to see by, he gratefully let the globe sputter and fade. It hadn’t dimmed even slightly during their descent, and he sensed that it still had plenty of light remaining in reserve. Stopping it from releasing it all at once was the problem. Instead of delivering a trickle, it wanted a flood. Keeping it in check had been more exhausting than starting it in the first place.

In his head, keeping him going, were the words of Lodo from weeks back, when the old man had given him the globe: A thing is only as valuable as the need it fills, he had said. I think you will need a little light in the future, wherever you go. Glad that he had followed the impulse to bring the globe with him, knowing only that they were going underground for an unknown length of time, he had summoned the patterns Skender had showed them in the Keep and brought the globe to life. Just a small amount of light can dispel the deepest darkness. The Mage Erentaite had told him that in the city of the Nine Stars. And it was true; the suffocating tentacles in the tunnel of faces had been pushed back for a while, allowing him to breathe again.

Shilly let go of him and sagged gratefully onto her crutch. Her assistance in maintaining the charm had been essential, although he wondered just how much of its effects she had experienced. The eyes of the faces in the bas-relief walls and ceilings had seemed to move as they passed, following him, winking or rolling maniacally. Strange shadows had swirled around the globe, like moths around a flame, desiring the light but wary of it at the same time. And around the face of the golem—

Perhaps Shilly had seen that, too: Lodo’s face wreathed with ghostly tentacles and fringes, as though one of Fairney’s many-limbed underwater creatures was growing out of it. If she had seen it, that would explain the additional tension he sensed in her. The ghostly fringes hadn’t been there when the golem had collapsed to the ground. They had appeared only when it awoke and took control of Lodo’s body. Sal was convinced that what he was seeing was the golem itself—the strange, bodiless thing that inhabited Lodo’s flesh and made it dance to its will.

The tunnel sloped down very slightly now. The last few metres were covered in a thin layer of perfectly flat sand. There were no footprints, even of animals. If anyone or anything had come this way before them, it hadn’t been for a very long time.

The light was moonlight. They emerged from the tunnel onto a crescent-shaped stretch of sand, huddling under the arches of a cavernous stone cathedral carved over aeons by water jetting through a crack in the island’s cliff face. A small patch of sky peered around jagged stone ramparts, far above. They had been in the dark long enough for the stars to seem very bright. Waves boomed in the distance, but the tide pool in front of them was very still, lapping gently at the strip of beach as though belonging to a completely different ocean. Isolated and hidden from the rest of the world, the grotto was like a sinister oasis, slowly stagnating.

A cloud of tiny, flying insects swarmed around, driven to a frenzy by their sudden appearance. Behind him, Skender swatted at the air in annoyance.

“Ugh! Bloody things.”

“They won’t hurt you,” said Shilly.

“Doesn’t mean I have to like ’em.”

The golem, ignoring them, walked to the water’s edge and tugged back the hood of its robe. Lodo’s haggard face was filled with a powerful intensity as the being inside it looked around.

“Is the Golden Tower near here?” asked Sal.

“The entrance to the catacombs is close.”

“More tunnels?”

The cold gaze fell on him, filled with disdain, then swept away. The golem walked along the water’s edge, following it around the corner of the cliff. Sal and the others trailed it, leaving a mess of footprints in the pristine sand—like the sand in the tunnel, nothing had walked here for what seemed like years. Sal wasn’t intimately familiar with beaches, the one at Fundelry being the only other one he had seen. He had seen marks in the sand there, left behind by birds and crabs, faint hieroglyphs scratched into the beach that would be gone with the next tide. Here there was nothing, not even a sign of the ever-present gulls, the “rats of the sea” as Shilly had called them. Perhaps they avoided the pool for some reason. Forbidding and forgotten, the beach seemed an entirely different world to the one they had left.

The crescent of beach extended a surprising distance around the corner of the “cathedral” space. A whole series of linked chambers honeycombed the rock, joined by massive stone arches and irregular tunnels. Where this network of caverns existed with respect to the Haunted City, Sal couldn’t tell, but he presumed they were somewhere on the edge of the island, perhaps near the pier where the great bone-ship Os had docked. The entire island, he thought, might be riddled with such caverns, right under the wardens’ feet. A catacomb indeed, as the golem had called it.

They rounded a jagged, stone buttress and came face to face with a scene from one of Sal’s dreams.

While on the run from the Syndic, Sal had received a prophetic vision containing numerous images that had, one by one, come true. He had seen his grandmother talking to Mawson, seen the city in the salt lake, Tait and Behenna following them across the Strand, a globe of light surrounded by nothing but darkness, and Lodo himself, gaunt and hollow. There were images that hadn’t yet come true; one of them was Kemp in the Golden Tower, looking out at a city of glass. The other was before him.

Two withered bodies hung on either side of a shadowy tunnel mouth downturned like a giant frown.

“Goddess,” breathed Shilly, “where are we?”

The golem turned to her, grinning. “These are old places, powerful places. They have no names.”

“Someone’s been here.” She indicated the bodies with an expression of disgust. They hung upside-down, suspended by chains from rusted beams hammered into the naked rock. Desiccated and gnarled almost beyond recognition, it was impossible to tell what sex they were or how they had died.

“Nothing comes without a cost,” said the golem.

“Who pays, though?”

“That’s ever the question.”

“It’s me you want,” said Sal. “Take me down there, but leave the others behind.”

“No,” said the golem flatly.

“Why not?” Fear and desperation was building up inside him, reaching flashpoint. “Tell me why they have to come or I’m reneging on the deal. I don’t care what you threaten to do. You want something from me and you won’t get it unless you start talking.”

The golem in Lodo’s form strode forward to confront him. In the dim moonlight, its face looked stretched, thin, as though it would shatter at any moment. “They have to come because you on your own are not enough. You have the talent, but he has the knowledge and she the understanding.” One dirty finger stabbed at Skender and Shilly in turn. “They must be present to open the Tower. The others—” Cold eyes danced from Tom to Aron and back to Sal. “The others are hostages. If you don’t do as you’re told, I’ll kill them.”

Stated so boldly, the threat made Sal sick to the stomach.

“You said you don’t kill unnecessarily,” he countered.

“I don’t.”

“If you kill them, I won’t help you.”

“Then I’ll kill you, too.”

“You wouldn’t. You need me.”

“I need someone like you, boy. That’s all. If I had an alternative, I’d strangle you right now and leave your body to rot in a hole, but don’t think you’re irreplaceable, because you’re not. Another wild talent will come along soon enough. I’ve waited millennia. I can wait a century or two more. I’ve got much less to lose than you. You would be wise never to forget that, and do as you’re told.”

Sal felt as though every muscle in his body suddenly locked. He had never been so angry, and not because the golem had suggested he was replaceable. All his life he’d thought he was perfectly ordinary. The Change had destroyed that illusion very quickly, and taken much that he had loved with it. He didn’t like being special; he didn’t like being the one everyone wanted. If the golem really was prepared to kill him just to make that point, then that was a perverse kind of comfort.

No. The real problem was that the golem was trying to use that against him, as though he did care. He wasn’t going to stand for that. He had learned in Fundelry not to take being threatened lying down, and since then he had become heartily sick of being pushed around. He’d had enough of orders, of threats, of dire hints of what might lie ahead. While he might not be able to buck the entire Strand, the golem was just one creature. There had to be something that would hurt it—and if the golem was using Sal’s nature against him, perhaps the gesture could be returned.

“The Weavers want me alive,” he said, clutching for the only threat he had left. “You’ll pay for it, if you kill me.”

The golem pulled back as though stung. Lodo’s familiar face contorted into an utterly unrecognisable snarl.

“Fool!”

The blow came out of nowhere, so quickly Sal barely felt it connect. One moment he was standing up to the golem as best he could, the next he was sprawled on the cold beach, an explosion of pain centred on his right ear spreading hotly across his scalp.

The world rang and spun around him. He could hardly hear Shilly calling his name, asking him if he was all right. He shook his head, not sure if he was saying no or just trying to think. Then her hands were turning him over so she could look at where he had been hit.

Sal didn’t see her. All he saw was the golem standing behind her, grinning triumphantly. Gloating.

That did it.

He felt the Change gathering in him. He wanted to lash out in response—he needed to do something, to make a stand. But even as the mounting potential made his skin vibrate like a tarp in the wind, even as Shilly backed away with alarm in her eyes, he knew he couldn’t strike the golem directly. He didn’t want to harm Lodo’s body, and neither did he want to give the creature a way into his body. That was probably what it wanted. I yearn for something younger, stronger, it had said. It probably wanted that more than the Golden Tower. Sal would be damned before he became that something.

Then a voice spoke from directly behind him.

“Don’t,” it said.

Sal knew who it was without turning. The Change rising up in him made everything glowingly real. He could see in all directions, in all colours of the spectrum.

“Save it for later,” said Tom through the madly vibrating world, “when you’ll need it.”

“There might not be a later,” he said through clenched jaw.

“There will be.” The boy gripped him tightly, trying to reassure him. “You’re not the one who dies.”

And suddenly Sal saw it. He saw the way it was meant to go. Everyone had been talking about him as though his life had been planned out ahead of him, dropping veiled warnings of what he had to do or keep an eye out for. Lodo gave him the globe on the grounds that he would need it in the future and told Shilly that the two of them were “destined”. Tom had dreamed of their escape from Fundelry and that Sal would make it to the Haunted City one day. Even his own dreams conspired to trap him. It was as though his entire future lay before him, and all he had to do was follow the path from beginning to end—a mindless peon in a cosmic game of Advance.

With the Change thrilling through every cell in his body, and the moment seemingly frozen around him, he could see it all. Not just the fragments that others glimpsed, but the entire picture. And he didn’t like it. He wanted no part of it. It was one thing to be pushed around by the Syndic or his grandmother, another thing entirely to be pushed around by fate.

Do as you’re told.

Perhaps he had no choice—but if he was going to follow the golem into the tunnel, it would be on his terms. And if he was going to be with Shilly, it would be because he wanted to be, not because everyone told him he should be. If he was going to use his talent to shake up the divided world of Stone Mages and Sky Wardens, he would do it his way, no one else’s. And if he was going to take his friends into danger, he would make sure they all walked out of it with him.

You’ve seen me before, the golem had said to Tom. You know what happens.

I’m not going home, Tom had said on meeting Sal in the dining hall on their first morning in the Novitiate. You’re not the one who dies.

Sal was having nothing to do with a twisted prophecy that demanded the death of a young boy.

While the others moved around him as though through thick honey, he stood up and reached into his pack for the globe Lodo had given him. He could see in the moment the way he was supposed to use it. Its light could burn away the golem, drive it from them in one fiery blast. If he could lock the golem and the globe together in the Golden Tower, he could rid the old man of the creature that plagued his body, and seal the Tower behind them as well. But the light would kill Lodo in the process, rob them of any chance of bringing him back.

That sacrifice might have seemed perfectly acceptable to those pulling his strings—fate, the Weavers, unnamed manipulators lurking in the shadows, whoever—but it wasn’t to Sal. There had to be another way.

He would make himself find it.

The globe came to life in his hands, and this time he didn’t rein in its urge to burn. A thousand days of sunlight woke as he tipped the globe back behind his head and threw it as hard as he could. Like a shooting star, it arced out across the beach, getting brighter and brighter until it seemed the world had cracked open, letting in a flood of impossible energy. Sal dimly heard himself cry out. He threw an arm across his eyes, too late. A bright afterimage burned on his retina—a fiery line curving up and then down towards the water.

The stagnant pool exploded with a roar when the globe hit it. Spray erupted from its surface as the globe fell in a furious rush of bubbles to the bottom. Sal staggered back, feeling stinging spots on his skin. Hands tugged him away from the edge of the water, away from the light boiling up from the bottom of the pool. Glancing behind him, around the arm still covering his eyes, he saw a tower of steam rushing from the surface of the pool, swirling into the air like the heart of a hurricane and lit from below as though the very earth was on fire.

They took shelter in the only place they could: the mouth of the tunnel, below the swinging bodies. A sharp wind sprang up as hot, moist air rushed up the centre of the cathedral cave, to its one possible exit, the stone chimney far above. Sal shivered, feeling the Change leave him in a sudden rush.

Rippling waves of light from the globe at the bottom of the pool cast strange colours across the faces of those around him. Shilly stared, stunned, from him to the pool and back. Skender’s expression was one of puzzled awe. Tom just gaped in surprise, as though Sal had done something absolutely impossible. Aron gasped in wonder at the steam boiling up into the sky. Mawson—

The man’kin was watching Sal closely. He nodded, as though in approval.

Sal was grateful for that. Now that the moment of clarity was over, he had lost his grip on the way things were supposed to go. He couldn’t see why what he had done was any better than the path he was supposed to take. All he knew was that he had pushed the golem in a direction it hadn’t expected.

“No more games,” Sal said to the golem. There was a ringing in his ears from where the golem had struck him, and fatigue made every muscle in his body ache. He had to speak up to be heard over the roaring of the steam. “When the sun comes up, there’ll be a cloud above these caves that no one could possibly miss. You’ve got until then to get us where you want us to be and out again. When we’re out, I’ll stop the globe. If you don’t get us out safely, you’ll be caught.”

“The Sky Wardens can’t hurt me,” mocked the golem, but with less ferocity than before. The creature had lost some of its cockiness. “And you can’t intimidate me.”

“I guess it works both ways, then.”

The golem stared at him for a long moment, as though weighing its options.

Unexpectedly, it chuckled.

“I’m glad we’re on the same side, Sayed Hrvati,” it said, “otherwise I might almost be afraid of you.”

It whirled around before Sal could ask what it meant, and headed off into the tunnel. “We must hurry,” it called. “The Golden Tower awaits!”

CHAPTER 13

TERMINUS

After the confrontation by the pool, Shilly felt as though she was falling, not walking, down the sloping tunnel. It was wide, although relatively low, so there was a strong sense of space around her, and none of the strange faces they had experienced before. Not that they could see anything at all, once they’d left the flickering glow cast by Lodo’s globe behind them. From there on it was nothing but dark. No phosphorescent fungus lit their way; no glow-stones or mirrors cast light from the Change. There was just darkness, and the feeling that she was being tugged downward by some awful force that would never let her go.

They walked in a line with the golem at the fore, the sound of its ragged, heavy breathing the only clue that it was still there. Sal held Shilly’s hand, guiding her along, and Skender clutched the back of her Novitiate uniform so he wouldn’t lose her in the dark. Tom followed him, then Aron.

Their footsteps were muffled by sand. No echoes returned to them from either end of the tunnel. The tunnel didn’t turn or alter its steady rate of descent. It simply angled downward, as straight as an arrow, into the earth.

It was a relatively easy descent, but one that was, in its own way, more horrible than the last. Shilly had no reference points to judge her progress against. They could have been travelling miles or barely metres, caught in a charm that made them feel as though they were making progress when in fact they were going nowhere at all. The slope seemed to grow steeper and steeper even though she knew it wasn’t changing. As air was sucked up into the maelstrom of steam behind and above them, a clammy breeze rushed past, seeming to get colder the deeper they went.

Shilly had never been truly cold. Winters along the section of the Strand known as Gooron were wet but not frigid. She’d never known it to snow there; even light morning frosts were rare. What she called cold, she knew, other people further south considered positively balmy. Whether the chill sinking into her bones came from the breeze or from dread, she didn’t know. Before long, though, she was shivering.

I’m glad we’re on the same side, Sayed Hrvati…

Had the golem been talking about the deal Sal had made with it, or was there another layer of meaning entirely?

She wished Sal hadn’t thrown the globe away, and not just because it was all she had left to remind her of Lodo. In doing so he had robbed them of light when they needed it most. She didn’t know what they would do when they reached the bottom of the tunnel and needed to see where they were going. And what if something attacked them out of the darkness?

The last thought didn’t worry her so much. What might be hiding in the blackness at the bottom of the tunnel wasn’t what scared her. The thing taking them there was worse than anything she could imagine.

Instead she concentrated on following Sal’s hand down into the dark. Sal’s use of the globe had taken her back to the time Skender had shown them how to waken it in the Keep—the time she had almost drained Sal dry by Taking from him. The old feelings of resentment and jealousy were still there, lurking below the surface. She suspected part of her would always feel that way about him, but her feelings for him had always been complex. He was normally so passive that every time he acted—as he had had to in order to resist the golem—it startled her anew.

“Scared.”

The voice came down the chain of hands from someone behind her. She didn’t recognise its source.

“Is that you, Tom?” she whispered back.

“Not me,” the boy replied. “I think it was Aron.”

“Aron? But—” She stopped, not wanting her surprise to either alarm or offend Sal’s cousin.

“I didn’t think he could speak,” said Skender, not so quick on the uptake.

“Is that you, Aron?” Sal asked.

“Scared,” repeated the voice, its plaintive tone at complete odds with the size of the speaker. Mentally Aron sounded like a child. “Cold. Tired.”

“I’m sorry, Aron,” said Sal, and Shilly felt a flood of remorse flow along the connection between them. “We’re here with you. You’ll be okay.”

“Home?”

“Not yet, Aron. There’s something we have to do first.”

“Hungry.”

“I know, Aron. I’m hungry too, and thirsty.”

Shilly squeezed Sal’s hand as reassuringly as she could. She did her best to repress any feelings of anger she felt for Aron’s family, who in all the weeks she’d travelled with them had never mentioned that Aron was talented in the Change. They probably didn’t even know. They probably assumed that a lack of ordinary voice meant a lack of everything else.

“We have to do what the bad man says,” she told him, “or he’ll hurt us.”

“Bad?”

“He hurt Sal. On the beach. Remember?”

“Hit Sal.”

“That’s right, Aron. That’s the bad man. We don’t want to get into any more trouble with him. Can you put up with it for a little longer?”

Shilly clearly felt Aron’s unwillingness through the link between them, but he acquiesced with a simple affirmative. She sent him all the approval she could muster, hoping that feelings would carry more weight than words he half-understood.

If only, she thought, her own fears could be so easily suppressed.

“Thanks, Shilly,” said Sal, whispering to her alone.

“Don’t thank me. It’s the least I could do for that poor kid.”

“Do you really think it’s going to be that simple? We do as the golem says and it’ll let us all go?”

His uncertainty ran as deep as hers. She wasn’t sure how she was supposed to pick him up without knocking herself over.

“It can’t kill all of us,” she said, hating what she was about to say. “Lodo’s body is weakening. We’re all fit and healthy. The moment it tries something on one of us, we can overpower it, I’m sure.”

“It felt strong enough to me,” Sal said, the ache in his jaw and head all too clear through the link.

“Maybe, but remember what happened before, when it collapsed. The golem is holding its act together by will alone. It can’t do that forever.”

Sal was silent for a long time. All she could hear was breathing and the shuffling of their feet as they descended into the depths of the earth. The golem hadn’t complained about the talking; maybe there was less of a threat in this new tunnel. Certainly she felt none of the formless malignancy that she had before. This was just a long, cold hole.

With what at the bottom? she asked herself. The Goddess only knew.

“When this is over,” Sal said, “we deserve a holiday.”

She smiled in the dark. “You’re on. Have you got anywhere in mind?”

“Somewhere quiet.”

“And boring.”

“A long way from anywhere.”

“Sounds perfect.” She shifted her grip on his hand so their fingers interlinked. “Once we get through the Way—”

She didn’t finish. Sal stumbled in the dark, and would have fallen but for her holding him upright. He came to a halt to gather himself.

“Are you okay?” she asked.

“Fine.” Aloud, he said, “There’s a step here. Be careful. I think the floor levels out after it. We must be at the bottom.”

Shilly felt forward with her crutch. There was indeed a sudden drop-off, as Sal had said. She stepped carefully and waited as Skender followed. One by one they stepped down. It was an obstacle that, by daylight, would have been trivial, but in darkness was potentially dangerous.

“How many more of those are there, do you think?” Shilly moved gingerly along the new stretch of tunnel. Sal was feeling his way ahead of her, one hand on the wall, testing every step before making it.

“I don’t know,” he said, still aloud. It was clear in his voice that this wasn’t the greatest of his concerns.

“I can’t hear the golem any more,” he said to her privately.

“What?”

“I think it’s gone.”

“And left us here alone?” Her mind recoiled from the thought. “It wouldn’t do that. It needs us.”

“I know—but how else do you explain the fact that it’s not here?”

She couldn’t. She could only stumble forward blindly, letting momentum carry her. This was their chance to turn back if the golem had really gone. But what if it was a trap? What if it was just testing them, and was waiting to strike out of the darkness if they didn’t do as they were told?

They had come so far. Exhausted though she was, the thought of turning back now, with their destination possibly just around the corner, made her feel sick to the stomach. If everything went well—and there was still a chance that it might—she could end up with Lodo in her safekeeping and a means to take him away from the people who had kidnapped him and the city in which golems walked, looking for people to take over.

Sal stopped again. Shilly could feel him groping along the wall ahead.

“What is it this time?” The tunnel had narrowed around them. An echo of her voice came back at her immediately.

“There’s a corner.”

“Which way?”

“Left. But the tunnel keeps going straight as well. I don’t know which way to go.”

“Do you know, Mawson?”

“No,” said the man’kin, “this place is beyond my knowledge, and the stones do not speak of it.”

“That’s just great,” said Skender from behind them. “Now what do we do?”

“I don’t know.” Sal sounded as though he was close to panic. “I don’t know!”

Everything stopped. Indecision gripped them as the echoes of Sal’s frustrated cry faded into oppressive silence. They could pick a tunnel at random, but where would that leave them? There could be pits and other intersections waiting for them whichever way they went. What if they got lost? Shilly dreaded the thought of lingering in the cold, windy tunnels any longer than she had to. The thought of being trapped forever, paralysed her.

A soft shuffling sound came out of the darkness ahead of them. Something was coming toward them.

“Scared,” said Aron again. Shilly couldn’t have agreed more. She tensed, ready to turn and run as best she could up the tunnel. There was a wordless cry of fear just behind her lips, clamouring to be let out.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said the golem suddenly out of the darkness.

Shilly almost wet herself. “You—” She bit her tongue on an old fisher’s curse. “Don’t you ever do that again.”

“Where have you been?” demanded Skender, a hysterical edge to his voice.

“I left you some time ago to scout the way ahead. The catacombs here are vast and easy to become lost in—unless you know the trick. I wanted to check that I still did, and that the way was clear.” The golem was enjoying their reaction. “It is safe to proceed.”

“Let’s get it over with, then,” said Sal.

“Hold my robe and do exactly as I say. The slightest misstep will lead to your ruin.”

Shilly was glad it wasn’t her who had to clutch the golem close as they headed off once again, ignoring the left turn and heading forward. She could feel the chill of the close contact echoing along the line through Sal. Between it and the cool wind still blowing past them, she wondered if she would ever feel warm again.

“Left.

“Keep going straight.

“Stay to the side along here; there’s a pit to the right.

“Now straight again, then right. Duck your head.”

The last caught Sal off-guard, and Shilly felt his pain as a low, stone lintel caught him across his temple, close to where the golem had struck him on the beach. His reactions had been getting steadily more sluggish, and this stopped him completely for a good minute.

“Sorry,” he said when he had recovered. “Are we almost there?”

“Yes,” said the golem.

“Good. I’m getting dizzy with all these turns.”

Shilly could sympathise, although thus far the golem had led them well. Her anxiety had shifted from worrying about its motives to making sure she followed its directions to the letter. They had passed tunnels from which foul stenches blew and skirted pits that seemed infinitely deep in the dark, treading carefully on the sandy floor. It was easy to believe that, as the golem had suggested, the slightest slip could indeed kill them.

“I can see something!” Skender suddenly cried. “Look!”

He took his hand off her arm to point ahead. Sure enough, there was a faint, yellow patch ahead, and two vague shapes where Sal and the golem stood silhouetted against it. There was something strange about the light and the way the golem was moving, but she couldn’t immediately tell what it was at first.

Sal let out an enormous sigh of relief. “Where’s it coming from?”

“From the Tower,” the golem explained, turning left around a sharp corner. “You can see it?”

The light was definitely brighter from their new perspective. It was coming from up ahead, although its source was still out of sight.

“Of course we can see it,” said Skender. “Can’t you?”

Shilly realised only then what was odd about the golem’s movements. The light was dim, but already bright enough to see the outline of the tunnel by. The golem, however, was still walking as though blind, feeling its way and gingerly testing the ground before it.

“I can see something,” said Tom, “but only just.”

“Pretty,” said Aron.

The light wasn’t ordinary light, she realised. It was the Change, or some by-product of it that she hadn’t seen before. Tom couldn’t see it properly because he hadn’t come into his talent yet; Aron could see it because he was old enough for his talent to wake, even if he never used it. The golem, although it could sense the presence of the Change and was drawn to it, was clearly immune to some of its effects.

At last, she thought. We have something it doesn’t.

“Do you want us to lead you?” asked Sal.

“No,” the golem hissed, its hood swinging blindly to face them. “You do not know the way.”

“We can see the way,” said Skender. “You go up here, then turn left. From there, just follow the light.”

“I think we should do as it says,” said Sal, surprisingly. “It’s not bright enough to see that well, yet.”

Skender muttered something, but didn’t push the point.

“Keep to the left,” said the golem, resuming the fumbling journey in its private darkness. It was hunched over like a cripple, hands splayed out before it, testing every inch. They shuffled along behind it with increased impatience.

The light was indeed brighter when they turned the corner. Shilly could make out worn marks on the tunnel walls: long, undulating lines in pale blue and ochre that stretched before and behind them like intertwining snakes. Her fingertips failed to register their presence, as though they were part of the stone rather than painted on.

They skirted another trench—and found it somehow more terrifying for the fact that they could see its black mouth gaping at them—then turned two more corners. They had let go of each other’s hands by then, and walked alone, confident in the light. It shimmered slightly, like sunlight through water, but had a hot, almost mirage-like quality to it as well.

As they rounded the final corner and found themselves in the chamber of the Tower, Shilly realised for the first time just how still everything had become. The cold wind was gone. The air hung around her in veils, warm and waiting for the slightest push to set it in motion again. There was a pregnancy to it—or, she thought, a latency. The Change was thick all around her, suspended in mid-act. It filled the enormous room like air in a balloon, ready to pop at any moment. Even without the Tower hanging impossibly before her, she would have known she was in the right place. The very heart of her resonated with the ambience of the place.

The chamber was shaped like a tunnel, or a grain silo tipped on its side. She couldn’t make out how long it was because the ends tapered to points, making it look like it continued to infinity. It was easily twenty metres across. They were standing on a wide ledge along one side of the chamber, halfway up the curved wall and directly opposite the Tower.

The Golden Tower. Her mind struggled with the reality of it—if it was real, and not an illusion cast by the Change filling the chamber. It matched the proportions of the chamber perfectly: a long cylinder tapered at both ends, hanging in the exact centre of the room. It was golden, as its name suggested, but it glowed with the gold of sunflowers—crisp and rich—rather than cold and metallic. Its surface was carved with strange whorls and loops resembling fingerprints. Either the tower was rotating or the patterns were crawling slowly across its surface, drifting as clouds do across the face of the sun. It was utterly alien and beautiful at the same time.

Mixed with Shilly’s awe at seeing it was the memory of the warning she had received in Fundelry: beware the Golden Tower. Faced with the Tower itself, finally, she could appreciate that it might be sensible to be cautious. She couldn’t imagine how they were supposed to open it.

“Wow,” said Skender, “that’s amazing!”

“It’s…not what I expected.” Sal sounded stunned, and with good reason.

“Is it real?” asked Tom.

“As real as you or I,” Mawson replied, unexpectedly.

“What does that mean?” asked Shilly, turning to look at the man’kin. The expression on the great bust’s stony face was one of rapture. With eyes closed and head tilted back, Mawson seemed to be drinking in the magical glow around them.

He didn’t answer, and didn’t protest as Aron turned in circles to admire the view, swinging the man’kin from side to side, golden light shining in his eyes.

A scrabbling sound distracted her. The golem was feeling its way, crab-like, across the face of the nearest wall as though looking for something.

“Can we help?” she asked.

“No.” The harsh, irritated negative in Lodo’s voice stung her as it always did. She would never get used to that. It continued searching, then seized on a patch of wall that looked little different to any other. Its fingers traced out an oval shape in the stone, taller than Lodo but not much wider. The walls of the chamber were smooth and dusty, apparently carved from solid sandstone. The golem’s fingers left a faint line behind, creating a shape that looked uncannily like a door.

“This is the place,” said the golem, shuffling back from the wall. Its hood had half fallen away, and Shilly saw a naked hunger on the stricken features of the man who had once been her teacher. The golem’s eyes, although unseeing in the strange light, were blazing with eagerness. “This is where you must open the Way.”

“What Way?” asked Sal. “I thought the Tower was the Way.”

The golem turned to face the sound of his voice. “You must open the Way to get into the Tower.”

“Why don’t we just open the Way to somewhere else and get straight out of here?”

“That’s not the deal,” snarled the golem. “You must open the Tower. Only then will you be free to do as you wish.”

“Why didn’t we open it back in my room, then?”

“And have every warden down on our heads within minutes? I don’t think so.”

“All right, all right,” Sal said. “What do we need to do?”

The golem nodded and rubbed its hands together. “Join as one. The three of you—here, in front of me.”

Shilly crutched forward to stand next to Sal and took his right hand. Skender took his left. The golem moved closer behind them and put one hand on each of Sal’s shoulders. Shilly felt the shock of cold rush through him again, second-hand.

“There is a charm,” the golem said. “Can you see it in my mind?”

Shilly felt Sal tentatively reach out to touch the thoughts of the golem. They were dark and seemed to stretch forever, swirling with infinite complexities. It was unlike any mind she had ever seen. At the forefront of it was a pattern somewhat resembling a four-leaf clover, tumbling slowly.

“We see it,” said Sal.

“You must make it move thus.” The pattern twisted, seeming to stretch into a tube without actually going anywhere. Shilly struggled to grasp the way it had changed. “At one end is the portal before us,” the golem went on, “at the other is the interior of the Tower.”

New information poured into them, this time of a place, but it came to them not in the form of a picture. She could only understand it in terms of planes and corners, of vertices and lines that, when combined, made the barest shape of the room, not its appearance. The knowledge was like a builder’s blueprint, but in three dimensions not two, felt not seen. The chamber was star-shaped, with five points and a slightly raised central area. She held the structure of it in her mind, as though someone had painted the room from floor to ceiling, then taken the room away, leaving just the paint behind.

“If you know all this,” asked Sal, “why don’t you open the Way yourself?”

“I can’t,” said the golem. “I am unable to use the Change as you do. If the Change is air, I breathe it while you fly in it. I am trapped on the ground, forced to employ others to do my will.”

“Others like us.”

“Exactly. I will not be able to participate in this exercise, so you must ensure that you have all you need. I will be watching your friends, to make sure there are no mistakes.”

Shilly felt Sal’s anger at the threat, but he said nothing.

“Show me the charm again,” said Skender. The distorted clover leaf returned. It collapsed then stretched again. Shilly still hadn’t got her head around it when Skender said, “Okay. Got it. You can go now.”

The golem breathed in sharply, but did withdraw, letting go of Sal and stepping back away from them.

The sense of cold instantly faded.

“So what do we do now?” Skender asked, via the Change.

“We do as it told us to do,” said Sal.

“Why? We’ve got what we need. We know how to make a Way. Finally, we can escape!”

“I’m not sure that we can.”

“Why not? We have the charm, and we have a starting point. We don’t have to use the destination the golem gave us. We can go anywhere we want!”

“And what about the golem? What will it do when it finds out we cheated?”

“We close the Way behind us, stop it from following. If we’re not around, what harm can it do to us?”

“But we don’t know how to close the Way.”

“It can’t be hard.”

“It could be,” broke in Shilly, sympathetic with Skender’s reasons for wanting to escape the golem, but not wanting to commit themselves to anything they couldn’t finish. “I’m good at this stuff, remember, and I can’t see how to do it from what we’ve got.”

“I don’t think the golem has given us enough for us to get away from it,” said Sal, “not without doing what it wants us to do first.”

Skender sent a disdainful noise down the link between them, but Sal kept talking.

“And the others will still be here, if we do escape. What about them?”

“We’ll get them through somehow.”

Shilly could feel Sal shaking his head. “I don’t think so. It’s too risky. Too many things could go wrong. If we do as it says, we’ll get into the Tower and still be able to escape. We’ll get what we want anyway.”

“If we can open the Way,” Shilly said.

“You think we can’t?” asked Sal.

“I think it’s a difficult charm, and we’re still learning. If Ways are so easy to open, why aren’t they everywhere?”

That shut him up.

“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” said Sal. His hand tightened on hers. “Have you got the pattern, Skender?”

“Naturally.” The starting point, the four-leafed clover, appeared in their minds.

“Shilly, have you got it?”

She closed her eyes and concentrated on the form and feel of the image. The starting point wasn’t difficult. It was what came next that threw her.

“Uh-huh.”

“Okay, Skender. Give us the rest.”

The shape slowly twisted in its impossible way, moving while staying in the same place. She felt the original image clutching for an anchor as the rest of it formed something like a tube that went nowhere. She thought of the oval shape in the rock before them, sensing that this would be one end of the Way: the entrance. The exit would be at the other end of the tube, inside the Tower. She felt Sal adding his strength to her mental efforts, and Skender bringing up the blueprint image of the star-shaped room as she stretched the tube “toward” it.

She missed. The Way went snaking off into emptiness. She felt a sudden wrench as something tugged at it, and she lurched forward, toward the entrance. A hum rose around her, deep and powerful. There was a moment of grey dislocation during which she lost all concentration—

The Way instantly unravelled. Whatever was pulling at her disappeared. She was left standing next to Sal, shaky and feeling slightly foolish.

“Sorry about that,” she said. “I don’t know what happened there.”

“The Void,” breathed Sal. “That was the Void Beneath.”

“What was?” asked Skender.

“That hum, the emptiness.”

“I thought I imagined it,” said Shilly.

“No, it’s real. And dangerous. Remember, Shilly? Lodo told us that if you look or talk through the Change, you send part of yourself through the Void. If you’re interrupted, you can lose that part of you forever.” His frown echoed along their linked hands. “Maybe that’s why Ways aren’t common. It’s not just difficult to make them. It’s dangerous, too. We’re sending all of us through, after all. If the Way breaks, we could be completely lost.”

Shilly shuddered. That brief glimpse of the Void was enough to convince her that she never wanted to go there. “Well, let’s make sure we get it right this time, and that it doesn’t break. Okay?”

“Okay,” agreed Skender.

Sal didn’t say anything, but she felt his readiness through the link. There were three of them, each skilled in their own particular way. What they lacked in experience, they made up for in natural talent and determination. If this was the way to escape, they would take it, and take it well.

They got it on the third try. With Sal’s talent behind her and Skender shoring up the pattern, Shilly guided the open mouth of the Way from the entrance in front of them to the exit inside the Tower, to the image the golem had given her. She felt the ends connect and grip tight; she felt the space between snap taut, as though straightening a wire between her hands; she felt the entrance and exit open, and heard a faint gasp from somewhere nearby.

She opened her eyes. Tom was staring in amazement at the wall before them. Where previously there had been nothing but the oval inscribed in dust by the golem, now there was an entrance to a tunnel that snaked up and to the right. What lay at its end couldn’t be seen.

“We did it,” said Skender in awe, breaking the link to rush forward and peer up the tunnel.

“Wait!” Sal grabbed the boy on the shoulder and held him back. “Let’s make sure it’s stable, first.”

“It’s stable,” said the golem, moving blindly around them. “Once it’s in place, it will exist forever, unless you deliberately shut it down—and that’s an entirely different skill.” It put one hand on the edge of the oval entrance and sniffed blindly at the air in the tunnel. “Good work. Your side of the deal is almost completed.”

“‘Almost’?” Shilly echoed. “What do you mean, ‘almost’? We did what you asked us to. We’ve opened the Tower.”

“You’ve opened the Way inside. That’s not the same thing as opening it.”

“Oh, really? Is there anything else we should know that you haven’t been entirely clear on?”

The golem didn’t stick around to argue. It stepped into the Way and scurried up and around the bend.

Sal went to follow, with Skender close behind.

“I will wait here,” said Mawson.

Shilly glanced at the stone bust. As always, Mawson projected an air suggesting that it knew much more than it was letting on.

“Was this the right thing to do?” she asked him. “Have we done something terrible?”

“Not yet.” The man’kin faced her squarely. “You will do what you must do, regardless of what I say. Do not let your conscience be troubled.”

More than Shilly’s conscience was troubled by Mawson’s words. “What do you mean? What’s going to happen?”

“The outcome is not clear. Sal has stirred the pot, put much in motion. I see many possibilities.”

“But—”

“I will wait here. You must go.”

There was an edge of command to Mawson’s voice that she hadn’t heard before. She instinctively went to obey it, but hesitated on the threshold of the Way. She had always thought the man’kin could see the future perfectly well, that the difficulty was in explaining it because of the different ways human and man’kin viewed the world. What did it mean, then, when Mawson said that Sal had “stirred the pot”? How had he managed to change things so the man’kin could no longer tell what was going to happen?

Changing the future was what the Weavers did, wasn’t it?

She didn’t understand, and it was pretty clear that Mawson wasn’t going to explain any more than he already had. There was only one way to find out what lay ahead, and that was to walk boldly to meet it.

Tom had already ascended the Way. Voices echoed down to her from the other end as she carefully crutched the length of the upward-sloping spiral, but she couldn’t understand what they were saying. In cross-section, the tunnel perfectly matched the shape of the oval entrance they had created in the stone. The curved floor was smooth and slightly slippery. Whatever it was made of, the walls and ceiling were identical. There was no light from within, although the strange Change-glow that filled the chamber of the Tower filtered into it from both ends. She walked slowly and carefully until she had completed a full turn, then the exit came into sight.

“This,” she heard Skender say, “is the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen.”

Shilly stepped out of the Way into the star-shaped room in the heart of the Golden Tower, and was inclined to agree.

The room was larger than she had imagined it in her mind. It wasn’t as large as the hall in which the three Conclave members had judged Lodo’s fate after the murder of Radi Mierlo, but it was large enough to make her feel small nonetheless. The walls were polished obsidian, or something much like it, and shone with an oily blackness. The Way opened onto one of the sharply angled walls near a four-metre-wide circular podium on which the others were standing, raised half a metre over the rest of the room. The five “arms” of the star stretched away from the podium, each ending in—

Here her mind baulked at what she was seeing. It was bad enough that the star was easily too broad to fit into the Golden Tower—not to mention that she had just walked along an invisible tunnel to enter it—but what she saw inside defied everything she thought of as sense.

At the end of each of the five arms of the star was a view of a ruined city. The towers were twisted as though viewed through a distorted window, or backward along a telescope. They seemed to be an enormous distance away, yet almost close enough to touch. There was so much Change in the air it was hard to tell what was real and what wasn’t.

Shilly joined Sal, Skender, Tom and the golem on the podium.

“Tell me what you see,” said the golem, peering sightlessly around it, an expression of frustration on Lodo’s ravaged features.

“Towers,” said Sal. “Cities.”

“Five of them?”

“Yes.”

“I know that one,” exclaimed Skender, pointing. “That’s the Nine Stars!”

And it was. Through the distortion, she recognised the skeletal structures in a ring around the central bowl, like a crown on a buried giant’s head.

“That one’s the Haunted City,” said Sal, indicating a city of glass. “And that’s the one in the Broken Lands.”

The square, broken-windowed vista brought back Shilly’s feelings of isolation and powerlessness—and reminded her of the fear she had felt the first time they had met the golem in another man’s body.

“What are those two?” she asked, indicating the remaining arms of the star. One contained a forest of rusting girders covered in vines, the other a jagged cityscape half-buried in ice. Towers rose out of frozen whiteness like tombstones. There was something threatening about the view; it put her in mind of sharp teeth.

All of the cities had an air of menace, she realised, that fully matched her feelings on visiting three of them. They were dangerous places; bad things happened there.

“Ice and rot,” said the golem, rubbing its hands together. “Is that what you see?”

“Yes,” said Sal. “Are they illusions?”

“No.”

“The Book of Towers only mentions three ruined cities,” said Skender.

“There is only one,” the golem replied, “but this is not the time for a history lesson. You are here, now, at the heart. You can escape.”

“How?” asked Shilly.

“The means lie before you.”

“The cities?”

“Of course the cities,” the golem snapped.

“But how do we get there?” asked Sal.

“You walk.”

“But—”

Sal stopped and stared up the arm of the star leading to the Haunted City. Shilly could guess what he was thinking; she was thinking the same thing. If the Golden Tower acted as a kind of Way, then these must be the exits.

Skender hopped down off the podium and walked nervously along the arm nearest him, the one leading to the ice-bound city.

“Be careful,” Shilly said automatically.

Skender seemed to shrink as he walked down the narrowing tunnel, as though foreshortening with impossible distance. He walked less than ten paces before retreating.

“Strange,” he said, his voice faint at first but getting stronger as he came closer. “It’s not like a Way. You feel yourself going somewhere. Somehow. It’s hard to describe.”

“I don’t like it,” said Shilly. “There’s something wrong here.”

“I feel it, too,” said Sal.

“You feel nothing but your own ignorance,” snapped the golem. “Stop wasting time and do what you came here to do.”

“What’s the big hurry?” Sal asked.

“You set the deadline yourself. When dawn comes, the wardens will be alerted.”

“That’s not a problem, now. Not if we can escape at any moment.” Sal turned to Tom, who was watching events with open-mouthed puzzlement. “Tom, have you dreamed any of this? Do you know what’s going to happen if we go down there?” He pointed at random toward the vine-wreathed city.

Tom shook his head. “You don’t go down that one,” he said. “You go down that one there.”

Shilly looked in the direction he indicated. The Nine Stars lay at the end of it.

“Can we trust your dreams?” she asked Tom. “Mawson wasn’t sure what was going to happen.”

“I don’t know,” he said, looking confused.

“It makes sense even without the dreams,” said Sal. “There’s no point going to the Haunted City; we just came from there. And we know the Broken Lands are a dead end. Those two could be anywhere, anywhere at all.” He pointed at the icy landscape and the rainforest. “But we know there are people who will help us at the Nine Stars.”

Shilly nodded. They had so little to go on, but at least it was something. “What then?” she pressed Tom. “What happens after we go there?”

“One of us doesn’t come back,” said the boy.

“Which one?”

“Not you. You come back, no matter what happens. And you, Sal.”

“Well,” she said dryly, “that’s a relief.”

Sal stared hopelessly at the boy as though that hadn’t reassured him at all. You’re not the one who dies.

Shilly wasn’t sure how Sal was feeling. Relieved to know that he would be safe, or afraid for one of his friends, who might not come back?

Beware the Golden Tower.

“Just pick one,” snapped the golem. “I can only be so patient.”

“I’ll do it,” she said, stepping off the podium and swinging her crutch in long strides up the point of the star leading to the city of the Nine Stars.

“Shilly, wait!”

She heard Sal hurrying after her, but didn’t slow her pace. The passage should have been narrowing around her, yet it wasn’t. She didn’t let that slow her either. She kept her eyes on the spindly, fragile ruins ahead of her. She was tired and thirsty, and she was sick of being bullied by the golem. Wherever she was going, she would rather get there sooner than later.

The end of the passageway wasn’t getting any closer, so she stepped up the pace. Sal called something from behind her, but she couldn’t make it out. She felt a moment’s resistance, as though something was pushing her back, then a shattering sensation, as though the very air itself had broken. Then—

She was the wind.

She was the pale dawn creeping across the land.

She was a faint droplet of desert dew evaporating into thin air, and the shimmering of heat already trembling on the eastern horizon.

She was—

Shilly struggled to find herself. Her body was swaying, barely remaining upright while her mind stretched a stupendously great distance away—

—hanging web-like and invisible between ancient girders and pylons worn down by time to little more than frail sticks, shedding rust like dandruff.

Her thoughts drifted with the flakes of ruined steel, fluttering like feathers into blood-red mounds far below.

“Where am I?” she tried to shout, but the words didn’t come. Her body was fading, slipping away from her, falling into the distance—

“Where am I?”

The cry echoed off a thousand crumbled planes that had once been towers. Echoes swooped through her like a swarm of birds driven insane by the depthless infinity of the sky.

“You’re right here,” said Sal, reaching out to touch her shoulder, to steady her. “Why did you stop? Are you okay?”

As his fingers touched her body, a soundless shock rocked through them, and they both fell limp to the ground.

“Shilly?”

The voice came out of the earth, out of the deep, stony foundations of the city, the anchors that held it tight, gripped it with fists of bedrock and wouldn’t let it go.

“Shilly? Is that you?”

Shilly recognised the woman’s voice instantly. It was the Mage Erentaite. Before she could reply, another voice joined her.

“Shilly, where are we?”

That was Sal. Somehow he was there with her, bodiless and disoriented in this other place.

“We’re in the Nine Stars,” she said. She felt his mind coiled around hers, clinging desperately to the slightest hint of certainty she allowed in her voice. “We’re here, and we’re not.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I.”

“Shilly and Sal,” came the voice of the elderly mage again, breathless with urgency. “You must go back!”

Shilly felt her body twitch, as one might feel a piece of string twitch if tugged from a long way away.

“How?” she asked the disembodied voice of the mage.

“Why?” asked Sal.

“You have done something terrible,” said the Mage Erentaite. “It can be undone—but you must act quickly, before it’s too late.”

Shilly felt a peculiar movement through the city, as though something were waking. Rust shivered from every beam. Dust rose in clouds.

“The golem said we could escape this way,” she said. “We want to come back.”

“The golem?” The mage’s voice contained surprise and dismay in equal parts. “Shilly, this isn’t the way. This is a trap. The city is a trap, and you have unlocked it.”

“Which city? The Nine Stars?”

“The cities we see are different aspects of just one city. The Golden Tower lies at its heart, binding it.”

“But if it’s a trap and we’ve unlocked it,” said Sal, “what’s the danger?”

“The danger is not that you will be caught in it—although you will be if the breach repairs itself behind you. The danger is what you might set free.”

The rumbling rose around them, sending their minds dancing like butterflies in a storm.

“What is it?” Shilly cried, beginning to be truly afraid.

“It’s what the golem wants.” The Mage Erentaite pushed them. Shilly felt her mind grasped by frail, elderly hands and shoved back the way they had come.

Shilly resisted. They had gone to a lot of trouble to get to the Golden Tower and, while she might not understand exactly what form they had escaped in, she wasn’t about to let it go so quickly.

But the rumbling was rising. She could feel it all around her, not as deep or as powerful as the hum of the Void Beneath, but no less ominous. The dawn was fading; the heat was ebbing. Dew returned from the air that had claimed it.

Nine stars blazed among the ruins of the city, growing brighter but casting no heat at all. Shilly could hear voices far off in the distance, shouting, possibly screaming.

“I think we should do as she says,” said Sal. She was beginning to agree.

“I’m sorry children,” said the mind of the distant mage. “You should never have been used this way.”

Their minds retreated at her urging. She felt the city grow faint around her. The whistling of the wind eased; the cold desert dawn sank back into darkness; the taste of ancient rust on her tongue was—

—gone. Shilly rolled over and bumped into Sal, stirring beside her.

“What just happened to us?” she asked.

“I think we opened the Golden Tower,” he groaned, struggling onto his hands and knees.

“Sal, Shilly!” Skender was calling them from the heart of the star. “What’s going on?”

Sal helped her to her feet. She clutched her crutch as though it was a lifeline. The rumble she had felt in the city of the Nine Stars was rising around her. Behind them, the illusion of the ruined towers—if illusion it was—was shimmering, shaking.

Sal helped her back along the arm of the star. Skender and Tom were waiting for them in the centre, urging them to hurry.

“What’s going on?” asked Shilly as they approached.

“I don’t know,” said Skender. “You went up there together and fell over. Then all this started.” The floor was vibrating beneath them; the air itself shook. The golden glow of the Change was beginning to flicker on and off impossibly quickly. “I was about to come and get you, but—”

“How long were we down?” asked Shilly.

“Not long. A second or two.”

The beginning of a headache throbbed in Shilly’s temples. It felt like they had been gone for ten minutes or more.

You have done something terrible, the ancient mage had said.

“Where’s the golem?” Sal asked.

Skender looked around as though only then realising that the creature was gone. Tom pointed down one of the other arms of the star, toward the city of ice. Lodo’s body stood at the end, arms and legs wide apart, transfixed.

The city is a trap, and you have unlocked it.

“We’ve got to get it out,” said Shilly. “We’ve got to close the Tower!”

“How?” asked Skender, looking frightened.

“What did the Mage Erentaite say?” she asked Sal. “About the breach?”

“You spoke to Jarmila Erentaite?”

Sal ignored Skender’s amazed interjection. “That it would heal behind us if we weren’t quick,” he said, his eyes widening.

“I think that’s the breach.” She pointed along the arm to the Nine Stars, to where the rising rumbling and rushing originated. The sensation of pushing through a barrier of some kind returned to her. “How we close it, I’ve no idea.”

The danger is what you might set free.

“We’ll have to collapse the Way,” Sal said.

“Yes, I think you’re right.” She turned to face him. “How?”

“I don’t know. But we have to try. Come on!”

Sal hurried back down the Way.

“What about the golem?” she called after him.

“It can stay inside, for all I care.”

“But it’s in Lodo’s body.”

He hesitated. “See what you can do, then, while I talk to Mawson.”

Sal disappeared around the bend, and Skender went with him. That left her and Tom. He stared at her with wide eyes.

“You don’t have to stay,” she said.

“I want to. You can’t do this on your own.”

“Do what?”

“Save Lodo,” Tom said. “He was always nice to me. So was Aunty Merinda. I miss them.”

Shilly felt tears spring to her eyes. She blinked them back. If they were going to save Lodo, this wasn’t the time to be sentimental.

Tom clutched her arm and together they headed up the arm of the star toward the ice city. As they approached Lodo’s body, his arms still wide apart above his head, she saw geysers of snow and frost springing up between the frozen towers. The ground below was blue; the windows were white. How anything could live there, she didn’t know.

Maybe nothing did live there, she thought. Maybe that wasn’t what the cities were for. Not for humans, anyway. In the Haunted City, humans were like rats in the walls, cowering for shelter around the bases of buildings they could only marvel at, never inhabit. People huddled under the Nine Stars, hiding from the sun, while in the Broken Lands, dread and a sense of death permeated the air, keeping people entirely at bay. Golems walked the streets and ghosts pressed up against glass.

The cities we see are different aspects of just one, the Mage Erentaite had said. The Golden Tower lies at its heart, binding it.

The cities weren’t for humans; they belonged to something else. Never, Shilly decided, had the Syndic uttered a more incorrect statement than when she’d called the Haunted City “our city”.

She and Tom came abreast of Lodo. His robe whipped around him, snatched at by the raising gale. His expression was gleeful, although the air was bitterly cold. It snatched away the last traces of warmth from her body as it howled by.

Again Shilly felt a sense of resistance to the air, as though they had reached some sort of boundary. She was careful to go no further.

“Now what?” shouted Tom over the gale.

“We can’t touch him,” she said, remembering how clutching her arm had dragged Sal to the Nine Stars along with her.

“We need something to grab him with,” said Tom, looking around.

“There isn’t anything.” Suddenly her plan seemed stupid and futile. How was she going to rescue Lodo? She was so near to him, yet he was still so far away.

A rush of dense, cold air swept by her. The robe covering Lodo’s body couldn’t hide the gauntness of his limbs, and she dreaded to think what the cold was doing to him. The wind was rising to a crescendo.

There was only one thing she could do. Steadying herself, she launched herself bodily at Lodo and knocked him down.

The ambience of the icy city clutched at her with sharp-nailed fingers. Barely had she felt it when the shock of her leg hitting the ground wrenched her out again. From a great distance, she felt herself fall in a tumble of limbs with Lodo beneath her. The pain blinded but didn’t deafen her. She’d had worse.

As the golem woke, blinking and startled beneath her, something followed.

There was a hiss of water boiling into steam, as though a mighty engine had come up behind them. Something thudded onto the floor beside her, and she looked up from a single, glassy hoof along a milky-white, translucent leg to the creature bending above her. She had a horrifying glimpse of teeth like stalactites unfolding from a mouth easily large enough to engulf her head, and eyes that glinted like diamond.

The golem found its voice. What it said were not words that Shilly understood, but they had an immediate effect on the ice-creature. It reared back and roared, waving icicle-tipped hands wildly. Steam and mist hid the creature from sight, and the golem wriggled free from beneath her. When the boiling mist parted and she could see again, both were gone.

Tom helped her up, glancing nervously back to the centre of the star. “They went that way,” he whispered, pointing fearfully. “What was it, Shilly?”

“I don’t know.”

She ignored the deep throb in her leg as Tom gave the crutch to her and she slipped it into her armpit. They hurried back the way they’d come, back to the centre of the star. The dais was filled with wisps of mist, swirling in the wake of the creature. The floor shook beneath her feet.

Footsteps came from the Way. She and Tom backed nervously away, but it was Skender who appeared. His expression was anxious.

“Quickly,” he shouted, waving for them to follow him. “Mawson showed us how to close the Way, but I’m not sure we did it right. Sal’s holding it open, and—”

With a roar, acrid steam rushed into the chamber from one of the arms of the star, filling Shilly’s eyes with blinding moisture. She screamed as something brushed past her with a sound like glass chimes tinkling. Clutching Tom’s arm and pulling him after her, but losing Skender in the commotion, she headed in the direction of the Way. The surge of relief when she found it was like nothing she had ever felt before. She half-ran, half-slid down it.

Her eyes were still filled with mist when she reached the end. Stumbling, she let go of Tom and fell to the ground. Someone loomed over her, someone pale-skinned and large. Aron, she assumed, until he spoke.

“Shilly—where’s Skender?”

She looked around, blinking in the golden Change-light. There was Tom, backing away from the entrance of the Way. There was Sal, rigid and concentrating on the Way, trying to keep it open. Aron and Mawson made a hunch-backed figure next to Sal—so who was talking to her?

“Shilly!” Strong hands shook her shoulders, and she forced herself to concentrate.

“Hasn’t he come out? He was right behind us.”

“Shit.” The figure let go of her and suddenly sprang into focus.

“Kemp?” She stared up at the albino in amazement for a full second, then put the mystery of his appearance aside. Now simply wasn’t the time. “If Skender’s still in there, we have to get him out. There’s something else in there with him. Not the golem—something new.”

“Something else?” Kemp looked around the group in disbelief. “I should leave you here to sort out your own mess. Whatever you’ve got yourselves into—”

“Quickly!” hissed Sal through clenched teeth. “Can’t hold it—much longer!”

“Right,” said Shilly, clambering painfully to her feet. “I’ll get him.”

“No,” said Kemp. “You’re in no condition to do anything except stay here and help Sal.” He pushed her back from the Way. “Hold that door open. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

He vanished into the Way. Shilly grabbed Sal’s arm. The moment she did, the effort he was making to halt the closing pattern filled her head. She clenched her fingers around his flesh and slid her thoughts into the visualisation. It wasn’t the reverse of the one they had used to open the way. It was a different pattern entirely, featuring slender, feathery tendrils swirling around a central circle. The trick was to fold the tendrils into the circle without causing them to touch. This they did readily enough once the process was started. Stopping it in mid-collapse was taking all of Sal’s concentration.

She assumed some of the burden.

“Thank you” he breathed through the link.

“Why didn’t you wait until I was out before starting?”

“I didn’t know how long you’d take, or how hard this would be. I didn’t think it’d happen so fast.”

She nodded, accepting his exhausted explanation. “Where did Kemp come from?”

“I don’t know. He just appeared. He must have followed us down the tunnels.”

Shilly nodded, remembering the glimpse of someone at the end of Sal’s corridor when the golem had led them out of his room. She’d thought she had imagined it. “The sneaky shit,” she said, “but I’m glad he’s here. If he can get Skender out—”

She stopped as something collided heavily with them both, knocking her and Sal apart. There was a snarling noise from a human mouth. Her eyes flew open as she staggered backwards, hopping on her good leg and flailing for balance with both arms. Through a fading cloud of steam, she caught a glimpse of a black-robed figure scurrying blindly into the distance. The golem!

Sal’s cry of dismay drew her attention back to the Way. They had been distracted, and she felt the pattern collapsing. She tried to hold it back, but she had no talent of her own, and Sal was too far away to Take from. He was throwing himself forward, at the entrance of the Way.

Shilly saw it all as clearly as though it happened in slow motion. The edges of the Way rippled then began to shrink, contracting like a pupil in response to bright light. Around the bend, following in the golem’s wake, was Kemp, dragging Skender behind him. At the sight of the shrinking exit, he put on an extra turn of speed, but it was clear he wasn’t going to make it.

“No!” The Change flexed and suddenly Sal was right there, on the threshold of the Way. He reached inside, through the shrinking gap, and grabbed Kemp’s arm. With unnatural strength, he wrenched the albino toward the gap—

—just as it closed around his arm. The pattern in Shilly’s mind contracted down to a point and disappeared.

With a soundless explosion, the Way slammed shut. Squeezed out of it like an orange pip between two fingers, Sal, Kemp and Skender flew across the sandy ground and fell into a sprawled heap. The earth shook, and Shilly heard someone shout in alarm. It might have been her, but she was too caught up in the moment to tell.

Then, almost too suddenly, everything was still. The Way was closed. The golem was gone. Whatever the ice-creature had been, it appeared to be nowhere around. There was just the golden glow of the Change, filling the air like treacle.

“You did it,” she yelled, hobbling to where Sal lay on the ground, half-buried beneath Kemp and Skender. “You brought them back!”

She fell down next to him and clutched his tunic. She wanted to hug him, but she was conscious of Tom and Aron close at hand, seeing to the others. She didn’t want them to see how deep her relief ran—that her concern had not been so much for Kemp and Skender, but for Sal. If he had hurt himself trying to rescue them—

She realised then that something wasn’t right. Sal wasn’t responding at all. He was limp under her touch, and so were the others. The part of her that knew when he was nearby, the part of her that had always been connected to him from the moment of their first meeting—that part of her was hollow.

“No,” she breathed, unwilling to accept what her inner sense was telling her. “Sal? Sal!”

As she lifted his head to look into his eyes, she saw that they were empty. His body had returned, but he was elsewhere.

“No!”

The echoes of her cry rang through the chamber of the Tower in fleeting, futile defiance, and then faded away to nothing.

Part Three:

Drowning

CHAPTER 14

THE OLDEST WAR

When the storm broke, it came almost as a relief. Lightning, thunder, wind, rain: the tune was a familiar one, but no less powerful for that. The earth shivered under the onslaught. The air stretched to breaking point. Between the two, fire and water coexisted for a brief and all too cataclysmic time.

In the middle of it all, one figure stood tall. Unbowed by the clash of the elements, he waited out the storm with the patience of mountains. Just as heavy was the mood that hung around him. The storm would not beat him down, but his thoughts might.

He had brought the storm. It was his doing. He had summoned it from the deep reserves of the world, and he could not turn it back.

It might not hurt him—but who knew what might fall in its path? Or who? There was nothing he could do but wait it out and see what remained in its wake.

That there would be flowers for the dead was no consolation at all.

Skender jerked awake from the dream knowing it wasn’t his. It was, though, as vivid as if he had dreamed it. He could still hear the thrumming of the rain around him, as though each drop was beating an immense drum. The rumble of the thunder echoed in the distance, blending with the moaning of the wind to form a strange melange of sound—not thunder or wind or rain, but something else. A deep, all-pervasive hum.

It was a hum he recognised. He had heard it all his life, without consciously noting it. The only time he had noted it was when he, Sal and Shilly had been trying to connect the Way to the heart of the Golden Tower and they had missed at their first attempt. Just for a second, he had felt the sound underlying the world of his waking senses—the hum of the Void Beneath.

Skender panicked. He didn’t know much about the Void. No one did, or so he gathered from the texts he had glimpsed. What he did know terrified him. It wasn’t a place so much as a non-place: people disappeared into it and were never seen again. It wasn’t a source so much as a sink: the end of the road. Some people—like the warden who had officiated at Radi Mierlo’s funeral—thought the Void Beneath was where people went when they died.

So am I dead? he wondered. Is that what happened to me?

The last thing he remembered—

—Kemp’s hand clutching his wrist and dragging him along so fast he thought his shoulder was about to be wrenched out of its socket, the electric stink of the ice-beast still strong in his nostrils, a glimpse of Sal lunging for them through the shrinking exit—

—was imprinted on his mind, as though somewhere it was still happening. But all sense of his body was gone. He was formless, vague, lost.

And the dream still tugged at him. The figure in the storm wasn’t Sal, but the dream carried the flavour of his friend’s mind. Sal had to be in the Void with him, then, trapped as he was in the terrible grey nothingness. Was Kemp there too? He searched for any sign of the albino, but didn’t know him well enough to find a trace of him. Or else he wasn’t there, and it was just Sal and Skender, adrift. Or else Skender was just kidding himself, and he was totally alone in the Void, with nothing but someone else’s nightmare for company.

Hello?

He had no voice, and no feeling of the Change within him, but he still had thoughts. He could pretend he was talking to someone else. If the effort went no further than the inside of his nonexistent skull, it wouldn’t hurt.

Hello? Can anyone hear me?

There was no answer. Not even an echo. There was just the hum, rising and falling around him in powerful waves. He felt like a feather in the face of the storm of Sal’s dreams, buffeted and tossed by forces beyond his comprehension. And there was, strangely, some calm in that thought: if he had no control of what was happening to him, if there truly was no way to defy the Void, then acceptance of his fate would be a relief. He could stop fighting it. He could let go. He could forget.

You must never forget, here, said a voice out of the Void.

He would have jumped, had he still possessed a body.

Wh-who said that?

I no longer have a name, came the reply. The voice might once have belonged to a woman, but the Void leached it of its uniqueness. It was the essence of a voice, a threadbare carrier for the words. I am the one who fought the world-eater.

The what?

The world-eater. It never had a proper name, as I did. It came out of the Divide and devoured a city. I cast it into the Void, but it dragged me after it. Its pattern has long since dissipated. My story and I remain.

The owner of the voice spoke with pride. Skender couldn’t tell which she was most proud of: defeating the world-eater or surviving in the Void.

He didn’t know what to say in response. There wasn’t much he could say. There were, however, a thousand questions.

Am I dead?

No, she said. Tell me how you came here.

The memories were sharp, not difficult to recall at all. Kemp and I were trying to get out of the Golden Tower before the Way slammed shut. Sal and Shilly did their best to keep it open, but the golem distracted them, broke their concentration. Sal tried to get us out in time, but the Way closed. I guess it dragged him in with us, because I feel him here, somewhere. We have to find a way back. The fierceness of that statement surprised him, although his certainty did not. Can you tell me how?

If I could, I wouldn’t be here.

Has anyone ever escaped?

Not that I remember, she said.

So I’m stuck here forever?

Not forever. Until you forget, and are in turn forgotten.

I don’t understand.

Humans are not meant to exist in the Void. We come here by accident or misadventure, like you, and we survive by will alone. There was a deep sense of sadness and urgency in the voice, even through the dehumanising effects of the Void. Some say that we exist as ripples in the great sea of the Void, and that its waves will overwhelm us unless we continually replenish those ripples. Others call us harmonics dancing among the peaks and troughs of the world’s longest note, always in danger of being drowned out. I think of us as echoes that refuse to fade, defying the silence though we grow ever fainter. However you describe us, the voice concluded, we are the lost minds.

Skender had never heard of such things in all of his father’s literature. There are more of you?

Yes. They will be here soon. We feel new arrivals as vibrations in the Void. We flock to hear your stories, and to tell you ours.

I don’t have a story, Skender said.

Yes, you have. You just told it to me. You and your friends are the ones who were caught in the Way. This is your story, and you must tell it often, to prevent the memories dissolving. This is your only defence against the Void.

Skender was about to protest that he’d never had a problem remembering anything in his life when he sensed a strange disturbance in the Void. There was a distortion in the ever-present hum, then a peculiar sense of inrushing, as though the Void had acquired a new density in the region immediately surrounding him. Not that there was any real sense of space. He was truly bodiless, with no anchors to define where he was or how he fitted in. His mind was simply used to thinking in terms of near and far, up and down, so it attempted to comprehend the incomprehensible any way it could.

He felt as though a crowd of blind people had suddenly gathered around him and were all trying to touch him at once. With each touch came a voice. Each was muted by the Void, but there were subtle differentiations that enabled him to tell them apart.

Who is he?

Is he new?

Perhaps he has returned. Does his story sound familiar?

We haven’t heard his story yet.

Then let him tell it. Tell us your story!

Tell us who you are!

Skender performed the mental equivalent of clearing his throat.

M-my name, he stammered, is Galeus.

A rustle of surprise greeted his announcement. It surprised him, too, for he had intended to say that his name was Skender. His heart-name had come out without him intending it to.

He has a name! He must be very new.

We don’t use names here, boy. They’re too easy to forget.

We forget which belongs to whom.

We miss them.

Our stories are all we need.

Yes. A ripple of affirmation swept through the cluster of lost minds. Tell us your story, Galeus, before you forget!

Skender reiterated the brief synopsis he had given the one who fought the world-beast. His audience listened raptly; he could sense their combined attention focused on him as though he was standing under a searchlight. They hung on every word, and whispered excitedly among themselves when he had finished.

A golem! Imagine that.

And an ice-beast! Does anyone remember them?

A chorus of no’s came back from the lost minds.

What was it like? Was it cruel? Was it made of ice? Did you kill it?

No, he said. I don’t know where it went. I didn’t see it in the Golden Tower before the Way collapsed.

The Golden Tower, eh? That sounds important.

Made of gold? Or just looks like it?

Were you trying to steal it?

Skender was beginning to realise that the lost minds were listening to his words without understanding them. If they had ever known what an ice-beast and the Golden Tower were, that knowledge had been eroded away by the incessant droning of the Void Beneath.

But listening gave them an anchor to hang onto. For a little while longer, they were able to withstand the inevitable decay.

He didn’t want to end up like them. That he knew for certain. If there was any way to get out of the Void, he would take it.

My friends are unconscious, he said, remembering that the one who fought the world-beast had definitely used the plural, and becoming worried that they might already be slipping under the waves. Will they be all right?

I don’t know. Not everyone wakes in the Void. If they’re in danger, there’s nothing you can do for them now.

Nothing at all?

The Oldest One will know.

Yes, the Oldest One.

We will take you to him so you can ask him.

But first—

A dozen voices finished the sentence.

—you must hear our stories.

His first instinct was to argue. He suspected that it would get him nowhere, however. There was an ill-defined desperation in the minds surrounding him. They didn’t want to die, and this was the only way they knew to prevent it. He had told them his story and they had listened. Who was he to renege on the deal?

And if it was the only way they were going to help him, he supposed he had no choice.

I am the one who broke into a Ruin and stole a precious machine, said the first of the lost minds. There was a trap I didn’t see. As I was leaving the Ruin with the machine in my hand, the trap caught me and brought me to the Void Beneath.

I am the one who tried to move a river, said another. The flood had destroyed my family home and would destroy many others if it wasn’t diverted. It took too much effort. I overextended my talent. When I woke up, I was here.

I am the one who brought a slave trader to justice, said the next. He had taken children from many families in the northern lands and sold them into a life of horror and torment. I was sent by my superiors to end his reign of terror. I did so, but not before his mage cast a charm over me that robbed my body of vitality. I ebbed away to nothing, and the Void took me.

I am the one who danced, said yet another. I was the greatest dancer in my village, then the greatest dancer in my land. I danced for dignitaries and rulers, or just for the pleasure of it. The Change thrilled through me when I danced, and I became lost in it. I danced a week straight, once, and when I stopped dancing, I was still lost. I found myself here, and here I remain.

Skender listened. The tales were told in flat, practised tones, as though the forgetting of names stripped all humanity away from the person. The stories had become little more than words, and Skender wondered how much they actually meant to the people who recited them—if they were actual memories, or just skeletons of memories. Despite this, an insidious mixture of despair and determination propped up every word. These stories were all they had. They clung to them like someone in a desert sucked a stone.

He didn’t know what to feel as the stories kept coming, one after the other, all essentially the same: someone either dipped too deeply in the Change or was attacked by something through the Change. They all ended the same way: in the Void, slowly forgetting who they were and, but for the stories, what they had done to get there.

Skender began to feel like an overloaded life raft, in danger of sinking. He had no idea how many lost minds there were. He could be there forever until he was completely swamped by the stories of the dead.

Wait, he said. He had to halt the flow temporarily. A thought had occurred to him during the endless litany. I know of someone who might be here. He would have joined you recently. Could he be among you?

Perhaps, said the one who fought the world-eater. What was his story?

His story…Skender assembled everything he knew into as simple a narrative as possible. He is the one who summoned an earthquake to help my friend escape. He lived in a small town and taught another friend of mine the Change. He knew my father, the Mage Van Haasteren. Skender stopped. Names and relationships were irrelevant in the Void. He tried another tack. He believed that Sky Wardens and Stone Mages were the same, that the Change came from one place. They called him a necromancer and exiled him. He…Skender faltered again. That was about all he knew about Lodo, except that his body had been hijacked to commit a terrible crime.

Is he here? he finished. Do you know him?

He sensed movement in the minds gathered around him, as though a crowd of people were shuffling their feet.

I do not recall anyone like that, said one.

Nor I, said another.

But he might have been here, said the one who fought the world-eater. If he has faded, we would not remember.

He came here within the last couple of months, Skender protested, unable to believe that Lodo could have been forgotten so soon. The old man had left such an indelible impression in the real world, it was hard to imagine him disappearing without trace into the Void. Surely you couldn’t have forgotten already.

The only things we remember, said the one who fought the world-eater, are our stories. We have nothing else.

Skender could feel the eagerness of the crowd to resume the telling of their tales. What did it matter, he wondered, if he heard them out? Telling each other would do the trick well enough.

Perhaps it was more than just the telling. Perhaps the hearing was important, too. Or it wasn’t so much the memory of the teller alone that mattered, but the memory of everyone else. In the Void, being forgotten might be as dangerous as forgetting.

Okay, he said, but when you’re done, we go to the Oldest One. If my friends fade into the Void before then, I’ll forget everything you tell me. I’ll erase it all from my mind. It’ll be like you never existed to me, ever.

An empty threat, but the lost minds weren’t to know.

We will be quick, said the one who fought the world-eater. Do not fear, one of three who were caught in a Way. Time is plentiful in the Void Beneath.

Skender would have shuddered, had he still had a body.

My name is Skender, he said. No one answered.

The Oldest One didn’t live so much somewhere else in the Void as somewhere deeper. When the litany of memories was over, Skender was finally allowed to concentrate on his quest to save his friends. He could still feel Sal nearby, dreaming of his storm. Kemp was more distant and vague, but recognisable now he knew to look. The patterns they made in the Void were distinct and didn’t seem to be fading. Sal’s, though, was definitely stronger than Kemp’s, and Skender didn’t trust senses he didn’t understand in a world that barely made sense at all.

The one who fought the world-eater guided him. It was hard to say how they moved, exactly—and how a Void, which was supposed to be empty, could have anything approaching density or currents—but Skender could definitely feel the Void shifting around him, as though he was adrift in one of the amorphous clouds created during a game of Blind. Or the sea. He had only seen the ocean from the deck of Os and from Fairney’s cliff-edge classroom, but comparing the Void to the sea struck him as appropriate. As he was led deeper, he imagined that he was drifting in thick, salty currents.

Perhaps, he thought, this was what it was like to swim. Or to drown.

They came at last to a place where the hum of the Void was loudest. It resonated powerfully through them, making concentration difficult. Skender felt as though he was trying to see and hear through a raging sandstorm, but one that never ebbed. He felt that if they tried to go deeper, he would lose all sense of himself entirely and be sucked away like a leaf in a hurricane.

This is it, said the one who fought the world-eater. We are here.

Where, exactly?

Before the Oldest One.

Can he hear us?

If he chooses to.

What does that mean?

Skender felt something reach out of the Void and clamp itself about him like an eagle’s talons.

It means, said a new voice, exactly what it means.

Hey! Skender squirmed in the powerful grip. That hurts!

The talons only tightened. He felt as though the bones of his skull were creaking. The fact that he no longer had a skull wasn’t comforting at all.

I am the Oldest One, said the voice. It might once have been male, but was now as sexless as a wave crashing. You are one of three who were caught in a Way. I heard your story. I can feel your friends. They will last a while longer yet.

How do you know?

One of them has a connection with the world. He can lead you back.

Skender was relieved to hear that. It took some of the annoyance out of being caught in the Oldest One’s vice-like grip.

How do I wake him? he asked.

I will tell you in a moment. First, you must hear another story.

Skender suppressed a groan. All right. If I must.

A long time ago, two brothers were born into the world, the Oldest One began. Identical twins, they shared a connection that could not be broken. What one was, the other was too. What one felt, the other felt. They were to others like one mind with two bodies. They communicated in ways that ordinary people did not comprehend. They were like two mirrors placed face to face, jealously guarding infinite possibilities between them.

And you were one of those twins, Skender prompted. You’re telling me your story, right?

Death came between them, said the Oldest One, ignoring Skender’s question. Death took one from the other. Death split the pair apart as a lightning bolt might tear a tree down the middle. The surviving twin felt as though his mind had been ripped in half. He lived, but part of him had died. He felt that he, too, should be dead. That his heart still beat had to be a mistake, for he could not exist in the world without his brother by his side, without the other half of his mind near at hand. The world could not exist like that.

And it seemed for a time as though the surviving twin might be right. The longer he lived, the stranger the world became. Things moved through it that he had never seen before. Strange forces came into his life while others more familiar faded away. Elemental creatures stalked the streets. He felt himself protected by unseen intelligences that weren’t quite human. Although he attempted suicide many times, to join his brother, mysterious figures always stepped in to prevent him.

By the time the dreams started, he was quite certain that he had gone mad.

The Oldest One shifted his grip on Skender’s mind. Skender quashed the opinion that it sounded like “he” had indeed gone mad.

There was another explanation, the Oldest One continued. The nightmares, the failure of nature, the new creatures—all this and more arose out of a simple possibility. At first, the surviving twin could not accept it. He thought it nothing more than another delusion. But when this delusion did not fade, and when he began to hear it on the lips of others, as though the delusion had infected them too, he began to accept the truth of it.

His brother was dead, but that wasn’t the end of his story. Wherever he was, in whatever version of the afterlife the dead twin found himself, he was still connected to the surviving twin. Everything he felt and did was communicated to his brother by the same mysterious mechanism that had existed between them in life. Their mind was not split after all, just stretched across the gulf between the living and the dead.

That stretching—like an elastic band—was pulling the two together. The distinction between life and afterlife had become less clear. People who should have been dead lived on; things that should never have lived walked freely. Death struck some without warning, or came in ways never seen before. It was the order of things that was disturbed, not the mind of the surviving twin.

He developed new talents, new senses and new friends that would once have been inconceivable. While he lived, the realms of life and death mingled, and chaos spread through the world. It seemed obvious that he should die in order to restore reality, but he was increasingly uncertain that this was what he wanted to do, and he was as unable to commit suicide as he had been before. The agencies watching over him did not have his wellbeing alone at heart. They killed his brother to create the overlap in the first place, and they desired that life and death should remain intermingled. The creatures that existed in the spaces between life and death had found new homes and new prey.

They did not want to go back.

What happened? Skender surprised himself by being interested. Unlike the stories of the other lost minds, this one at least had a plot. What did you do?

The twins were caught in the middle of the oldest war of all, said the Oldest One, not answering his question directly. Those who did not want to go back were opposed by those attempting to restore the status quo. The battle raged through life and the afterlife—across the Earth and through realms the living can barely comprehend. Always the twins remained at the focus, empowered by their strange new talents. On their fate rested the fate of two worlds. If the surviving twin were to die, the connection between life and afterlife would disappear; were his dead brother to move on, in whatever form was allowed to him, the connection would change, perhaps snap entirely.

Most tragic of all, the twins knew that they could never be together again in either of their worlds. Too many forces were arrayed against them to allow it. But despite this, and above all, they yearned to be reunited. They missed each other, and hated being apart.

Given the forces gathering around them, the Oldest One said, it was only a matter of time before something unexpected happened.

It came in the form of a third agency, one formed solely to resolve the war irrespective of what happened to the twins. Their primary objective was to end the conflict, to bring order—even if it was an entirely new sort of order. The twins were once again the targets. The object wasn’t to kill them, but to remove them, place them out of reach, where no threat of death—or life—could bring a new upheaval to the world.

The third agency exploited their longing to be together. The twins were told about the Void Beneath—a place that was neither life nor afterlife. It was another place again, predating everywhere else. The twins were convinced that it would be possible to meet there without disturbing the new balance of things.

They arranged in secret to journey to the Void, one twin from the world of life, the other from the realms of the afterlife. If their plan worked, they would be able to meet in this form as long as they wanted: mind-to-mind, bodiless, and united for the first time since the tragedy that separated them. Since it wasn’t truly them that moved, but the pattern of their minds, echoed in the Void, the connection would remain between their respective worlds. The new balance would remain unchanged. They could come and go as they willed, and no one would ever know.

The Oldest One paused, and this time Skender did not interrupt. Every word hammered home with dull finality a conclusion that he had already guessed.

The twins did not reckon on temptation, as the third agency had. Each time they met, it was harder to return to their respective worlds. Each separation was more painful. The longer they spent in the Void, the more they became accustomed to it, and the more they forgot the worlds and conflicts they had left behind. Togetherness achieved what no agency could: the twins retired forever from the battle between life and afterlife, and a new order was imposed upon the world.

So it remains today, the Oldest One said, and will remain until the next cataclysm remakes the world. The war continues. Perhaps it will never be won.

Wait, said Skender. Are you talking about the Cataclysm? The one that created the ghosts in the Haunted City? That gave us the Change?

I know nothing of your cities or your Change. I simply exist, and will continue to exist for as long as I remember.

But you’re one of the twins. You made all this happen. None of us would be here now if it wasn’t for you.

The Oldest One didn’t reply. The grip around Skender’s mind shifted slightly, awkwardly.

Which one were you? Skender asked. The twin who died or the twin who lived?

Again, no reply.

What happens if more twins are born and one of them dies? Do we go through the Cataclysm all over again?

The Oldest One’s voice was like rock cracking in an avalanche. I do not know.

You don’t know what? Which twin you were, or whether it’ll happen again?

I do not know who I am, or how to answer your questions, said the Oldest One. I simply said that I would tell you a story. I do not know if it is mine, or whether it was handed down to me by a previous Oldest One, if such existed before me. It may not even be true.

Perhaps someone back home will know, Skender said. I’ll ask around when I get back. Maybe they mention you—the twins—in the Book of Towers.

You will not remember. What happens in the Void remains in the Void.

I wouldn’t bet on that. I’ve never forgotten anything in my life.

The vice around his mind suddenly gripped tighter. Is this true?

Ow—yes, it’s true. Stop doing that! Why are you hurting me?

I must know that you are telling the truth. And if it is true…The Oldest One eased his grip slightly. You must tell no one, or you will never leave here.

Why not?

Think about it. What do the lost minds want?

To be remembered?

Exactly: so they can live. You who cannot forget could enable them to live forever. If they learn this, they will never let you go.

Could they do that?

They could, by keeping you from the friend who will lead you home and letting him dissolve into the Void.

But—Skender tried futilely to wriggle out of the Oldest One’s clutches. But what about you? What’s stopping you from doing that too?

The Oldest One was silent for a long moment. Oblivion doesn’t frighten me.

Well, it frightens me, Skender said, taking the mental equivalent of a deep breath. Now more than ever he wanted to get home. I heard your story. You have to tell me how to wake Sal. That was the deal.

The Oldest One didn’t renege. Your friend will wake when you call him by his heart-name.

That’s all?

Yes. Do you know his heart-name?

Skender did, much to his relief. What if I didn’t know it? What would’ve happened then?

You would have stayed here forever.

That doesn’t seem terribly fair.

The Void cares nothing about “fair”. Neither do those who live here. I know you will remember that, but you should understand it, too. Farewell.

The grip suddenly vanished from around him, and Skender lurched free into the Void.

What did the Oldest One say? asked the one who fought the world-beast. Did he tell you what you needed to know?

He—yes, he did.

You seem upset. Is everything all right?

Skender recoiled from the lost mind’s curiosity. If she hadn’t overheard his conversation with the Oldest One, then she didn’t know about his ability to remember. But she had read his surface thoughts before, and might do so again.

The Oldest One told me more than I wanted to know, he said. And enough to convince me that I need to leave straightaway. Will you take me to my friends?

Of course, she said, beginning the slow climb back to where he had arrived and taking him with her. If she suspected anything, she made no sign.

Sayed.

The name sank into the Void like a rock through mist. Sal didn’t respond.

Skender pressed harder. Sayed? Can you hear me?

This time there came a faint response. The storm dream ebbed, faded.

…Dad?

It’s Galeus, he said, profoundly relieved that Sal had answered. The lost minds were crowding curiously around him. He felt that his secret was burning on his mind like a brand, even though they made no move to stop him.

Where are we?

We’re in the Void Beneath. Skender explained as succinctly as he could. There are other people in here, lost people. We’ll become like them if we don’t get out soon.

How do we do that?

One of them told me that you have a connection with the world, that you can lead us back. I presume it’s you, anyway, because you have that thing with Shilly. Unless there’s something we don’t know about Kemp…

Kemp is here, too?

He was caught with us when the Way collapsed.

The Way…? Skender felt Sal’s confusion through the Void. I don’t remember. It’s all a blur. What were we doing in a Way?

Don’t worry about it, said Skender, although he couldn’t quash his own anxiety. The Void was already having an effect on Sal. The fact that he was still remembering clearly confirmed his assumption that he wouldn’t forget anything on returning.

Can you feel Shilly, Sal? Do you think you can reach her?

I feel her. Sal’s voice was faint. She’s so far away. She’s looking for us.

I’ll bet she is. Can you take us to her?

I’m not sure. The Change…I don’t have it any more. I don’t know how to do it.

See if you can call her, then. She might be able to reach us.

Okay, I’ll try.

Skender felt Sal’s mind reaching out in a way he couldn’t fully comprehend. Although he had earlier imagined the Void to be like a cloud or the ocean, the reality was infinitely more complex. He simply wasn’t equipped to deal with concepts like direction in a place where direction was meaningless. Even a fish would have some concept of another world outside the ocean, beyond the boundary between water and air. Not being able to cross that boundary didn’t mean it wasn’t imaginable: it was simply up. Where up was in the case of the Void, he had no idea, but that was where Sal was reaching. His friend’s mind, still groggy from his awakening in the Void, was completely focused on the task.

That’s it, Skender said. You can do it.

What is he doing? asked the one who fought the world-beast. What strangeness is this?

Beats me, Skender replied. But maybe it’s not so strange. Maybe it happens every week and you just forget.

This is possible, admitted the lost mind. We will forget you, too, in time.

If we make it back.

Yes. We would rename you “the ones who went home”. Your return would give us hope that we might do so.

Maybe you will, one day.

No. There is no hope for us. We are lost, forgotten. We—There was a slight pause, then the one who fought the world-eater said, What do you mean when you think that you will remember us?

Skender clamped down on the treacherous thought. Nothing. I didn’t think that.

It felt as though you did. The lost one retreated slightly, nursing something that felt very much like resentment. No one remembers. We are nothing but ripples in a pond, doomed to flatten and fade. You are a pebble dropped among us: an exciting but brief disturbance. Things will return to the way they always are, as they always do. That we know, even if we don’t remember it. What happens here makes no difference in the larger scheme of things.

Skender felt the keen desperation in the remains of the woman’s mind as powerfully as though the feeling was his own. He wished there was something he could do to help her—to help all of them—but the only option he could think of was completely unacceptable. He wasn’t going to stay in the Void any longer than he had to. He had places to go and things to see on the outside.

Places like home. The thought struck him hard on the heels of the lost one’s despair. With the possibility of never leaving the Void hanging over him, his memories of the Keep had never seemed sweeter. Its crumbling facades; the endless singing of the wind chimes in the thin air, as familiar to him as his name on his father’s lips; the view from the upper balconies, of bare mountains reaching for the sky. There were no golems there, no Golden Towers, and no risk of accidentally vanishing forever in the Void. Not unless one of Raf’s experiments went astray, anyway, or his dad finally came good on one of his threats.

Always in a hurry to get somewhere, Atilde had said about his father, never happy where he was. Skender thought of the boy his father had once been, and wondered what had happened to him to make him change his mind. Perhaps he had known better than his son what Skender was getting himself into by stowing away on Belilanca Brokate’s caravan…

Got her! Sal’s cry shook him out of his thoughts. She’s going to try to pull us back.

How?

I don’t know. Someone’s helping her, I think. Sal’s mind lurched in the Void as though something had grabbed it. That’s her! I’ve got Kemp. You grab onto him, and let’s get out of here!

Skender clutched desperately at the mind of their unconscious companion. Another lurch pulled Sal, then Kemp and Skender, in a completely impossible direction. For a moment, he panicked, fearing that he was actually going deeper and would be lost forever. But then the Void seemed to fade around him. The endless hum lessened. He could feel himself being tugged away from the lost ones as though he was a desert mouse hanging onto the tail of a snake that was in turn biting the leg of a rabbit—and somewhere far above was an eagle struggling to lift all three of them into the sky.

We’re going to make it!

Then something grabbed him from below. Skender couldn’t tell what it was, at first, but it hauled them back down like a lead weight. They hung, wavering, above the Void, too heavy to rise any higher.

He kicked and wriggled, tried to shake it free.

Get off me, he yelled.

No! The reply of the one who fought the world-eater was strident. I want to leave.

Understanding dawned. You can’t, he shouted back. Where are you going to live? In my head?

I don’t care. I don’t want to be forgotten!

More weight pulled down on the three escapees as more lost minds attached themselves to the one who fought the world-eater.

None of us want to be forgotten, they cried. Take us back! Take us back!

What’s going on down there, Skender? called Sal from the top of the chain. Shilly can’t hold us forever.

I know! Skender kicked harder, but the one who fought the world-eater was clinging tight. And if he kicked too hard he would lose his grip on Kemp and fall back into the Void. I can’t—shake them—free.

Take us with you! Take us home!

Just as the weight hanging off him began to become unbearable, something struck the one who fought the world-eater. The lost mind’s grip slipped slightly. She was struck a second time, and Skender kicked out as hard as he could. The grip of the one who fought the world-beast failed. Skender sensed the great pile of lost minds slipping and falling away below him. They were free.

For one lingering moment, the lost mind that had struck the one who fought the world-beast rose alongside them. A new voice spoke out of the Void.

I am the one who lost a son.

She fell away.

Remember me.

Then Skender was being wrenched upward, out of the Void Beneath. The eternal hum rose again to an angry buzzing, as though their passing disturbed a swarm of bees. Then even that fell behind them—and everything was suddenly light and air and the taste of bile in his throat.

The relief that rushed through him was profound. He had a throat! Even in the confusion of voices and hands clutching at him, choking noises and the strange smell of burning, Skender had time to scan his memory to see what it retained of his experiences in the Void. It was all there: the lost minds, their stories, the Oldest One, the twins. The one who lost a son.

Remember me.

He remembered. He remembered it all.

He would never forget.

Once he was sure of that, he let himself slump back into the arms of the person trying to sit him up. There would be time to talk about it later. For now, all he wanted to do was sleep. He was as exhausted as though he had run twice around the Haunted City, and not even the empty ache in his stomach could keep him awake.

Soothing, silent darkness rushed over him, and he fell gratefully into it.

CHAPTER 15

WAKING IN PIECES

“Sal! Sal, can you hear me?”

Someone shook his shoulder. It felt as though the entire world was shaking. He opened his eyes, but that only made things worse. A profusion of colours and shapes whirled before him. His gut muscles heaved, and the contents of his stomach filled his mouth in a vile rush. All the acidic nervousness and tension of their hours with the golem and the Golden Tower exploded out of him with all the strength left in his body.

When it was over he sagged weakly into the hands that held him. He felt dead—or, at the very least, dying.

“That was gross, Sal.” He felt Shilly right there beside him and wasn’t sure whether to be grateful or appalled. “I think it’s a good sign, though.”

“What happened?” he gasped. His eyes still weren’t working properly. All he saw were blurry haloes spinning around him with disconcerting abandon. “Where am I?”

“We’re out of the catacombs, by the tidepool. What’s left of the tidepool, anyway. We carried you up here, into the light.”

Light. Yes. Wherever he was, the sun had risen.

He had a vague memory of a golden glow that seemed to touch his mind before it hit his eyes.

“We?” he asked.

She hesitated. “Your trick worked. The wardens saw the steam boiling out of a fissure and sent someone to investigate. They were able to follow our footprints through the catacombs. They arrived just as Tom and I were trying to work out how to get you three to the surface. More wardens came when they called for help. It’s been very complicated.”

Sal wanted to sit up, but he barely had the energy to speak.

“What happened to me?”

“You don’t remember?”

He shook his head. There were numerous images jumbled together in his mind: the inside of the Golden Tower; some sort of creature made of ice; Mawson; the golem…He couldn’t put them together in a meaningful way.

“What’s the last thing you do remember?”

He thought hard. Mawson had been trying to show him how to close the Way. He and Skender had been concentrating on the pattern and finding it difficult without Shilly to help them. She and Tom had been inside the Tower, trying to retrieve Lodo’s body before they sealed the Tower shut. Then—

Kemp. He remembered a different sort of light coming out of the catacombs, and the frightened but determinedly angry face of the albino behind it. He couldn’t remember Kemp’s exact words, but their intent was clear. What the hell did they think they were doing, going off in the middle of the night on some forbidden excursion? The bully from Fundelry had followed them and their fake attendant, not expecting to be led for miles underground, down frightening corridors filled with hideous faces and through torturous catacombs in which he could easily be lost forever. He would have turned back hours earlier, had not the need to find out what the truants were up to been so great. Kemp was supposed to make sure they didn’t get into trouble, after all. Something like this would reflect very badly on him. How dare they be so selfish and so stupid?

Sal remembered the relief behind the anger. As self-righteous as he professed to be, Kemp had been glad that he was no longer alone.

And then…?

Sal wasn’t sure what had happened next. The charm Mawson taught them must have begun to work too well. He remembered a horrible feeling of collapse as the Way tried to slam shut on Shilly, Tom and the golem in Lodo’s body. Then Skender had gone and Shilly had appeared. Kemp must have gone, too, because he had a vague memory of Kemp and Skender together in the Way—but his view of them was restricted, as though seen through a porthole. There was something about the golem bumping into him, his concentration failing, a feeling of terrible desperation…

Sal tried opening his eyes again. This time it worked. He was lying on the thin crescent of sandy beach beside the pool into which he had thrown the light-sink. A shaft of light angled down from the chink in the rock through which they had seen stars the previous night. Shilly was leaning over him, her short hair filthy and black bags under her eyes. She was studying his face, not his eyes, and her concerned expression softened when she realised that he was looking at her.

“Did the Way collapse on us?” he asked.

She nodded. “It spat out your bodies, but your minds were caught. You, Skender and Kemp—you were empty, burned out. I couldn’t feel you anywhere. I didn’t know what was going to happen to you. For all I knew, another golem was going to take you over, twist you into something like Lodo…” Shilly stopped and turned away. He groped weakly for her hand and held it in his.

She continued after a moment. “When the wardens arrived, they said that you were in the Void, and that you might never return. We tried to find you, but it’s harder than it sounds. The Void is nowhere. How do you look nowhere for someone? If you hadn’t found us, you would’ve been lost forever.”

“I found you?” he asked.

She nodded. “They were telling me I should give up when you suddenly appeared. Here.” She tapped her breastbone. “They followed the link between us and pulled you out. I felt you return. Your body went from being empty to full again—just like that. It was like someone turned the ignition on your old buggy. You and Kemp and Skender were back.”

He shook his head, remembering nothing along those lines at all. “What happened to the golem?”

“It got away.” Her dark-skinned face darkened even further. “I don’t know where it went.”

“Mawson,” he said. “Ask Mawson to ask tash. We’ll find Lodo again. Don’t worry.”

His attempt at reassurance seemed to amuse her. “You’re in no position to suggest anything right now, my friend. We’ve got to get you back to the surface where they can look at you properly. The wardens came down the fissure on ropes, and they’re going to get us out the same way. No one’s keen to go up the tunnel with the faces until they’re sure exactly what’s in there.”

He nodded, fighting a wave of fatigue. He felt like she looked: utterly exhausted. And filthy. So much had happened in the previous twenty-four hours that he feared it might take weeks to sort it all out—if ever he could.

Shapes in Sky Warden blue moved back and forth behind Shilly. Everything was going blurry again. Her lips were moving, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying. Her presence was warm and comforting next to him, though, and he didn’t fight oblivion as it rolled over him.

We did it, he thought. I fulfilled the deal with the golem, and no one got killed. It had been close, but they’d come out the other side. For now, that was all that mattered.

Shilly stayed by Sal as he was strapped to a wicker stretcher that was in turn tied securely to a dangling rope. The wardens shouted instructions up the fissure. The rope went taut. Slowly, carefully, Sal was hauled up toward the sky.

Skender and Kemp would be next. All three of them, after waking messily from their brief comas, had fallen back into unconsciousness—but that was nothing to worry about, she was told. Warden Drillis, who had spearheaded the rescue attempt, had gone from a state of intense worry to one of cautious optimism as the condition of his charges became less critical. That reassured her more than mere words. She trusted him implicitly after the way he had helped her save her friends.

No one returns from the Void, he’d said, when they’re in that deep. But he’d tried anyway. Even if it had been simply to humour her—to prove her wrong, despite her determination—she was still grateful. Without him, without the Change, she would have been helpless to do anything.

And she would have been alone forever.

“They’re going to be okay, now,” Drillis said to her as she watched Sal ascend. Short but solid, with skin the colour of water-stained wood, he had come silently up beside her. She didn’t know how much of his talent she had Taken while trying to haul Sal out of the Void, but he had never once protested.

She nodded, blinking. The light was making her eyes sting. Now the emergency was over, she was beginning to catch up on the many aches and pains her body had accrued over the previous night.

“I’d like to show you something,” he said, taking her by the arm and leading her around the curve of the beach. She followed curiously, despite her fatigue. The sand was heavily scuffed where the rescue party had walked, and sometimes run, while looking for Sal, Kemp and Skender. Otherwise the sand was relatively undisturbed, with just one wide trail corresponding to where the golem had led them across the beach to the catacombs entrance, and where Kemp had followed.

So she thought at first. At the point where Sal and the golem had scuffled, another single set of tracks diverged from the rest. The prints weren’t human; they comprised four pointed toes in the shape of a backward-pointing triangle. The sand looked as though it had been chiselled where each toe had dipped into it.

“Do you know what caused these?” asked Warden Drillis, pointing at the tracks.

There was only one thing they could belong to. “The ice-creature,” she said. “The golem summoned something from one of the other cities inside the Tower. I’ve never seen anything like it before. It must have escaped in the confusion.”

“Cities inside the Tower…” The warden looked at her questioningly, as though wondering if he’d heard right. Then he shook his head. “No, I believe you. After all I’ve seen, I’d be a fool not to. Can you describe this creature for me?”

She tried as best she could, even though her mind shied away from the memory. The strongest image was of long, curving teeth like glass daggers, gleaming wetly in the Change-light.

Drillis nodded when she was finished. “We’ll catch it, I’m sure. If it can actually survive here, it won’t evade us long.”

A bedraggled younger warden came up to them and nervously interrupted. His uniform was salt-and mud-encrusted from the waist down. In one hand he held an improvised sack made out of thick cloth. Visible within the sack was something glowing brightly.

“Found it, sir,” he said. “It’s cooled considerably.”

“Good work.”

Shilly looked past the young warden to what remained of the pool into which Sal had thrown the globe. It had boiled away to little more than a puddle surrounded by dried salt, seaweed and tiny dead fish. Its lowest points were still under some water, and one of these had been stirred up by the search for the globe. Long since unable to boil anything, the light-sink was gradually running out of stored energy and had become simply difficult to handle.

“What would you like me to do with it, sir?”

“Do you want it back, Shilly?” Drillis took the sack from the young warden and offered it to her. “I presume it belongs to you. You didn’t steal it from anyone, did you?”

“No.” She shook her head. “My teacher gave it to Sal. He’s carried it everywhere since.” And he had. As much as Shilly had resented Sal for Lodo’s gift of the light-sink, she hadn’t envied him the extra weight in his pack. The globe was small but very heavy.

“Here you go, then. You can give it back to him when he wakes up.”

She took it from Drillis and held it to her chest. It was pleasantly warm and made her feel, obscurely, like weeping. She blinked the tears back, refusing to let the wardens see her vulnerability.

“Are you afraid of heights?” asked Drillis, looking past her.

“No,” she said.

“Good, because it’s your turn to go up.”

She turned. The harness was waiting, empty, on the sand. Skender and Kemp had been lifted up and out of sight. Tom and Aron stood nearby, Mawson at their feet.

“They go first,” she said.

“You’re needed at the top to explain what happened.”

“I don’t care about that. It’s not their fault they got mixed up in this. I’m not going anywhere until I’m sure they’re safe.”

Drillis shrugged. “It’s not my job to argue with you.” He gestured at Tom, and the young warden went to help him into the harness. Tom looked terrified as he was secured to the rope. He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. At a tug from above, his feet lifted off the ground.

Shilly went to stand next to Aron and Mawson. Sal’s enormous cousin was blinking slowly, struggling to keep his eyes open. Shilly put a hand on his arm.

“Sleepy,” he said.

“You can rest soon.” She felt the Change flowing through him, raw and uncomplicated by any sense that he should do anything with it. It was simply part of him, like an arm or an ear. “You did well today, Aron. I know how scared you were. We’re proud of you, all of us.”

“Mawson?”

“Yes, Mawson, too.”

The blond giant smiled. They made an odd pair. Shilly had become so used to seeing them together that, separated, they looked slightly unnerving. She wasn’t used to being watched by both their eyes at once.

“Do you mean to say,” asked the man’kin, “that I’m proud of Aron, or that you’re proud of me?”

“Well,” she said, transferring her hand to the man’kin’s shoulder, “I am grateful for your help. We couldn’t have closed the Way without you. But proud? I don’t think that’s the right word. You could have helped us a dozen times, and you didn’t. You either know something you’re not telling us, or you just don’t care. Either way, I think it makes sense to be wary of you.”

“I have never said otherwise.”

“That’s true.” The stone face was impassive. “Can you sense yadeh-tash?”

“Yes.”

“Is it nearby?”

“No.”

“Could you help us find it, and the golem?”

“Yes.”

“Will you? For Sal’s sake, if not for mine?”

“Yes.”

She took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

The harness came back down, and it was Mawson’s turn to be taken to the cliff top. Aron and Shilly watched nervously as the man’kin ascended the crack between the rocks, spinning gently from side to side. She remembered its words when they had opened the Tower. She suspected that it had meant her to be reassured by them.

You will do what you must do, regardless of what I say. You have no choice in this matter. Do not let your conscience be troubled.

But she was troubled. Just because the golem had coerced them into doing something wrong didn’t mean that she could just forget it. Not knowing what they’d done, exactly, wasn’t making it easier. They’d opened the Tower—but to what purpose? So the golem could release the ice-creature? That didn’t seem terribly important.

You have done something terrible, the Mage Erentaite had said. Perhaps they had undone it in time, but she didn’t know how to tell.

One thing she was sure of, though: they hadn’t managed to escape. They were caught just as tightly as they had been before. She didn’t doubt that they would be put on even tighter leashes, once they returned to the Novitiate. Perhaps they would be separated, punished. If the ice-creature had gone on to hurt someone…

She shook her head, trying in vain to dispel her fears. Hugging the light-sink to her chest, she remembered something else the man’kin had said:

The outcome is not clear. Sal has stirred the pot, put much in motion. I see many possibilities.

If that was true, there was some hope. The thought of being tied to some inescapable destiny—that might just as easily drag her to her doom as bring her success—filled her with a feeling of despair.

What sort of person are you, Carah? she asked herself. What is your fate? Will you stand alone and prevail, or will you and your friends fall as one?

Aron had to be persuaded into the harness. He didn’t like the idea of “falling upside-down”, which Shilly could understand. She soothed him and held his hand as the harness jerked upward. His frightened gaze didn’t leave hers until he’d risen out of reach, then he turned his eyes upward and clung tightly to the rope, radiating barely controlled terror.

Shilly felt tears trickling down her cheeks as she watched him go. She couldn’t stop them, and she didn’t care if anyone saw. She felt just like Aron: dangling helplessly on the end of a thread over a yawning precipice. There was nothing she could do to save herself, let alone Lodo—but she would not abandon him. Once she would have fought for independence with every fibre of her being, not wanting to be tied to anyone, but she was changing. Learning to lean on someone was a risk. It was a risk she had somehow chosen to take, despite herself.

The thought of being alone—of losing Sal as well as Lodo—hit her hard. She wasn’t used to being so vulnerable.

Aron disappeared into the upper reaches of the fissure. The sunlight shining through it was dazzling. Shilly looked down and wiped her eyes. At least now, she thought, the truth would have to come out. There would be no more secrets. The Sky Wardens would have to become involved—if only to find Lodo and get rid of the golem. Once that threat was dealt with, they could sort out the rest in their own time.

The harness came down empty. She climbed into it willingly enough. As her feet left the ground, she released the breath she had been holding and let all thoughts go with it. The one good thing about being at the end of a rope was that there was no point worrying any more. Everything was completely out of her hands.

As long as the rope wasn’t around her neck, she decided that she could put up with it for a while.

Skender woke from a dream about drowning to find a tatooed woman leaning over him.

“Mum?” He tried to sit up. “What are you doing here?”

“Shhh.” Gentle hands pressed him firmly back to the bed. He smelt dust and sweat in the braided hair that swung down over his face. “I’m not your mother, child.”

And she wasn’t. He could see that now. This woman just looked like his mother. She had the same mud-brown hair and tanned skin; her features were long and aristocratic. Lines of letters ran across her temple and down both cheeks, identifying her as a Surveyor. The tattoos were intended to ward off harm that might emerge from ancient Ruins. One of Skender’s earliest memories was of tracing the letters on his mother’s face and wondering what they meant.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking away. The brief glimpse of familiarity had struck him deeply. There was an ache in his chest he’d never felt before. It wasn’t sadness, but something deeper, more fundamental.

“Your mother sent me,” the woman said. “My name is Iniga. I work with her in the western expanse. She is like a sister to me.”

“Why did she send you?” he asked. “To bring me back?”

Iniga shook her head, sending thick strands of hair waving. “Abi is worried about you, yes, but she would not dream of forcing you to return. She admires your courage and determination. If this is what you need to do to understand yourself better, then she will let you do it.”

He nodded, unable to suppress a twinge of disappointment mixed with relief. Part of him had always wanted his mother to call for him, to sweep him up and carry him away on one of her adventures. But if the world outside the Keep offered nothing but murder and danger—sandwiched between periods of interminable boredom—why would he want to leave the Keep again?

“Abi heard about what happened,” Iniga went on. “Word of the Ruin you and your friends discovered has spread among those who have a need to know such things. I happened to be here in the Haunted City, researching a cryptic chapter of the Book of Towers. Abi called me and asked me to check on you.” The woman smiled down at him. “I am glad to report that you look healthy enough. On the surface, at least, all is well.”

Skender nodded. His mind was whirling with thoughts prompted by the woman’s words. They had discovered an important Ruin, he supposed, although he’d never thought of it that way. Wardens and students could have passed the secret entrance into the tunnel of faces for hundreds of years, never suspecting what lay beyond. It had taken Sal’s deal with the golem to bring it to light.

“I remember,” he said, then stopped and started again. “I was in the Void. I saw things—met things—I never knew existed. I think I might have found out how the Cataclysm came about, where the Change came from.”

Iniga frowned. “No one knows this. There are no records.”

“There is one who knows. The Oldest One. He remembers. He told me a story that might be his. He might be the one who made the world like it is today.”

Iniga opened her mouth to say something, then changed her mind.

“I am not the one to tell this story to,” she finally said. “Not the only one, anyway. Can you wait while I fetch the others? I’ll be gone a minute or two.”

He nodded. With a rattle of beads the woman stood and strode out of the room.

Only then did he notice where he was.

The room was long and narrow. He was surprised at the height of the ceiling; it vanished into shadows, far above. He was lying on a bed in one corner, one of four such beds in a row along the same wall. There was an attendant standing by the door, hooded face watching nothing, it seemed, but seeing all.

Skender let his head fall back onto the pillow. He was in something very much like a hospital, then. He didn’t feel seriously ill, just exhausted. The memories of everything that had happened to him were strong in his mind. He would be keen to get them off his chest, if there was a way to do it without putting his friends in a worse situation than they were already.

He groaned at the thought of who Iniga had gone to get. It would be the Alcaide and the Syndic for sure. That’s why he had been separated from Sal and Shilly. There would be no chance of them colluding to hide the truth. Divided they were weak—and he had cracked without any effort at all.

But it wasn’t the Alcaide and the Syndic Iniga guided into the ward. It was Master Warden Atilde and Sal’s real father, Highson Sparre.

Skender was as puzzled as he was relieved. “What are you doing here?”

The Master Warden sat on a chair that Highson brought with him from the next bed along, her gaunt, glassy features gleaming in what little light crept around the edges of her wide-brimmed hat.

“You’re going to tell us what’s going on,” she said in a stern tone that didn’t brook him saying no, but at least wasn’t angry or sarcastic. It was exactly the sort of tone his father might have used.

Once Skender might have reacted without thinking, digging his heels in and saying nothing. Now, though, he had neither the energy nor the inclination to argue.

“If I knew that, I’d tell you. Probably.”

“You said you remember what happened in the Void,” Highson encouraged him. “There have been all sorts of theories as to what exists there, but very little evidence to prove or disprove any of them. No one has ever obtained more than the most vague of glimpses. Those that stay too long never return.” He hesitated, then said, “You’re lucky to be alive.”

“I know.” The certainty of how close he had come to not inhabiting his body again weighed his stomach down like lead.

“Someone should have sent a Van Haasteren to look well before now,” said Atilde. “If anyone would remember, it’d be one of them.”

“Would you volunteer, Risa?” asked Highson.

The Master Warden grimaced. “I take your point.”

“Tell us what you saw,” said Iniga, softly.

And he did. He started at the point the Way collapsed and didn’t skip anything. Every word, every impression of his conversation with the lost minds and the Oldest One, were as clear to him as were the rapt expressions of those listening to his tale. He told them about his awakening in the Void and meeting the one who fought the world-eater; he told them about the lost minds and hearing their stories; he told them about his encounter with the Oldest One and the story he had heard.

Midway through relating the tale, his stomach suddenly returned to life with a loud gurgle. Highson went to arrange a large, healthy breakfast for him and Skender waited for him to return before continuing his tale. Then, as breakfast arrived and while he gulped it down, Skender finished the Oldest One’s story and described how he had woken Sal. He was almost at the end, midway through telling how the one who fought the world-beast had tried to escape with him, when he faltered.

“Is something wrong?” asked Iniga. The long-faced woman leaned forward to touch his arm. “If this is difficult for you to talk about, or you’re too tired—”

“No, it’s nothing like that.” He just didn’t know how to put it into words in a way that wouldn’t sound stupid. “I didn’t tell you earlier that I asked them about Lodo. I thought that if this was the place where people who strained too hard at the Change went, then surely Lodo would be there with them. But no one remembered him. Either he hadn’t ended up in the Void, or he had already faded away and been forgotten.”

“That sounds reasonable.” Atilde exchanged a glance with Highson that Sal couldn’t interpret.

“But there was one—one who helped us get out.”

“You think it might have been him, after all?”

“Not Lodo, no.”

I am the one who lost a son.

Remember me.

“I think it was Sal’s mother.”

Highson straightened in his seat. “What makes you say that?”

“She saved us from the other lost minds,” he said, “and that would make sense, if she had any idea who we were—but what was she doing there in the first place? She died, didn’t she?” He couldn’t tell if they believed him, and he could understand that they might not; he wasn’t sure he believed himself.

Another meaning-laden glance. “Eventually, yes,” said Atilde.

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” said Highson softly, “that her body took some time to die after her mind had left it.”

Skender stared from one to the other. “She was like Lodo?”

“Yes. She pushed too hard.”

“And that’s how she got in the Void.” He felt like slapping his forehead. It was obvious now he thought of it. “She was trying to escape, and she tried too hard.”

“If it was her,” said Iniga calmingly. “The Oldest One implied that some stories are passed from mind to mind. It might be possible to plant your own story in someone else, if you can impress them strongly enough, to make sure it survives. It could have been another person entirely who remembered her story and acted as if it belonged to them.”

“So why didn’t she come forward with the others?” he asked. “Why did she only appear when I called Sal by his heart-name?” He shook his head, increasingly certain. “Maybe she’d faded so far that she hadn’t noticed us before, or maybe she was hiding, so Sal wouldn’t want to stay or try to rescue her. She only revealed herself at the end so Sal would be safe—and even then she only spoke to me. She might have picked up that I would remember her when we left.” He leaned forward. “Maybe she wants us to rescue her.”

Atilde shook her head sharply. “No. That would be impossible.”

“Why? We came out okay, didn’t we?”

“You had not been gone long, and you still had bodies. By now, if what you say is true, there would be very little left of her, and she has nowhere to go even if there was. It would be pointless trying.”

“There might be a way,” said Highson, “although I know you won’t like it.”

The Master Warden’s expression stiffened, and she shot Highson a sour look. “No. I will not suffer necromancy in my school.”

“It doesn’t have to be done here. We could—”

“You could not,” she snapped. “I would report you immediately if I thought you were serious.

“I am serious, Risa. If it would bring her back—”

“Pah!” Atilde cut him off with a savage gesture. “Get a grip on yourself, Highson. Hear what you’re saying. It would be an abomination to put that poor woman in such a vessel. She would tell you so herself, if she was here.” The Master Warden’s expression softened. “You know I’m right.”

Highson’s chin rose, as though he was about to deny Atilde’s pronouncement. Skender had never seen him look so stubborn—almost fierce, in a dangerous way. Gone was the man who had patiently attended on Sal, staying carefully out of the way. Revealed at last was the man who might have been Alcaide, had his wife not caused a public scandal. The man who had hunted his wife all across the Strand until he had finally caught her.

And now, here he was, twelve years later, trying to save her. Skender didn’t understand that. Was Highson hoping to take revenge, to prove that punishment was not so easily evaded?

“I don’t understand,” said Skender. “Why wouldn’t it work? If you made a human illusion, it’d be empty, right? So you put Sal’s mum in it, and off she goes, right as rain. Who cares if she doesn’t remember what happened to her in the Void? I’m sure she’d rather forget it.”

“What if she remembers nothing at all?” asked Iniga. “How to eat. How to dress. Who she used to be…She’d be no better off just for being in a body.”

“And there’s no way to create a human illusion in the first place,” said Atilde. “I told your friend when you arrived that it was impossible to create one. It’s true.”

“But—” He bit his lip on the protest that Shilly had made illusions of her ghost appear in a mirror. That was close to true necromancy, surely—and the ghost had actually called her a necromancer. But if Atilde learned about that, she would probably explode.

I will not suffer necromancy in my school.

Maybe it was different, he reasoned, when a ghost was involved. If the ghosts were more like man’kin than humans, then maybe they could be made by illusion.

Ask the ghosts, Sal’s mother had told him, via the note in her poetry book.

The look on Highson’s face had passed and he lowered his eyes. Skender was surprised to see moisture pooling in them.

“Of course,” he said to Atilde. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right,” the Master Warden said. “I know what she meant to you.”

“What happened to her?” Skender asked. “What did Sal’s mum do to make her…that way? Empty-minded?”

Highson shook his head. “We never found out. One night she was fine, the next morning she was gone. Her body lasted six months.”

“When did she give you the letter to give to Sal?”

“What letter?” asked Atilde sharply.

Highson looked as though he might attempt to lie, but only for a moment. “The night before she left us. The night before she went into the Void.”

“So she knew she was about to do something dangerous,” Skender said.

“We never found out what it was.”

“Perhaps if you had told us about the letter,” snapped the Master Warden, “we might have.”

Skender ignored the tension between the Master Warden and Sal’s real father, and tried to think. What could Seirian Mierlo have been up to that left her mindless? Did it involve the ghosts, or was that just a coincidence?

He had the pieces of a complex puzzle before him. The golem, the ghosts, the Golden Tower, Sal, Sal’s mother, the letter, the Void…They all had to fit together somehow. They had to, even if he couldn’t figure it out. If only, he thought, Shilly was here…

“What happens now?” he asked.

Atilde answered: “Your position is being assessed.”

“What does that mean?”

“Well, you and your friends have caused us a considerable amount of trouble. You’ve missed lessons, disrupted classes, broken rules, put yourselves and your classmates in danger. If the Conclave decides that you are uncontrollable, you might be expelled.”

“From the Novitiate?”

She shook her head. “From the Haunted City.”

He stared at her for a moment, not quite believing what he was hearing. That they would be kicked out of the school he could understand. They hadn’t been the best of students, after all, although it wasn’t always their fault: more than half the times they’d been absent were because the Alcaide or the Syndic needed them for some pointless reason or other. But to throw them off the island altogether, like the ex-Warden Shom Behenna? That would be a decidedly ignominious way to go home to his father.

Perhaps that, he thought, was the reason why Iniga had come to see him: to prepare the way should he need to leave suddenly.

“The Weavers won’t like that,” he said. “Not after the trouble they went to to get Sal and Shilly here.”

“Well, they can argue their case if they like,” said Atilde evenly, “but they’ll have to come out of the woodwork to do it.”

Highson nodded. There was an odd expression on his face. “This would be a way of proving, one way or another, if they actually exist.”

Skender rolled his eyes. He was a peon in yet another game. That was fine when a game consisted of nothing but words and ascendancies; he was a master at game-playing back home. But when the stakes became too high, when lives were at risk, that was when he preferred not to play. He didn’t want to end up like Radi Mierlo.

“You can count me out of your little schemes,” he said. “I just want to see the world, not save it.”

“You won’t have to,” said Highson, “and you don’t have to do anything more. The process of examination has already begun. The Alcaide and the Syndic are interrogating Sal and Shilly at this very moment. By evening we’ll know their decision. One way or another, it’ll be over soon.”

Oh, just great, thought Skender with a sinking feeling. It’s all happening while I’m locked up in here, out of the way.

But one look at the worry on Highson Sparre’s face convinced him that he was probably in the right place. Sal could look after himself. In fact, the last time Sal had come face to face with the Alcaide and the Syndic over anything halfway as serious as this, people had died. Perhaps, he decided, it would be best to stay out of the way for just a little while longer…

Then an idea occurred to him that was so horrible he knew sitting aside and doing nothing was not an option.

Ask the ghosts.

Remember me.

“We have to find her,” he shouted, tangling his feet in the sheets in his haste to get out of bed.

“Who?” asked Atilde, frowning at him in alarm.

“Shilly! We have to stop her before she makes a big mistake!”

He ran from the room in nightgown and bare feet, with Highson, Iniga and Atilde doing their best to keep up.

CHAPTER 16

THREE GOOD REASONS

Give me one good reason,” said Dragan Braham, his voice barely level, “why I shouldn’t throw you out on your ear right now.”

Sal faced him squarely. “Because it’s what I want you to do.”

“Throw you in a dungeon, then.” The massive burn mark over the Alcaide’s face and hairless scalp fairly throbbed with anger. “Pick something you don’t like, and imagine I’m threatening you with it. Come on, boy. Stop being smart!”

Sal didn’t respond to that accusation. Being smart was exactly what he had to be if he was going to get out of the situation he’d found himself in. Practically a prisoner in the Alcaide’s spacious private audience chambers, Sal was having the consequences of his actions—consorting with a golem, escaping from custody, disturbing a Ruin and unleashing a potentially dangerous creature on the Haunted City—forcibly hammered home.

At least, he supposed, that was the intention, anyway. As though he himself had never given it any thought: that his actions had partly resulted in the death of his grandmother, and maybe Kemp as well, if he didn’t wake from his coma; that both the ice-beast and the golem were still on the loose; that his friends were tangled up in a plot that seemed to revolve around him—although he still didn’t know why. He was very aware of what he had done. He simply refused to show remorse. Why should he, when he had done nothing wrong?

The Alcaide glared at him and kept pacing. All pretence of politeness and welcome was gone. Upon awakening, Sal had been brought directly to the Alcaide’s rooms. There he had been handed a light breakfast and subjected to immediate questioning. Despite the gnawing in his gut, his breakfast sat untouched. Anything he put in his stomach just squatted there, as heavy as guilt.

He felt as though strong men armed with clubs had pounded him for hours. Every muscle in his body ached.

The Alcaide finally stopped pacing and collapsed heavily into a cushioned chair opposite him. The room was opulently furnished in whites and creams that matched the Alcaide’s robes. Light cotton drapes covered the walls, making the large space feel boundless, as though there weren’t any walls at all. There was a frosted skylight in the centre of the domed ceiling through which soft daylight filtered.

“Perhaps you could tell me why,” the Alcaide said. He was a solid man with a dominating presence, and the bright purple blotch only made him more formidable. His eyes were a murky green-brown, difficult to read. “Why you are going to such extremes to reject us.”

“You don’t know?” Sal asked in return.

The Alcaide waved a hand. “Your father, yes. In your eyes, we started it. But not all of us. The Novitiate is a fine institution, perfectly suited to a talent such as yours. Master Warden Atilde is not unfamiliar with wild talents and heresies.”

“She knew Lodo.”

“Yes, she did.” The Alcaide nodded. “You could have a great future here, Sal, if you would only submit to it.”

Sal had been thinking about that—not that he could be successful if he stayed in the Haunted City, but the concept of submission to the future. Ever since his brief moment of revelation by the entrance to the catacombs, when the golem had struck him, he had had a strange feeling of slippage, as though something had gone slightly awry. In that revelatory instant, he had seen everything laid out before him, quite literally. He had seen how it was all supposed to go. But it hadn’t worked out the way he had seen it. Things had changed. They’d unlocked the Golden Tower, but Tom hadn’t been trapped inside the collapsing Way. They couldn’t now use the light stored in Lodo’s light-sink to drive the golem from the old man’s body, since it had been drained by calling for help. And Shilly had been supposed to stumble across Lodo’s lost mind in the Void Beneath while searching for Tom; she had been supposed to almost lose herself and drain Sal in the process of returning the old man to his body. That couldn’t happen, now. He had forced the train of events off the rails, and the future was careening out of control, which only made the thought of passively accepting it, wherever it led, even more repugnant. Even when things had been laid out for him, one after the other, he had baulked at just shrugging and getting on with it. Throwing the light-sink into the pond had been a small way of saying that he wouldn’t lie down and let the future roll over him. Just because things were supposed to happen a particular way didn’t mean that that way was right—for who did the supposing? Anyone? If the future simply fell into place, and if all Sal had seen in that revelation—if all anyone saw in prophetic dreams, visions or hunches—was just the most likely outcome, who said it was the best or the only outcome? Or that one couldn’t choose a different future at any time? Didn’t everyone do that, every time they made a decision?

Maybe not, Sal thought. If he didn’t know what the future was, how could he know if he was changing anything or simply going about what had already been foretold? Knowing what was to come and doing something about it was the difference—or so it seemed to him.

I’m glad we’re on the same side, Sayed Hrvati, the golem had said, otherwise I might almost be afraid of you.

Sal found those words highly unnerving. He was used to a life of wandering, with no particular destination in mind. He had rebelled instinctively when asked to commit to a definite route? There had to be an alternative—and now he was living it.

For better or for worse.

“I think I made my decision quite clear,” he said, “by going to the Interior.”

“But it was, you have to admit, an uninformed decision. Until you came here, how could you know it was wrong for you?”

“Your actions—”

“The actions of a few should never damn the many. I’ll admit we’ve been heavy-handed, but only out of a desire to do what’s best. We all judge ‘what’s best’ differently, of course, and therein lies the problem, but don’t let yourself hate us just because we happen to disagree.”

Sal felt himself glowering like a sullen child but couldn’t help himself. “You killed my father.”

“And you did this to me!” The Alcaide leapt out of his chair to thrust his face into Sal’s. The burn was even more hideous close up, gnarled and twisted and filled with blood. “How do you think it feels to look like this? To have children flinch when they glance at me, to see eyes looking anywhere but directly at me? In Fundelry, you turned me into a freak—but here I am, still trying to make you see reason. Am I really such a monster?”

Sal recoiled as far as he could from the hideous injury. When the Alcaide pulled away and resumed his pacing, Sal felt a flood of relief and shame rush through him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“That makes two of us, boy.”

Sal rubbed his bruised temple, which he had thought looked bad enough in the mirror when he awoke but which now seemed a paltry thing in comparison to the injury the Alcaide had sustained. “I’m sorry it had to be this way. I’m sure there was an alternative.” If he had thrown his future into such confusion with one simple action, there had to have been similar moments when his mother and the man he had called his father could have arrived at a different ending to their story, with neither of them dead and their child—perhaps children—living happily in the Strand or the Interior, safely trained in their powers. Why couldn’t he have been born into that world?

“You have only two alternatives,” said the Alcaide. “The Strand or the Interior. You have to choose between them, and your choice must be informed. It must also be the right choice—”

“Who says there are only two choices? And who decides which is right?”

“You know who.”

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

The Alcaide looked at him with an expression at once defiant and uncertain.

The Weavers? Sal wondered. Was that who the Alcaide was talking about?

At that moment, the drapes parted on one side of the room. The Syndic entered in a rush of robes, leading an entourage consisting of Shilly and four black-clad attendants, one of them carrying Mawson.

“We are here for the examination,” said Nu Zanshin, Sal’s great-aunt, pointing imperiously to indicate that Mawson should be placed on a table to one side. “You began without us,” she said to the Alcaide.

He dismissed her scold with a wave of one hand. “We were simply talking, Sal and I. We said nothing of any import.”

The Syndic studied Sal through narrowed eyes, as though searching for deception. Shilly hovered nervously behind her, unsure where to go or what was expected of her. She looked only slightly less tired than when Sal had last seen her, and he wondered how much sleep she had had.

“Sit.” The Syndic pointed at a chair opposite Sal. Shilly took it. The way she fiddled with her crutch betrayed her desire to run.

The Syndic eased herself into the chair between them, facing the Alcaide. Although the latter was theoretically superior in rank—having been elected by the Conclave to judge the Strand with the Syndic acting as his chief administrator—Sal had noted that his great-aunt seemed to get her way most of the time. There was no doubt that the relationship was a turbulent one when not under the public gaze.

The Syndic’s expression was frosty. For such a slight woman, she had an incredible command of the space around her. Sal refused to let himself be intimidated by her. He had faced far worse things than her and survived.

“Well,” she said, “here we are. It has come to this.”

“Did you really think we were just going to roll over and do as you said, like dogs?”

“Calm down, Sal. You’re allowing a fundamental misunderstanding to—”

“I understand everything perfectly well. Everything about you, anyway.” He folded his arms across his chest, wishing he was older, able to enforce his opinion with more dignity. He couldn’t help feeling as though he looked like a kid defying his elders—because that was exactly what he was doing. The fact that he was in the right was hard to remember, sometimes.

“So there’s no point talking,” said his great-aunt. “Is that what you’re saying? That we might as well get on with what we’ve agreed to do without seeing if you agree or disagree?” She nodded at the Alcaide, who didn’t respond in any way. “I don’t like being put in the position of a dictator, just as I know you don’t like being dictated to. But if that’s the only way to resolve this situation, then so be it. If there’s no point talking any longer, separation it is.”

She raised one hand and snapped her fingers. The attendants closed in.

“Wait,” said Sal. “What sort of separation?”

“Of you two, of course.” The Syndic looked at him as though he was stupid. “You can’t very well expect us to keep you together after all the trouble you’ve caused. You broke your restraint, ignored your curfew, explored off-limit areas, and as a result put Kemp’s life at risk. Shilly will stay here with Lodo, when we find him. You and Mawson will be expelled from the Haunted City, forbidden to return. If you so much as look at the island, you’ll be thrown in a cell. Does that suit you?”

“No—” he started to say.

“Why ever not?” she snapped. “You’ll have your freedom, and we’ll be well behind you, along with your mother’s family. You can get on with your life as you see fit—whatever sort of life it will be without training. You can burn out happily in the middle of nowhere, for all I care. Had I known how much trouble you’d be, I would never have estimated your worth so highly. We can wait for the next wild talent to come along. Maybe he or she will be more grateful.”

The thought of leaving Shilly behind stabbed him deeply, but it was she who spoke first. As the Syndic’s hand came up again, Shilly said, “But I don’t want to stay. I want to go with Sal.”

“Really?” The Syndic’s eyebrows shot up. “I thought you wanted training, and to heal your teacher.”

“Yes, I do.” She hesitated, momentarily, torn. “But if I had to choose between them or Sal, I’d pick Sal.”

“You would regret it, I guarantee you.”

“I don’t care.”

“Well, we care, Shilly, and we are technically your guardians. You are an orphan, are you not? We have the right to decide for you. And we have decided that it is best for you to stay here.”

“But I’m at least as much trouble as Sal,” she protested. “I’ve been involved in everything he’s done. We did it together.”

“There’s no denying that. He is the ringleader, however; the bad influence. Without him around, you’ll soon settle down.”

“How can you say that?” she asked, her colour deepening even further. “You know next to nothing about me—or Sal.”

“I know that it’s not his fault he was raised away from his family, from the people who would have looked after him properly.”

“What’s that got to do with it?” Shilly protested.

Sal could see where this was going. “You leave my father out of this.”

“The man you call your father is entirely to blame, Sal.” The Syndic’s cold gaze turned on him. “He’s the one who made you what you are today.”

“Not alone. He raised me—but my grandmother drove him and my mother away from the Haunted City. Highson Sparre hunted her down. You stole me. You’ve all made me what I am, and if I’m a brat, then you’re all partly to blame.”

Sal felt cold fury seething through his veins. He kept it in check as best he could, even as his great-aunt shook her head in heavy disappointment and looked at him as though he was nothing more than a disobedient pet.

“You had such potential, Sal. I could feel you in Fundelry, all the way from here. You were like a star, shining brighter in the sky than any other. You could have done such marvellous things.” Her wistful tone became sharper. “Instead you chose chaos and destruction. You chose to waste your talent on foolish quests and thrill-seeking. You throw your life away without the slightest thought for those you might have helped, the good you might have done. I am disappointed.”

Sal refused to let her succeed in making him feel guilty for not adhering to her understanding of what was good. “Who says I won’t meet my potential in the Interior?” he asked. “Why do I have to stay here to succeed? Lodo said—”

“Lodo was a crank, a charlatan who met a deservedly bad end. That he was used against you by this golem of yours only demonstrates the foolishness of your attachment to him.”

The harsh words made Shilly’s eyes widen. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

The Syndic mocked her with a laugh. “Isn’t it strange?” she said to the Alcaide. “These children seem to know more about everything than we do. Perhaps they should be offering to teach us, not the other way around.”

“I think we should talk about what’s important,” the Alcaide said with a scowl. “All this bloody history—all this talk of what might have been and who’s at fault—it’s driving me up the wall. It’s bullshit. We have the here and now to worry about. We have a mess to clean up. We should sort that out first—then I’ll happily leave you three in here to trade insults all day.”

The Syndic’s face tightened into a cold mask. “My fight is not with you, Dragan.”

“Nor should it be, Nu. We’re on the same side—supposedly.”

The tension between the two adults was almost painful. Sal wondered if it was just that the Syndic had a personal interest in the issue of Sal’s future while the Alcaide did not—or if there was a real power struggle going on between them.

“I agree,” Sal said, surprising both of them. “We should be working together, at least on one thing: to find the golem.”

“And the thing it brought through the Tower,” added Shilly. “The ice creature.”

“Exactly.” The Alcaide nodded, pleased. “Perhaps if we could deal with that first of all, and argue later, we might actually get somewhere.”

“Do you trust them to help us?” asked the Syndic, tight-lipped.

“I trust them about as much as they trust us. I think that’s reasonable.” The Alcaide turned to Sal. “I’m given to understand that you know how to find the golem.”

Sal glanced at Shilly, who nodded slightly. She had obviously brought the Alcaide and Syndic up to date on what had happened in the tunnels. “Yes,” he said.

“We’ve asked Mawson to help, but he won’t cooperate. He insists that he will only obey your instructions.”

Sal turned to the man’kin, surprised. “I thought I set you free.”

“Not yet,” came the buzzing reply. “I promised to help you first.”

“Well, you did help us, by showing us how to close the Way.”

“Is that sufficient?”

“I—” He hesitated. Mawson could direct them to yadeh-tash, thereby finding the golem. By setting Mawson free, they might be closing off that avenue. But the man’kin had already stated that the relationship wouldn’t change much, even if he was free, and Sal didn’t like the concept of ordering anyone—or anything—to obey his will. It smacked too much of what the Syndic was trying to do to him.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s enough. I set you free.”

The man’kin’s expression didn’t change. “I thank you.”

“You idiot,” the Syndic hissed. “You know what you’ve done, don’t you? You’ve just given away your best chance of finding the golem!”

He ignored her. “Mawson,” he said, “will you help us again? Freely?”

“I will. You wish me to locate yadeh-tash.”

“That’s right. Can you do that?”

“Yes. It’s—”

“Wait a second.” Sal turned to the Alcaide. “I want to be there when you find Lodo and the golem. Shilly, too. If you don’t let us, we won’t tell you where they are.”

“Blackmail, eh?” The Alcaide barked a laugh. “What do you think, Nu? Do we give him what he wants, or take our chances on finding the golem without him?”

The Syndic just glared.

“The thing is, Sal,” said the Alcaide, leaning closer, “she’s not going to kick you out of the city. Not if she can help it. She wants you right here, where she can keep an eye on you. All that stuff about exiling you was just a bluff. She’d no sooner do that than exile herself, or her nephew.”

“Absolute rot.” The Syndic stood and put her hands on her hips. “The decision is not mine to make. It’s the Conclave’s, and yours.”

“Exactly. And I’ll make it when I’m good and ready.” The Alcaide put his hands on his knees and levered himself upright. He indicated that Sal and Shilly should do the same.

“Let’s find the golem,” he said, “and put an end to this episode once and for all. If you help us do that, it will count strongly in your favour. And yes,” he added before Sal could say anything, “you can come with us. I’d rather have you by my side than at my back, that’s for certain.”

Sal glanced at Shilly. She looked nervous but relieved.

“All right,” he said. “Mawson, where can we find yadeh-tash?”

“Bring me Aron and I will take you there.”

The Alcaide gestured. Two attendants left the room to fetch the man’kin’s former “steed”.

“That’s settled, then,” said the Alcaide, rubbing his hands together as though in anticipation of a good meal. “I’m glad we’re making progress.”

“What will we do with the golem when we find it?” Shilly asked.

“That depends on what it wants. Golems have simple needs. They are creatures of pure mind, pure will, dependent on flesh to give them form and substance. Take away the flesh, and they are impotent.”

“They like the Change,” Sal said, remembering how the golem had been attracted to them when he had tried to heal Shilly’s leg in the Broken Lands city. “Is that important?”

“They like the Change in the same way that we like food. But they cannot use it. You may have noticed that when it guided you through the tunnels. It would have had no power of its own.”

Sal had wondered about that. He had, however, learned that golems weren’t completely impotent without bodies. He had spoken to this one when it was nothing but pure mind, and it had done enough damage in that form for him to believe that they would always be dangerous. It didn’t take a boulder to start an avalanche.

“How can a mind exist without a body?” asked Shilly.

“Easily, although it might seem strange,” said the Alcaide. “Just as we divide study here into theory, illusion and actuality, so too is all life composed of three basic elements—flesh, mind and the Change—balanced to varying degrees and in varying ways. Humans consist of minds that live in bodies of flesh; golems are minds composed of the Change. We use the Change to alter the world; the golems use vessels of flesh to become part of the world. There are many other ways of existing. Some creatures have no minds at all, or none that we would recognise as such. Others are just minds: cunning intelligences hovering on the edge of the world. The rule common to all is that like devours like: we are flesh, so we eat flesh. Golems are made of the Change, and the Change sustains them.”

“So how do we kill it?” Shilly interrupted, looking irritated at the lecture.

“We don’t. You can’t kill a golem. How do you kill something that has more heads than a centipede has legs? Get rid of one and it pops up somewhere else, as good as new. It’s not possible.” The Alcaide shook his head. “The best you can hope for is to contain it.”

“Where?”

“In the body it’s taken over. There are simple charms we can employ to stop it moving on.”

“So how do we save Lodo?”

“We’ll work that out when we come to it.” Some of the Alcaide’s enthusiasm ebbed. “We’ll do our best, Shilly. I promise you that.”

“And if your best isn’t enough?”

He had no reply at all to that.

There was a long, taut silence as the four of them stared at each other. Sal wondered who was going to talk first. The Syndic still looked as though she might explode at any moment, but for once her rage was directed away from him. The Alcaide seemed to endure it without effort, although he was obviously impatient for Aron to arrive. Sal wasn’t going to draw any attention to himself when he didn’t have to.

In the end it was Shilly who broke the silence.

“Is it going to be dark where we’re going?” she asked Mawson.

“Most likely. The golem inhabits places not normally visited by humans.”

She turned to the Alcaide. “Will you bring light?”

“Of course.”

“Mirrors?”

“If that makes you feel better, yes.” His expression of concern looked almost convincing. “I can understand you feeling nervous of the dark, after everything you’ve been through recently.”

She nodded shortly. “Yes, thank you. That does make me feel better.”

And it did. Sal could tell that she was relieved, although he wasn’t immediately sure why.

Mawson peered awkwardly over his shoulder in order to look forward as Aron carried him deep into the Novitiate buildings, following the man’kin’s every direction to the letter. The expedition to find the golem consisted of the Alcaide and the Syndic, Sal and Shilly, plus a dozen mixed Sky Wardens and attendants. Mawson guided them past Master Warden Atilde’s study, dark and empty, then through a series of narrow corridors and little-used access ways. Eventually they came to an empty storeroom that looked as though it hadn’t been swept or dusted for centuries.

Several lines of footprints led across the floor to one corner. Before they could be disturbed, Shilly and the Alcaide came forward to inspect them.

“Are these like the marks you saw on the beach?” the Alcaide asked, pointing at a series of triangular scrapes across the floor.

“Exactly the same.”

He straightened. “Well, it looks like we’ve found both of them. With any luck, they’ll finish each other off and save us the trouble.”

The Alcaide waved the others into the storeroom and turned his attention to the corner. “I presume there’s a catch here, somewhere…” His eyes searched the wall for any sign of the way in. “Vick, this is your speciality. See anything?”

A blue-robed warden strode forward. He extended two thin-boned hands and lightly stroked the wall, humming tunelessly under his breath. His fingers slid up the corner, then along the top of the rotting skirting board. His eyes were closed, irrelevant to his search. Shilly saw a faint shimmer of the Change flow over the wall where his fingers passed.

“Yes.” The warden straightened and stabbed one long digit into a barely noticeable indentation. There was a deep grinding noise as a section of the wall high and wide enough for a full-grown person to pass through fell away into the darkness.

“Is this how he opened the other door?” asked the Alcaide.

“Not he,” said Shilly. “It. And no. There was a switch on the lintel. If you knew to look for it, you would find it.”

The Alcaide nodded. “That’s how young Kemp followed you, then. I was wondering if the golem had left the door open.”

“This is not important,” said the Syndic from behind them. “There’s the door. Let’s go through it and get this over with.”

“Of course.” The Alcaide cast her a dark glance.

The warden named Vick stepped aside as the Alcaide approached. He had been examining the door mechanism, caressing it almost lovingly with his sensitive fingers.

“It’s quite safe,” he said. “The doorway, anyway. I can’t vouch for anything after that.”

“Thanks, Vick.” The Alcaide produced something from his pocket that looked like a small mirror on a stick. He tapped it once, and silvery light sprang from it, illuminating another corridor. Not the flight of steps Shilly had feared. She was heartily tired of negotiating steep slopes and stairs with her crutch.

“How far away is it?” the Alcaide asked Mawson.

“Some distance yet.”

The Alcaide waved for two wardens and two attendants to precede them into the hidden passage. Aron and Mawson went next, and the rest of them followed, one by one. The air inside the tunnel was musty and surprisingly warm.

Shilly managed to end up next to Sal, who put his hand casually on her back.

“What are we going to do?” he asked.

She was about to tell him about her plan when the Syndic’s voice echoed down the corridor. “Speak aloud, or not at all! The golem will hear us no matter how quietly we whisper, and I’ll not have you two conspiring in secret.”

Sal’s hand stayed where it was. “All right,” he said. “You tell us, then. That thing we saw: the ice-creature. What is it? And what’s that city it came from? I thought there were only three cities in the Book of Towers.”

There was a small silence. Shilly waited with interest to hear the response. Neither question was the one Sal had asked her, but no one challenged him on that point. Their conversation through the Change must have been noted only, not overheard.

There was some shuffling as one of the wardens moved up the ranks to join them.

“I’m Beall.” She was a black-skinned, middle-aged woman with greying hair tied back in a tight bun. “I’m the best person to answer your questions. The Book of Towers is known to be incomplete, representing only those observations recorded by wardens and mages in the early days following the Cataclysm. We have always suspected the existence of realms outside those we are familiar with. It’s quite probable that the city you saw in the jungle lies to the northeast, where such climes are to be found. The city in the ice could lie across the ocean to the south, or to the extreme north, at the Far Pole on the other end of the world. Your testimony is all we know of it.”

“Couldn’t you go back into the Golden Tower?” Sal asked. “Take another look?”

“That is far too dangerous at the moment. I am inclined to believe Mage Erentaite when she warned you and Shilly away. We can only rely on your description. The cities could well be aspects of the same city, bound up in some incredible charm we barely understand—presenting different faces to us that represent different stages in its decay, perhaps, or something even more arcane. If so, the Golden Tower could well be the key that binds the charm, and to break it could do untold damage.”

“Such as?” Shilly, too, was interested now.

“Well, the ghosts, for one. If the Golden Tower is a charm holding the cities—or city—in place, the question you have to ask is, why? Mage Erentaite warned you that the city was a trap, and that you might have set something free, something contained within. When I look at the Haunted City, the things I immediately see contained are the ghosts, trapped in the towers like prisoners. Similarly, golems have only previously been found in two of the three cities we know of—here and in the Broken Lands city—so they may be similarly trapped. Even the ice-creature, whatever it is: it came from one city to another via the portal you opened between them all. There must be more such things that could be released if we poke too carelessly into matters we don’t yet fully understand.”

Shilly remembered the rising, earthquake-like sensation that had grown in volume as she talked with Mage Erentaite in the Nine Stars. At the time she had had no idea what that had been. Now she wondered if that was some other strange manifestation of life caught in the city trap. She dreaded to think what might have happened if that had escaped as well.

“So the ice-creature is…what?” Sal asked.

“We don’t know,” Beall admitted. “We presume the golem summoned it for a reason. Shilly’s description sounds decidedly bestial. It may be a creature that has no mind and can easily be subverted to the golem’s will. Or else it is empty of the Change, giving the golem easy access. The golem might have been looking for a new body.”

“Why hasn’t the golem taken it, then, and left Lodo behind?” he asked.

“We don’t know.” The warden shrugged. “There is much still to determine.”

A series of shushes came down the line from the front. Sal nodded his thanks and Beall fell back slightly. Shilly felt a ball of nervousness begin bouncing in her stomach at the thought that they must be getting close.

The Alcaide’s words were still clear in her memory. The golem was composed of the Change and needed access to the Change in order to survive. It also needed a body, through which its mind could enforce its will upon the world. In that sense, the golem was similar to a human, with flesh and the Change reversed.

The ghosts, on the other hand, were another sort of creature altogether. Trapped in the glass towers, they too lacked bodies, but they didn’t seem to be drawn to the Change. If anything qualified as a creature of pure mind—which the Alcaide had described as cunning intelligences hovering on the edge of the world—the ghosts were it. And if, she thought, as the Alcaide had also said, like devoured like…

Just behind Warden Beall, an attendant held a long, shield-like mirror by a handle on its dull side. Light shone from it as though it was made of the moon, casting shadows in all directions. It was half as tall as Shilly, but easily wide enough for a man to pass through. Or a ghost.

If the golem was looking for somewhere else to go, she was going to give it a reason to leave in a hurry.

The tunnel ended in a wide, domed chamber resembling a barn that was easily large enough to fit Belilanca Brokate’s caravan. Numerous alcoves lined the walls like open, toothless mouths. Rounded cobbles muffled by dust made odd clomping sounds underfoot as the party of wardens and attendants spread out to examine the space. Shilly was careful of her footing, unwilling to risk hurting her leg when everything was coming to a head.

“I’ve never seen this place before,” said the Alcaide. “Or heard of it.”

“It’s just an old storeroom,” said the Syndic. “An empty one, at that.”

“Why would someone seal it up?” asked Sal.

“To honour the dead,” spoke a voice from the shadows. Lodo’s voice.

The search party reacted instantly. Wardens and attendants put themselves between the golem and the Alcaide, Syndic and children. Light flared from the shield-mirrors, revealing a thin, crouching figure huddled in one of the alcoves. Shilly peered over the shoulder of the nearest warden. She was dismayed to see Lodo’s body, filthy and frail, squinting into the glare. His robe was torn. His hair was matted and hanging in irregular clumps. There was a brown stain down one arm that looked disturbingly like dried blood.

“What do you mean, ‘to honour the dead’?” asked the Alcaide, pushing through his bodyguard once it was clear the golem was in no condition to attack anyone.

“Look down. Those aren’t cobblestones.”

As one, they dropped their eyes. Shilly saw hundreds of round, white stones arranged in a crudely geometric pattern. She tried too long to work out the sense of the lines and whorls, and didn’t realise the obvious until someone in the party gasped in shock.

It hit her. They weren’t standing on stones at all. The floor was composed entirely of skulls.

A sound of sudden movement was quickly followed by two sharp grunts of pain. Shilly looked up in time to see a scrawny shadow duck behind the folding figure of an attendant and through a doorway on the far side of the room.

“Quickly,” she shouted. “It’s getting away!”

The wardens were already moving. Shadows danced crazily. Black and blue robes fluttered as the search party followed the golem along another narrow tunnel. Sal grabbed Shilly’s free hand and, with Aron, Mawson and two attendants close behind, they followed as best they could. They passed numerous tunnel mouths but never became lost. Scuffed footprints in long-settled dust once again led the way.

Shouts from ahead indicated that the search party had found something. Shilly couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it sounded urgent. She stepped up her pace, afraid she would arrive too late, and soon found herself at one end of a long, straight tunnel with exits evenly spaced along it.

Several things happened at once to indicate that her fears were entirely misplaced.

She felt a puff of cold air from an open tunnel as she passed, closely followed by the sound of rapid footsteps. She froze, and heard a rattling sound, like broken glass hitting stony ground. The shouting of the distant wardens resolved into words: “It’s doubled back!” Then the golem was among them—all wild eyes and equally wild hair, forcing them aside and running up the corridor and down another tunnel.

Hot on its heels, bellowing like a steam engine about to blow, came the ice-beast. It shot out of the tunnel with a clatter of hooves. Frost-rimed hair and glass teeth caught and magnified the light. The scar in Shilly’s palm flared as she fell back before it, and the ice-beast reared with a shriek, sending a wave of damp, icy air rolling over her. The top of its massive head brushed the ceiling. One of the attendants pushed Sal and Shilly against the wall. The other attendant shouted in alarm as the ice-beast pounced and brought its angular, brittle mass down with a heavy crunch on him, piercing him through with its claws.

Blood jetted from the dying man. Shilly screamed. There was an explosion of noise in the confined space. She felt herself lifted as though by a wave and flung along the tunnel into a confusion of limbs and robes. A flare of bright yellow light followed the blast of sound, and it didn’t subside quickly. Someone had brought the sun into the underground passages. Shilly smelt burning hair, and wondered if it was her own.

Then the light was gone and darkness returned. All was confusion for a moment as the wardens picked themselves up. Shilly felt hands under her armpits and was hauled to her feet by Aron, dimly visible by the mirror-light. Her ears were ringing as she sought her crutch and put it back under her armpit, ready to run.

“The creature—look!”

She turned to look where Warden Beall was pointing. She saw Sal standing on his own by the body of the warden the ice-beast had attacked. He was slicked with gore, but standing upright, breathing heavily. In front of him, trembling on the brink of dissolution, stood the beast itself. It had melted, but an alien will kept its form intact. Its watery, shifting face was hunched low, level with Sal’s. They were staring at each other as though daring each other to blink.

They held that pose for an instant until, with a loud splash, the creature fell shapeless to the floor and flooded away.

The wardens rushed forward. Sal staggered back against the wall, one hand touching his forehead. He slipped to one knee and almost fell. The first warden to reach him took his weight and helped him back to his feet. The search party split into two groups: one to look after Sal and the other members of the party, the rest to continue searching for the golem.

“How are you feeling, Sal?” the Alcaide asked, peering closely into his eyes.

“I’m all right. That just took a little more than I expected.”

“I’ll say. You’re completely drained. What on earth did you do?”

“When we first arrived here, Atilde showed us how to make frost. I turned the charm around and used it as a weapon to melt it.”

“That shouldn’t work.” The Alcaide looked, puzzled, at the puddles at their feet. It was red-tinged where blood from the fallen attendant had mixed with it. Rainbows danced on the surface, like oil. “That shouldn’t work at all.”

“With enough effort, it will.”

The Sky Wardens looked at Sal with a nervousness that he didn’t appear to notice.

Shilly struggled to her feet, trying to come to grips with what had happened. Sal had killed the ice-beast by little more than will, but he had drained himself in the process and looked on the verge of collapsing. That she could understand. Her breath came in rapid gasps as her body recovered from the terror she had felt on seeing the ice-beast’s teeth and claws flashing over her.

Excited shouts grew louder from a side tunnel. The search party was returning. The Alcaide rose from an examination of the dead attendant to see what they’d brought with them. Even Sal, still leaning against a warden for support, seemed to rouse himself.

Two attendants emerged from the nearest side-tunnel, holding the golem tightly by the arms. Sorely weakened, Lodo’s body looked like a child’s in their hands. The malign intelligence controlling it didn’t even put up a fight. Not a physical one, anyway. The darkness in its eyes smouldered dangerously, though, waiting for its chance.

The attendants hauled it before the Alcaide.

“So you killed it,” the golem said, noticing the condition of the floor. “No, you killed it.” Its attention swung to Sal. “Powerful work. You must be feeling quite pleased with yourself. Quite drained, too. Under other circumstances, I’d happily take you up on the invitation.”

Sal glared but said nothing.

“The creature killed an innocent man,” said the Alcaide. “You summoned the creature and led it back to us. The blame lies on you.”

“And how do you plan to punish me? Death?” The golem laughed, low in its throat. The sound turned into a hacking cough that tore at Shilly’s heart.

“Confinement,” the Syndic said, her eyes glittering coldly in the mirror-light.

The cough turned back into a laugh. “You’re too late for that, Syndic Zanshin. I can’t leave this body—and not for want of trying.”

“Don’t play games with us,” the Syndic warned.

“I’m being quite serious, and, of course, I’m telling the truth. Why do you think I summoned the beast? It would have made a marvellous home—the perfect vehicle for unleashing mayhem and terror on you all. But after all the trouble I took to obtain it, I found myself unable to cross over. I was—am—trapped in this body. Someone is holding me back.”

“Who?” asked the Alcaide.

“Who do you think? This body’s original inhabitant, of course. He doesn’t know when to give up.”

A charge went through Shilly. Lodo was alive—and fighting the golem!

“Why isn’t he letting you leave?” asked the Syndic.

A dreadful sneer spread across the golem’s borrowed face. “To take me with him. When this body dies, as it surely will soon, he thinks to trap me in it, to drag me down with him.” The sneer became a snarl of anger. “He is a fool if he thinks that will kill me. It will just inconvenience me for a while. He is sacrificing himself for nothing.”

Sacrificing himself? Shilly wanted to shout in denial, but she bit her lip. Now wasn’t the time to draw any attention to her. Everyone’s attention was on the Alcaide and the Syndic while they argued with the golem—as if arguing alone would ever be enough. The golem had had thousands of years of experience at using words to its own advantage. If it was ever going to give in—and give her Lodo back—it had to be threatened in a way that would really hurt.

She knew what she had to do. She edged closer to one of the portable light-mirrors at the back of the crowd, where a warden had leaned it against the wall. She didn’t have a pencil, but there were other ways to draw. She bent down and wet her hands. Rubbing her palms on the walls gave her the dust she needed to create a small amount of mud. With her muddy fingertips and the image of the ghost in her mind, she quickly sketched a face on the glaring face of the light-mirror.

A thrill of nervousness swept through her. This was deliberate necromancy. But she didn’t care what happened to her. As long as it worked, and it helped set Lodo free, that was all that mattered.

It took her a bare economy of lines to give the ghost a body. If anyone noticed what she was doing, they didn’t try to stop her. All eyes were on the golem as it argued with the leaders of the Strand.

Then it was done. She stepped back, wiping her dirty fingers on her uniform. She could see shadows shifting in the light, struggling to coalesce. They weren’t coming together the way they were supposed to. If they didn’t soon, people were going to notice.

The process needed a kick-start. She leaned her hand, as though for support, on Warden Beall, who happened to be nearest. With a twinge of guilt, she Took from the unsuspecting woman. The Change rushed through her in a glowing stream.

She didn’t hear the voice shouting at her to stop until it was too late.

Skender ran as fast as he could over the bare stone floors, not feeling the bruises on his feet. A rising dread had overtaken him as he followed the warden who had been left to guard the entrance to the secret tunnel, almost certain that he wouldn’t arrive in time.

When he saw the lights ahead of him and heard the voice of the golem he put on an extra burst of speed.

“Don’t do it, Shilly,” he shouted. “Wait!”

Heads turned to see who had shouted, but one small figure at the back of the group didn’t look up. There was a piercing noise, as though a pane of glass had cracked, and a sudden flare of bright blue light.

Skender pushed his way through the milling crowd. “Get away from it! Get away from it!”

He felt hands trying to grab him, but he dodged them and burst out the other side. What he saw could have been absurd under any other circumstance. Shilly was staring in defiance at a female warden from whom, Skender presumed, she had Taken the Change needed to complete the charm. The warden had an expression of surprise and anger on her face. That changed to shock as the mirror beside them suddenly exploded outwards, showering them with glass.

They recoiled. Skender skidded to a halt, feeling numerous sharp pains in the soles of his bare feet. The pain was nothing, though, to the horror he felt as the ghost stepped out of the hole where the mirror had once been.

Tall, narrow-boned and as black as empty space, it uncoiled like a snake until it towered a full foot over anyone else in the corridor. Skender heard gasps from those around him. Its skin was smooth and flawless, like a baby’s, and it was completely naked.

It blinked and stretched. Muscles rippled; joints cracked; new flesh gleamed in the blue light. Shilly stared up at it as though hypnotised by what she had brought into the world. Cold eyes fixed her to the spot.

“I knew my investment in you wouldn’t be wasted,” it said in a voice that was surprisingly high-pitched.

“I didn’t do it for you,” Shilly said. “I brought you here to kill the golem. Eat its mind. Free Lodo!”

The ghost looked at the golem, then turned back to Shilly. “No.”

“What do you mean, no?” she asked. “That’s why I brought you here. You owe me!”

“I owe you nothing.” The creature grinned, exposing even, white teeth. “I have no debt to repay.”

“But you told me I had to have a heart-name. You told me—”

“I would have told you anything you wanted to hear. All that mattered was the summoning. Your heart-name just makes you more…substantial.”

The ghost took a step forward.

“Keep away from her!” Skender threw himself between them, uncaring of the glass stabbing at his feet. “Shilly, you don’t understand,” he said over his shoulder. “It tricked you. You have to get out of here.”

“Why?” Her confusion and anger were naked in her voice. “How has it tricked me?”

“It can’t eat just anyone’s mind. It can only eat the one who summoned it. It wants you.”

The ghost’s grin widened. Its eyes seemed to bore past him, into Shilly.

“How do you know this?” she asked weakly, gripping his shoulder.

“I guessed,” he said, mentally cursing the fact that he had arrived too late. “That’s what happened to Sal’s mother.”

The ghost laughed, and lunged for Shilly. She dodged out of its reach. Skender did his best to get in the ghost’s way. Instead, he was thrown aside, sent skidding across the floor, adding new scratches and cuts to his body. He rolled to avoid the feet thudding around him as wardens and attendants counteracted the unexpected new threat. Several sharp retorts sounded as the wardens used the Change in attack, but they were hampered by the close quarters: anything likely to damage such a monster would hurt innocent bystanders as well. The golem’s mocking laughter added a surreal counterpoint to Sal’s cry of alarm.

Skender couldn’t see what was going on. He struggled to right himself. If he’d run faster, arrived seconds earlier—

A desperate, horrified shriek from Shilly cut the thought in two. It climaxed in a terrible crunching sound that Skender could only assume accompanied the ghost’s terrible work. The sound of a body striking stone rang in his ears, and he felt physically ill at the thought that Shilly was dead, her mind eaten by the creature she had brought into the world to save her teacher. He didn’t want to know, couldn’t bring himself to look.

Then a single word, spat through the noise via the Change, made him think again.

“Bad!”

Skender forced himself to peer past the wardens and attendants gathered around the scene. He saw the body of the ghost on the ground with its skull staved in. Aron stood over it, holding a blood-spattered Mawson to his chest. The giant teenager’s nostrils were as wide as his eyes as he panted for breath. The man’kin’s eyes were tightly closed, his expression one of utter horror.

“Bad,” said Aron again, with less ferocity than before. The man-child gradually relaxed as it became apparent that the crisis had passed. He put Mawson gently on the ground at his feet, and extended a hand to help Shilly upright.

The look on her face was one of absolute shock. While the wardens stood around her, frozen, she stared up at Aron, then at Sal. Then she seemed to crumple in on herself. Aron didn’t know what to do as she fell against him, clutching his robe. Sal went to her and awkwardly put an arm around her shoulders. Aron decided to hug them both, prompting a muffled half-laugh, half-sob from somewhere within his arms.

Skender felt hands slip under him, helping him upright. It was Highson Sparre.

“That was well and bravely done,” he whispered.

Skender glanced at the gashes on his arms, then wished he hadn’t. There was blood everywhere he looked: on him, on the walls, on the floors. It couldn’t all be from him, he hoped. “I didn’t make it in time. If I’d only run faster—”

“The attempt is what matters, not the outcome. You tried. That’s the main thing.”

Skender nodded, knowing that Aron was the true hero. His solution had been direct and to the point. While the wardens had wasted the Change on an esoteric attack, he had simply done what needed to be done. A creature of flesh was vulnerable to an attack by brute force. All he’d needed was a weapon…

If Mawson had anything to say about that, he still hadn’t recovered enough to talk. From the look on the man’kin’s face, Skender guessed that he hadn’t seen that outcome approaching at all.

The Syndic was trying to impose some sort of order, but everyone was shouting at once. Two solemn attendants were arranging the pierced body of their fallen comrade; Warden Beall was trying to explain that she hadn’t volunteered her talent to Shilly; Master Warden Atilde and Skender’s mother’s friend, Iniga, had caught up and were demanding explanations. In the confined space, the noise was deafening.

“Quiet!” The Syndic’s voice cut through the rabble. “I have no desire to spend a moment longer in here than I have to. If our business is concluded, we will proceed immediately to—”

“Hell.” The sharp voice of the golem cut across her words like a serrated knife. It hung limp in the arms of its captors, barely able to stand. “You and your games, they sicken me.” It spat at the Syndic’s feet, creating a small splash. “I would happily leave you to them, if this old fool would let me.”

“And go where?” the Syndic asked. “I don’t know about anyone else here, but I quite like the idea of you caught like this, trapped by your own appetite.”

“I have no appetite,” the golem retorted, “only desires.”

“Not for much longer, it seems.”

“I cannot die,” it snarled.

“But you can be weakened and hurt. That’ll do for me.”

“In order for that to happen, the old man has to die. Remember?” The last was addressed to Shilly, not the Syndic.

“Don’t answer it,” snapped the Syndic as Shilly disentangled herself from Aron and Sal and moved to stand in front of her teacher’s ravaged body, her hair bedraggled and her eyes bright red.

“He can hear you, you know,” taunted the golem, lunging forward. “You can beg him to let me go, if you want him to badly enough.”

The wardens holding the golem’s arms tugged it back.

“Can he really hear me?” asked Shilly, red-eyed.

“Of course. I can’t lie.”

“Well, he’ll know I trust him not to let you go until Sal has regained his strength. Won’t he?”

“Don’t listen to her, you old crank,” the golem shouted, rolling its head back to stare at the ceiling. “You listen to me. Let me out of here. Take your body back!”

Shilly grabbed the rags that had once been Lodo’s Privity gown and thrust her face close to the golem’s. “I’m sick of being tricked,” she hissed. “I’m sick of being lied to. You’d take over Sal in a second if you could get out of there. That’s why you want me to talk Lodo into letting you go.”

The golem said nothing. It just glared at her in mute defiance.

“Not this time,” she said, pushing the golem away. “You can rot in there, for all I care.”

The Syndic gestured. “Take it away,” she said. “Chain it somewhere safe. Get it out of my sight.”

“Liar,” chanted the golem as it was dragged away. “You’re a liar, Carah of Gooron. A liar—liar—liar!”

The echoes of its cries faded into the distance. When it was gone, it left extreme exhaustion in its wake. The wardens had failed to protect the children or each other, and it showed in their faces. The only person showing any sign of animation was Iniga, his mother’s Surveyor friend, who was peering with curiosity into the open doorways lining the corridor, her tattoos glowing faintly in the gloom.

Shilly sagged where she stood, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. Sal went to her, but this time didn’t touch her. He just stood close and whispered something in her ear. She nodded, and leaned some of her weight on him. Skender would have joined them, but he was wary of cutting his feet any more than they already were. That was what he told himself, anyway.

“Are we finally done here now?” asked the Syndic.

“Yes,” said Sal’s father. “There is an injured child to treat.”

Sal looked up in surprise, as though noticing Highson only then. But his eyes were on Skender—and Skender in turn was surprised to realise that Highson was talking about him.

Thank you, Sal mouthed.

Skender nodded in acknowledgment, happy to take gratitude even if he hadn’t averted anything.

Then the search party was shuffling along the damp, stuffy corridor, away from the smell of blood and fear, out of the oppressive darkness. Skender went with them, limping, his perfect memory replaying the image of Sal and Shilly standing together in the near dark, bent but not broken. Shilly had supported Sal through the confrontation with the golem, and now he was supporting her. Skender could tell that the gesture was offered selflessly, automatically, as though to do otherwise was unthinkable.

Sal’s father supported him as they passed through the secret door and entered the Novitiate corridors. That was well and bravely done. Highson’s words buoyed him just as much as the hand under his arm. Gradually, Skender began to convince himself that he might have earned those words, but not himself alone. The troublemaker, tourist and try-hard hadn’t done so badly together. They had lit light-sinks and opened Ways. They had stared in the face of monsters and survived. There was nothing they couldn’t do if they put their minds to it.

Wherever and whoever the Weavers were, and whatever they had in store next, Skender hoped they knew what they were messing with.

CHAPTER 17

IN A DEADLY EMBRACE

On the third day of the hearing, Kemp woke from his coma. After what had felt like a small eternity of strictly monitored routine—meals at exact times, evening lessons monitored for the slightest sign of disturbance, contact with Shilly kept to a bare minimum, all the mirrors confiscated from their rooms—Sal was allowed to leave the Conclave to its deliberations and visit him. Warden Timbs, guiding the proceedings with the same firm hand with which he had overseen the inquest into Radi Mierlo’s death, watched silently as four attendants and four Sky Wardens led Sal from his seat, then allowed the discussion to resume.

Once out of the sealed hall, Sal felt the tension melt off him. The air was sweeter, even in the close confines of the corridors. His legs loved the freedom of being able to stretch and move at will. It may have been an illusion, but he felt almost free. He had abandoned the pretence of wearing the binding charm around his wrist, and the wardens hadn’t been able to give him a new one yet, thanks to his tattoo. But for his escort closely watching every move he made, he might have been taking a leisurely stroll to see a friend.

“Is Shilly going to be there?” he asked the lead attendant, lightly touching the man’s arm to get his attention.

“I don’t know,” was the blunt, discouraging reply. The voice belonged to the stern man who had guided him on and off since his arrival in the city. Sal had glimpsed his face only a couple of times, and had never been offered his name. It seemed bizarre that Sal could spend so much time with one person and know next to nothing about him.

“Tell me something,” he said. “Where do you people come from? Were you students here, once? Is this what you chose to do?”

“That’s none of your business,” said the leader, but the one on his left disagreed.

“Some of us were students,” she said. Her voice had become familiar, too: measured, clear and occasionally compassionate. “Some of us were apprentices, out in the Strand, who for various reasons chose to return to serve the Novitiate. Some belong to families that have served for generations. We are all different. Our decisions are always voluntary. We are never coerced. Service is not a punishment.”

“Do you have to have the Change?”

“No. A large number of us do not.”

Sal nodded, thinking of the man he had believed was his father. He had worked in the Haunted City, serving a high-ranking Sky Warden despite having no talent of his own. Shom Behenna had told Shilly that there were openings everywhere for bright people, whether they had the Change or not. Sal wondered if this was what he had had in mind—and if Shilly would ever accept it as a possible answer.

His reserves of the Change had returned since attacking the ice-beast. Not since Fundelry, when Lodo had dampened his talent in order to avoid detection by the Sky Wardens, had he felt the total absence of the Change in him, and it had been an odd, disconcerting sensation. Losing it was like losing a limb or his sight. The Change was both a part of him and a way of sensing the world around him. Without it, he had felt disconnected and hollow.

His connection to Shilly had remained, though. The wardens weren’t letting them spend any more than a moment or two together, outside the hearing, but he knew she was nearby. When the hearing was in session, he could see her on the far side of the hall, sitting very still and concentrating on every word that was being said. Their actions of the previous days were deconstructed and analysed. Every word they said to various well-meaning interrogators was turned over and over, searching for any sign of deception. Shilly watched it all impassively. He wished he had her patience.

She hadn’t been at the hearing that morning, hence his question to the attendants. If she had been allowed to visit Kemp, then that would explain her absence.

They walked a short way in the open air, under the distant but now slightly threatening gaze of the ghosts. A group of Novitiate students passed them, and Sal recognised one of them by sight. He waved, but Weyn looked pointedly away to talk with his friends. The snub left Sal wondering what he’d done to deserve it. Was it his constant missing of lessons, or something more? Had word got out about what he had done? It struck him as sad that he hadn’t needed Kemp to turn people against him—he had managed it alone!—but there was little he could do about it.

When Sal and his escort arrived at the ward Kemp had been assigned to, Shilly wasn’t there. None of the laughter spilling from the open doorway came from her throat. There were three voices, all of them familiar. Two attendants stood guard outside the door.

They waved Sal and his entourage inside. The room contained four beds. Kemp occupied one, and Skender another; the remainder were empty. Sitting on a chair between Skender and Kemp was Tom. There was an Advance set open on the wheeled table before him. The game was resting in its finished state, and Sal noted that Tom had won convincingly against whoever had played him.

“At least someone’s having fun,” said Sal on entering. Skender and Tom’s smiles didn’t alter; both looked as pleased to see him as he was to see them. Kemp sobered, and looked down at his plate.

“Laugh a minute in here,” said Skender. “Probably not as much fun as your hearing, but we try our best.”

“How are you feeling?” Many of Skender’s numerous scratches and cuts, particularly those on his feet, had required stitches. His arms were covered in a crazy mess of fine, red lines.

“Itchy as hell,” the boy said with a grimace. “They say that’s a good sign, and that I shouldn’t scratch, but I don’t believe them. I think they’re just trying to keep things lively.”

“And you?” Sal turned to Kemp. The big albino didn’t look obviously unwell, but there were heavy bags under his eyes and his skin was grey.

There was a hint of challenge in Kemp’s reply. “Never better.”

“I, uh—” Sal had been trying all morning to work out how to say what needed to be said, but the words sounded awkward in his mind and would no doubt come out even worse. He had to try, though.

“I’m sorry you got mixed up in all this,” he said. “It wasn’t meant to happen like that. We didn’t want you to get hurt.”

“Yeah, well.” Kemp shrugged. “I wish I hadn’t followed you. All the time I was under, I kept thinking about why I’d done it. It seems pretty stupid now. Not worth dying over, that’s for sure.”

“You could think?”

Kemp nodded. “I was stuck: couldn’t move, couldn’t talk, couldn’t do anything at all except lie there. I could hear and see what was going on, but it was muffled, like it was happening a long way away. For a while, I thought I was dead.” Something of that time showed in the tightness around the albino’s eyes, although his words were deliberately casual. “I swore that, if I came back, I’d give up trying to rescue stupid stone-boys from their own crazy messes.”

Tom’s eyes were very round. “You were incredibly brave,” he said.

Kemp shook his head. “I was incredibly stupid. I should have warned the wardens as soon as I saw where you were going. If I’d done that, none of this would have happened.”

Sal nodded in agreement, although had a flood of wardens and attendants interrupted the opening of the Way, he was sure he would have seen things differently. But not having to deal with the ice-creature or the ghost would have made his present situation a lot easier.

Perhaps it would have worked out the same, anyway. It was hard enough, sometimes, to decide what had happened in the past—as the hearing was finding out—let alone anticipate what might have happened had things been slightly different. And then there was the future…

“Have you had any dreams lately?” asked Skender of Tom, as though reading Sal’s mind.

Tom glanced at the floor. “I don’t trust my dreams any more,” he said. “Things didn’t go the way they were supposed to.”

“That’s a good thing, isn’t it?” asked Kemp. “You dreamt that you died in the Way. Aren’t you grateful your dreams got it wrong?”

Tom nodded almost reluctantly, as though death might have been preferable to losing his prophetic talent. “But if the future can change like that, what’s the point of remembering my dreams at all? I’ll just confuse things, get things mixed up.”

“Well, join the club.”

“Personally,” said Sal, “I like the idea that we don’t know what’s coming. That way, we’re not locked into it.”

“I don’t see why we should be,” said Skender. “If you can see what’s coming, you can take steps to avoid it. We know now that the future can be changed. That means we can try to avoid the bad and aim for the good.”

Sal nodded. “So we don’t have to do anything we don’t want to do?”

“Sure. You can’t fight destiny, though,” said Skender with a knowing wink.

Sal felt himself flush. “What’s destiny but another way of thinking about the future? If nothing’s fixed—”

Skender’s low chuckle cut him off. “I guess you only have to fight it if you don’t want it to happen. Otherwise, you just lie back and enjoy the ride.”

Sal nodded again, and let a small silence claim the conversation. There, again, was the thought he’d had about changing the future. He too had had prophetic dreams, and at least one of the things he had seen in them hadn’t come true. He had seen an image of Kemp standing in a golden tower looking out at a city of glass. Figuratively it might have occurred, but not literally. That was an important difference.

And then there were his dreams of the storm he had summoned, rolling across the land toward him. What did they mean? Were they not to be taken literally, too?

“How’s the hearing coming along?” Kemp asked, reaching for a new topic.

“Slowly.” Sal outlined the latest developments. The golem was still trapped in Lodo’s body and refusing to testify; the tunnel leading to the hidden tide pool and the catacombs had been sealed by an array of powerful charms, intended to keep the Golden Tower out of bounds until Iniga and a team of Surveyors from both the Strand and the Interior could examine it properly; the nature of the ice-creature was still a mystery, despite extensive searches through the Book of Towers and other ancient sources. The deaths of the attendant and the various experiences of those involved in the events of recent days were being examined one by one in the hope that blame could be assigned, and an appropriate reaction decided upon.

“Have they told you about your mother?” Skender’s voice was uncharacteristically cautious.

Sal nodded. Skender had been interviewed from his hospital bed and Master Warden Atilde had related his testimony to the hearing on the first day. The truth behind his mother’s death had rocked Sal. She hadn’t died of a broken heart at all; she had been tricked by a ghost. The trap could have resulted in the ghost consuming her mind, had she not drained herself of the Change in order to drive the ghost away, literally emptying herself in the process. What had happened to the creature was unknown—although some suspected that it might have been the same one that attempted to trick Shilly—but Seirian Mierlo’s fate was clear. Mindless and empty, her body had lingered for weeks before finally wasting away.

That she had been trying to escape was also not disputed. The ghost had lured her with hints of freedom, just as Shilly had been lured a decade later. It had even convinced her to leave a clue for her son, should he ever be captured by the Sky Wardens. The note Sal’s mother had left for him with her ex-husband had explicitly instructed him to seek help from the ghosts. Had he and the others been more determined to follow that path, they could all have ended up mindless, too.

She tried to escape, and she couldn’t. The thought stuck in Sal’s mind. If his mother hadn’t been able to get away from the Haunted City, what hope did he have? Was he going to die in the attempt, too—as had almost happened once already? Was Shilly?

One thing he was sure of: neither of them would consider going near the ghosts again. Or the golem. They had enough to worry about without inviting more supernatural creatures to the party.

Skender seemed to be waiting for something more from him than just a nod, so he said, “Mawson is refusing to let Aron carry him, after what happened. He’s trying to find someone else to get him from place to place.”

“Isn’t that your job now?” asked Kemp.

“No. I freed him.”

“Maybe you could carry him, Kemp,” said Tom.

The big albino snorted disdainfully. “I’ve got better things to do than lug talking rocks around.”

“Apparently not,” said Skender. “Otherwise you wouldn’t be hanging around with us.”

Conversation devolved from there to a good-natured bantering that Sal felt happiest to sit out. Kemp and Skender made natural antagonists: one used to getting his own way by force, the other employing guile or humour. Somehow—perhaps because of Kemp’s attempt to save Skender’s life—they actually seemed to be getting along. That peace obviously extended to Sal as well, since Kemp was the most agreeable Sal had ever seen him.

Maybe, Sal thought, it was just that the bully had had plenty of time to think things through while trapped in his coma. Could someone really change that much, he wondered, or was this a side of Kemp he’d simply never seen before?

There came a knock at the door. It opened, and Highson Sparre stuck his head around it.

“You’re needed back at the hearing, Sal.”

Sal sighed and nodded. “Needed” didn’t mean that they actually required him to do anything. They just wanted to keep an eye on him.

“See you guys later,” he said.

“Good luck.” Skender waved a bandaged hand from his bed. Kemp managed a brusque nod.

Tom stared up at Sal from his chair with big eyes, and said, “Athim will go home.”

“What?”

“That’s what my dreams tell me, Sal. Athim will go home. I think it’s important.”

“Who’s Athim?” asked Skender.

“I don’t know.” Tom shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out when—if—it happens.”

Sal kept his face blank as his entourage guided him from the room. Athim was Lodo’s heart-name. Skender’s father had told him it during the tense wait for the Stone Mage Synod to convene in the Nine Stars, when his fate had been decided. But what did Tom’s dreams mean by saying that Lodo would go home? He had lived in both the Interior and the Strand, neither happily. Where could his home be?

Highson walked with him back to the hall. He didn’t say anything, apparently content to match Sal’s pace with perfect patience.

“How’s Gram?” he asked. Anything to break the silence.

“Oh, she’s well enough, for her age.” Highson smiled. “She asks occasionally about the polite young man who came to visit her. She remembers you, even if she doesn’t always remember who you are. Does that make sense?”

“I guess so.” Sal wasn’t used to old people and the way their minds worked—or didn’t work, as was the case with Gram. That memory could break down into pieces seemed very strange to him. Even stranger was that it could happen without affecting the person it belonged to in any other way. “Will I get to visit her again?”

“Would you like to? Don’t offer out of a sense of obligation.”

Sal shook his head. He wasn’t doing that. “I like her.” That day spent in her sitting room was the only peaceful time he’d found in the Haunted City.

“All right, then.” Highson seemed cautiously pleased. “I doubt we’ll get permission before the hearing hands down its decision. As soon as that’s done, though, I’ll make a time. She’d like that too.”

Sal nodded. “Okay.” He wanted to talk some more, about anything, but he couldn’t think of what to say. The only other thing they had in common was his mother, and he doubted that would go down well.

Mum died trying to escape from you. How does that feel?

They walked in silence back to the hearing, then went their separate ways.

Shilly sat by the bed on which Lodo lay dying and tried to keep any feelings at all from showing. The Privity attendants had told her that he might last two or three days, but no more. The end could come at any time. She would not cry. She would not rail against her inability to save the man who had adopted her as a daughter. The thing within his body didn’t deserve to see her grief.

“You called me here,” she said, keeping her voice flat, unaffected. She refused to note the way the skin hung loose and slack across Lodo’s face, the hair falling out, the smell of decay…

“I did indeed,” said the golem. Its eyes were shut. It didn’t acknowledge her presence in any way other than speaking, and even then its voice was barely audible. She would have leaned closer to hear but for the air of ice about the bed. Everywhere else in the Privity, the air was kept warm and comfortable; only in Lodo’s room was it cold.

“Why did you call me?” She wasn’t going to mince words with the golem. The sooner she found out what it wanted, the sooner she could get away from it.

“I want to show you something,” it said. One arm stirred beneath the covers, and emerged painfully slowly into the light. Wrapped tight around its wrist was a leather charm very similar to the one Sal had once worn.

“They have bound me,” the golem said, its eyes opening a crack to study her reaction.

“I know that,” she said. “The Alcaide announced his verdict yesterday. You’re guilty of the murder of Radi Mierlo, and they’re going to make you pay for it.”

“But you know what that means. I can’t leave.”

“I don’t think you were going to, even before Lodo trapped you.”

“I might have changed my mind.”

“For a price, no doubt,” she said, harking back to her conversation with the golem by the tidal pool. “Lodo’s life for mine, or Sal’s.”

“There’s always a price.” The hand flopped back onto the bed as though the effort of holding it up was unsustainable. “The only question is: would you have paid it?”

“I guess we’ll never know.”

The golem emitted a croaking noise that might have been a chuckle. “No. I guess not.”

Shilly shifted in her seat. She could feel the attention of her attendants and the Privity therapist firmly on her and the thing in the bed. It was bad enough to be talking to the golem at all, let alone under such scrutiny.

“Was that all you wanted?”

The sunken eyes opened again. “No. I want to tell you something, too.”

“I suggest you get on with it, then. I haven’t got all day.”

“It won’t take long.” She felt the golem studying her from the confines of Lodo’s body. “I want to say that I’m impressed.”

“With?”

“You. You tried to kill me.”

“That’s a good thing?”

“Of course it is, and not just from your point of view. It may not seem that way at the moment—” the golem glanced down along its host body “—but not many people are so bold, or capable.”

“It didn’t work. The ghost…” She faltered, remembering the horrible hunger of the creature she had summoned, the look in its eyes that told her she had made a terrible mistake and was about to pay for it with her life. She would never forget that moment, as long as she lived. “The ghost wasn’t what I thought it was.”

“But it might have been. Had you not misunderstood its purpose, you might have had a chance. That was the only thing wrong with your plan. Everything else went perfectly. You stole the Change; you kept your plan a secret from your friends; you committed necromancy, one of the most reviled crimes in the Haunted City. All this, for me.” Again came the half-chuckle, half-croak. “I really am flattered.”

“I didn’t do it for you. I did it for Lodo.”

“Well, you can’t have one without the other, my dear. It’s both or none.”

“It doesn’t have to be that way.”

“But it is that way. We have come to a terrible impasse. I’m stuck here. Lodo and I are going down together unless you do something about it.”

“Like what?” Realisation came with a flash of anger. “Steal you out of here? Reverse the binding charm? Set you free?”

“All admirable goals,” the golem whispered.

“Right,” she said. “I’m sure I could manage it quite easily, given the experience I’ve now had at stealing, lying, and putting myself in the shit.”

“The ends justify the means.”

“Do they?” Her hands balled into fists, but she resisted the urge to lash out physically. “In that case, I’ll settle for things as they are. Thanks all the same.”

“Really?” The golem’s gaze was as sharp as an icepick. “Understand what you’re saying. Do you really want Lodo to die?”

“No.” She could say that with absolute certainty, but it wasn’t as simple as that. She’d spent too many sleepless hours trying to work out how she felt. The conclusion she’d come to wasn’t a happy one, but at least it was a conclusion.

“I don’t want Lodo to die,” she said. “I want you to suffer. You deserve to suffer for what you’ve done.”

“Is it so wrong to struggle to survive?” the golem protested.

“No, and I could accept that argument if that was all you’ve done. But you’ve done much more, and you know it. Lodo was old and sick, and you took him over without a second thought. You knew you could hurt us through him; you could make us do things we didn’t want to do. You made him do terrible things. None of it was necessary.”

“That depends how you define ‘necessary’.”

“Of course. Can you tell me why it was ‘necessary’ to open the Golden Tower? Or why you had to set the ice-creature free? If you can convince me that you weren’t just acting in your own interests, to cause trouble or whatever, maybe I’ll reconsider my opinion of you.”

The golem was silent.

“I didn’t think so.” Shilly blinked back acid tears. “If I help you escape, you’ll go unpunished. You’ll be free to hurt someone else, just as you’ve hurt us. I don’t want that—and I know Lodo doesn’t want it.”

A shadow of the golem’s habitual sneer had returned. “You can’t possibly know that.”

“I do. Even if he could let you go, I don’t think he would.”

“You can’t hear him, Shilly. What if he’s begging to be set free? What if he wants you to listen to me? What if he doesn’t want to die?”

Shilly stared at the golem for a long time. This was what she wanted to hear. If Lodo was suffering, if Lodo had changed his mind and wanted to come back to her, if things could ever be as they had once been…

But they couldn’t. She knew better than that. Her mind might be in a turmoil of guilt and doubt, but her heart knew.

Don’t be afraid to follow your heart, the Mage Erentaite had once told her. It’s a journey we all must take, if only once in our lives.

Shilly had thought the elderly mage had been talking about Sal—and perhaps she had been. But the message was as applicable now as ever. She had to trust her instincts, for she had no other means available to judge what to do in these circumstances.

She stood. The muscles in her good leg were weak; she felt as though she was swaying in a stiff breeze.

“You called me a liar,” she said.

“I did. You said you didn’t care if I rot in here, with Lodo.”

She nodded. Get it over with, she told herself. Get it out.

“You’re right,” she said. “I was lying. I do care. I care a great deal, in fact.”

The golem stared hopefully up at her.

“But you can still rot,” she finished, “and there’s nothing you can say that will make me change my mind.”

She turned away. “I’d like to leave now,” she said to the therapist, who bowed and guided her to the door. As soon as she walked through it, she felt a terrible weight lift from her, as though the presence of the golem had been physically oppressing her. The world swam around her, but still she held the tears at bay. Lodo had died once before, and she had grieved then. She wouldn’t betray his memory or his sacrifice by giving in to despair.

“You did the right thing,” said a voice. Shilly blinked, but her sight didn’t immediately clear. All she saw were faceless black-robed figures looming around her.

“I did?” She didn’t want to sound uncertain, but not knowing who she was talking to undermined her determination.

“Without a doubt.” The figure talking to her moved slightly, and Shilly identified a black hat atop its head. The voice belonged to Atilde. “Golems can’t lie,” the Master Warden said. “If Lodo had really been begging for his life, the golem would have told you so in no uncertain terms. It wouldn’t have suggested the possibility in the form of a question.”

Shilly thought back. What if he wants you to listen to me? the golem had said. What if he doesn’t want to die?

Questions, not statements. Therefore lies, not truth.

“Thank you,” she said, wiping her eyes. “That makes me feel a little better.”

“You should feel better than better,” Atilde said, taking Shilly by the shoulder and guiding her along the corridor, several paces ahead of the attendants. “You are a very brave and resourceful girl. I would be proud of you, if you were my apprentice.”

Shilly wasn’t going to fall for another buttering-up. “Do many of your apprentices go on to become necromancers?”

“No.” Atilde’s voice was soft and sad. “But I did.”

Shilly stared at her, too surprised for a moment to speak.

“It’s true. I’m not saying that to make you feel good. I was young and stupid, and it cost me. Look.” She took her arm off Shilly’s shoulder and pulled back her sleeve. With two brisk tugs, she removed her long, black glove.

If Shilly had thought herself surprised before, there were no words to describe how she felt at what she saw now.

There was nothing under Atilde’s glove but a faint shimmer in the air, as though an invisible hand was clenching and unclenching before her eyes, making the dust motes dodge and sway.

“Necromancy is a dangerous business,” the Master Warden said. “We give form and shape to things that should never exist. I wonder now if that’s what makes the cities so dangerous. If someone in the past brought such creatures into this world and couldn’t return them from whence they came, a means of containing them would have been essential, or people would be hunted from the face of the earth. Ruins are probably the only sources of background potential powerful enough to sustain a containment charm of this magnitude for this long. Long enough to forget, anyway, that the charm even existed, let alone what it was for. And to forget that the ghosts are dangerous.” Atilde looked sadly at Shilly. “Who knows how many people have died, seduced by whispered promises and found mindless the next morning? But for Skender, who guessed before any of us, we might still be in the dark.”

Shilly shuddered. “And I would be dead.”

“Exactly.”

She watched, fascinated, as Atilde put the glove back on. It inflated like a balloon, but flexed and twisted like an ordinary human hand. Shilly could see the bumps of knuckles and tendons and veins perfectly clearly where there had been nothing at all before. Was this what would have happened to her, if the ghost had fed on her?

“What did this to you?” she asked. “Was it a ghost you summoned?”

“No. It wasn’t a ghost, and I didn’t summon it alone. Luckily, I had someone to pull me back from the brink.” Atilde shook her head. “We came across the creature I raised in a book—a very old book we found in a niche in the library. It had been tucked away in there for centuries. We thought we knew what we were doing when we decided to summon something from it. We both had something to prove. I was proud of my knowledge but finding my job too tedious. My friend…” Atilde glanced at Shilly. “No, there’s no need to be coy around you. My friend was Lodo, and he wanted to show that he could do what no one else had done: blend the teachings of the wardens and the mages to accomplish mighty works, works that hadn’t been performed for centuries, if at all. We had such dreams.

“All night we laboured to prepare the charms. It was a full moon. We worked alone. It might have been romantic, but for our purpose. Certainly, I’d had thoughts to rekindle what we’d lost years before, when he went to the Interior with Skender Van Haasteren the Ninth. Perhaps, by the glow of our success, we might have struck a spark or two.” Again, the Master Warden shook her head. “We were confident of success, he and I. We drew lots to see who would go first, and I won. I began to weave the charm in the air itself. I created a portal through which the creature stepped. I built a body to suit its needs. I—”

She stopped for a moment, as though gathering herself. “I underestimated the danger. The book was hidden not for safekeeping or by accident, but because it was a trap. The creature I brought into the world didn’t desire a body to inhabit, but to devour. It tried to devour me—in a way that I still don’t entirely understand. It took my substance while leaving my form behind. My arm is gone, but I can still feel it, still use it. Had Lodo not been there to drive it back, I would have lost the rest of me too. As it was, I lost the arm and both my legs, and not one part of me is unmarked by the experience. The softest touch pains me, now. The light batters me, erodes me further. Were I to step out into full daylight, I would dissolve like a pillar of salt in the sea.

“Worst of all, though,” she said, “is that I lost Lodo. He attracted attention when destroying the creature. There was no way to hide what we had done. When the Alcaide of the time started asking questions, Lodo—”

“I know what you’re about to say,” Shilly interrupted her. “Lodo took the blame. He let himself be called a necromancer. He was cast out.”

Atilde nodded.

“And you let him.”

“No.” The Master Warden’s glassy gaze flashed at her. “I tried to stop him, but he wouldn’t listen. He said I had more to lose. I tried to tell the Alcaide, but he wouldn’t believe me. They wanted Lodo to be guilty. They couldn’t accept that he had successfully defied the natural laws. His greatest crime was to challenge the status quo, and of that he had already been found guilty.”

They walked in silence for a dozen steps.

“So he left,” Atilde said. “He accepted the judgment of the Conclave and vanished into the west. I often wondered what happened to him, but I never heard from him again. I couldn’t believe that he would let his great experiment remain incomplete. But he must have. If he continued his work, it was to a more patient schedule. He had learned the dangers of attempting too much.

“As had I. I knew how lucky I was to be alive. My job in the Novitiate no longer seemed so tedious. When I was offered the post of Master Warden, I took it, thinking that I would enjoy a quiet life. And I have, for the most part—until you arrived.”

Atilde’s smile was hesitant, almost sad. “You’ve brought back lots of memories, you and Sal,” she said. “Memories of Lodo, and what it was like to have a belly of fire, hot with ambition. We were foolish, then, in ways that I don’t think you and Sal have been. We chose to be foolish, whereas you were driven to it. Either way, I think Lodo would have been proud of you. You have fought well and remain unbowed.”

They reached the broad antechamber that marked the entrance to the public hall, where the hearing was being held. There Atilde stopped and waited for the attendants to catch up.

“Thanks,” said Shilly. “Thanks for telling me the truth.”

“That’s all I have ever done—unlike the golem.” The Master Warden nodded. “Be strong. I’ll see you again when the decision is passed down. Remember: there are no guarantees in this world. We must make our own fates.”

With a swish of fabric, the Master Warden turned and headed back into the maze of corridors linking the buildings of the Haunted City. She moved like a black cloud, and Shilly watched her go feeling as though a storm had just passed. There was something in the air she couldn’t quite work out. Atilde hadn’t been telling her about Lodo just to make her feel better. Maybe the Master Warden had been warning her about further experimentation in necromancy, or advising her to choose more carefully.

We must make our own fates.

The chance, she thought as the attendants guided her back into the hearing, would be a fine thing.

Skender jerked awake with a fright. It was the middle of the night, and he’d been dreaming about the man’kin guarding the public Way between the Keep and Ulum. He had tried to pass between them, but they had forbidden him entry.

“Tainted,” they intoned, drawing their stone swords and raising them high above their heads to block out the sun. The word sounded like the worst insult he had ever heard. “Tainted…”

Just a nightmare. He told himself to relax and go back to sleep. There was nothing to be scared of.

A shadow moved next to his bed. Reddish light flared. A face appeared out of the darkness just centimetres from his own, and it was all he could do to stifle a scream.

“You’re awake. Good.” The square features and pulled-back hair belonged to Stone Mage Luan Braunack, the Synod’s envoy to the Stone Mages.

“What are you doing here?” Skender whispered. Although Braunack had done very little envoying, as far as he could tell, creeping around in the dark was about the last thing he had expected of her.

“I have to ask you something.”

“Me?”

“Of course you. Do you see anyone else?”

Skender glanced automatically at Kemp, but his ward-mate was snoring softly, undisturbed.

“I meant, why me?”

“You’re closest. You’ll know best.”

“Know what best?”

“What Sal and Shilly will do next.”

Skender studied Braunack closely, wondering if this was some sort of dream. The woman’s face was lit by a flickering glow-stone of a sort Skender hadn’t seen since he left the Interior. Its light was soft and warm and made him feel hollow inside.

“That depends,” he said slowly.

“On what?’

“On how the hearing goes.”

“Well, there are certain things we can assume,” she said. “Sal’s bargain with the golem led to the death of two people. That fact can’t be ignored. Similarly, there’s no doubt that Shilly will be found guilty of necromancy—too many people witnessed her doing it to judge otherwise. The question is: what will the Conclave do with two children who have caused so much trouble? Setting them free could be dangerous, but locking them up could be seen as unjust. I am keen to know what the decision will be, in order to prepare contingencies.”

“And you’re asking me?” Skender said. “How should I know?”

“I’m not asking you that. I’m asking you what Sal and Shilly will do in response to the decision, whatever it might be.”

“Why don’t you ask them yourself?”

“We are, after a fashion.”

Skender almost groaned. He glimpsed hidden purposes and dark secrets in the woman’s intense gaze. The casual use of the pronoun “we” hinted at conspiracies and agendas he still wanted no part of.

“Why should I tell you?”

She smiled. “Because you want to go home.”

Until he heard the words spoken, he hadn’t realised that it was true. He was tired of death and pain and fear. A large part of him longed to be safe in the Keep, where he knew everyone and everything had its place. He wanted to see his father again. He wanted familiarity.

The glow of Braunack’s light made him feel sad because it was the light of the Interior: that of molten iron, not cold-moon silver. The hollowness in his chest was homesickness, and had been all along.

“You’re here to threaten me, then,” he said. “If I don’t talk, I don’t go home.”

“Not at all.” Braunack shook her head. “I am leaving with Belilanca Brokate in three days in order to be home in time for the next Synod. If you choose to come with me, you are welcome to do so. The Conclave has no argument with you. You are free to go any time you want. But it could be weeks—even months—before another caravan goes all the way. You’ll be stuck here until then.

“I just want some idea of what Sal and Shilly are likely to do if the wardens decided to confine them to the city, say, or to set them loose, or to separate them. That way I can best decide what my response will be to the wardens’ suggestion.”

Skender nodded, conceding that her explanation made a kind of sense, even if it did smack of blackmail. And covert deals. Why else would she have come to talk to him in the middle of the night?”

“All right,” he said, “I’ll tell you what I think. But not because I’m helping you. I just want Shilly and Sal to get what’s right for them.”

“Believe me, that’s what we all want, too.”

He nodded, remembering his glimpse of Sal and Shilly in the tunnel after the ghost and the golem had been defeated. Part of him envied the bond between them. It went beyond just shared experiences. He could see now what his father—and Lodo, and the Mage Erentaite—meant when they said that Sal and Shilly complemented each other perfectly. She was dark where he was light. He was rich in the Change while she had something arguably much more important: a clear understanding of the Change. They fitted together like lock and key.

He hadn’t been sure where that left him, though. Sal and Shilly’s biggest battles still lay ahead of them, and Skender wanted to help them—or try to help. He was useful when they needed charms and information, or a friend. That they might not need him forever had saddened him at first. Now he was certain that, despite the sadness, he knew what was best for all three of them.

“If you want to help them, then letting them go would be the right thing to do. They don’t want to be cooped up here like prisoners. That’s how Sal feels, you know, and Shilly will run with that, assuming she can get Lodo out as well.”

“Even though she wants to be trained?”

“I think that’s less of a priority, at the moment.”

“Would separation help? Of her and Sal, I mean.”

“It would be a disaster. They want to stay together, and no one has the right to tear them apart. They’d fight that decision even harder than they’d fight being kept here.”

“How will they fight?”

Skender shrugged. “I don’t know, but you can bet they’ll find a way. They’ve been trying to escape ever since they arrived here. Look where that’s got them. Imagine if they really tried. Ghosts and golems are just a warm-up.”

Braunack seemed suitably appalled at that thought. “What about if they were expelled from the city?”

“That’d probably suit them down to the ground.”

“Really? Sal would be cut off from the only family he has left. And they have no means to travel.”

“Well, for a start, I wouldn’t worry about Sal and his family. I don’t think the Mierlos are going to shed any tears over him. Not now.”

“There’s his father.”

“His mother’s kidnapper. I wouldn’t put money on those two ever being best of buddies.”

“All right.” The skin around Braunack’s eyes tightened slightly. “But that still leaves Shilly’s training, and the issue of transport. They’re very young. They have no means to earn a living. What will they do?”

“They’ll always be welcome at the Keep.”

“If they can get there.”

“They did it before. If they set their minds to it, they’ll do it again. All they have to do is smuggle themselves onto the caravan with us and get away from the Haunted City. Belilanca Brokate won’t send them back.”

“Is that what you think they’ll do? The Synod sent them back here the last time they tried to go to the Interior. Would they really risk that again?”

Skender stared at her in surprise. “The Synod wouldn’t kick them out again—would it?”

“Why not?”

“Well, things are completely different now. There’s nothing for them here. Things didn’t work out with Sal’s family; it all went wrong. How could the Synod think it’d be the right thing to do? Whoever wanted them here in the first place would have to change their mind.”

“You’re missing an important point, Skender.” Braunack’s eyes gleamed in the depths of the shadows cast across her face. “You’re assuming that this is a fight over who wants access to Sal and Shilly. And that is true, to a certain extent. But there exists another group with a quite different agenda. The opposite, in fact.”

Skender opened his mouth to ask her what she was talking about when the meaning of her words sunk in. The opposite of those who wanted Sal and Shilly were those who didn’t want Sal and Shilly—who were, presumably, arguing behind the scenes to keep them at a determined arm’s length.

“Why?” Skender asked weakly. “What’s wrong with Sal and Shilly? Are they dangerous?”

“They could be. That’s part of what being a wild talent is all about.” Braunack leaned back in her seat and folded her hands before her. “Too much is uncertain, Skender. The future is in a state of flux, and much depends on how we behave right now. We have played an important role in keeping Sal and Shilly tied to established methodologies, but it is, perhaps, time they decided for themselves what path they will take.”

“So that’s what the Conclave is going to decide?” he asked, remembering that Mawson had spoken similarly of the ambiguity of the future, and wondering how anyone could ever be certain of anything. “Sal and Shilly are going to be set free?”

“I can’t say that,” said the mage. “No one can. The Conclave will make its decision, the same way the Synod did.”

“But you—”

“I’m just an interested party.” Braunack rose softly to her feet. “Don’t mistake me for something I’m not.”

She raised the glow-stone to her lips and uttered a short string of words. The light dimmed and went out.

“Thank you, Skender,” whispered her shadow, looming over the bed. “You have helped me reach a difficult decision. Sleep well.”

She glided around the bed and to the door. It swung open, spilling silver mirror-light into the room. Skender’s night-adjusted eyes caught sight of a hand holding the door open for her, and the face of someone who had kept a watch while Braunack visited him. The face was a familiar one: it belonged to Shom Behenna.

I’ve done what they told me to do. The words the ex-warden had spoken to Radi Mierlo came back with perfect clarity. They knew they could trust me, and I’ve proved them right.

Perhaps Shom Behenna had found his reward after all.

Radi Mierlo’s face floated up from memory…

“Three days, huh?”

Kemp’s voice made Skender squeak with surprise.

“Goddess! One more shock like that and it’ll be the end of me.”

Kemp chuckled. “Serves you right for sneaking around in the dark while people are trying to sleep.”

“It wasn’t me doing the sneaking.”

“Whatever. It’ll be quiet around here without you guys.”

There was a hopefulness in the albino’s voice that made Skender wonder if he was about to ask if he could come to the Keep. The thought struck him as ridiculous until he thought it through. Kemp’s pale skin would fit in perfectly up north, and it wasn’t as if he was having a ripsnorter of a time in the Haunted City, or had much to look forward to back in Fundelry. Perhaps it wasn’t so ridiculous after all…

But it was the middle of the night. “I’m tired,” Skender said. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

“No worries.” He heard Kemp shifting on his bed. “I guess no one’s going anywhere tonight.”

I hope not, thought Skender to himself as he tried in vain to go back to sleep.

CHAPTER 18

SUBMISSION TO THE FUTURE

The Syndic rapped three times on the floor with her stout wooden staff. The echoes rang out over the assembly waiting to hear the verdict, watched over by the giant sea creature mural in the ceiling, with its single, glowing eye. Instead of the five silver and gold-robed judges appointed to inquire into the death of Sal’s grandmother, no less than forty-three members of the Conclave had turned out to judge this case. It would have been forty-four, Sal had overheard someone say, except for the requirement that the number of judges must always be a prime. That way, there could be no ties when it came time to cast a judgment.

And it was time, at last.

“The evidence has been gathered before you all,” rang out the Syndic’s voice, “and the examination of this affair is complete.” Luan Braunack hadn’t joined her this time, as at Radi Mierlo’s inquest: since neither Sal nor Shilly were legally Interior nationals, the Syndic had no need to check with her that everything had gone according to the rules. “All that remains is to cast judgment.”

Every gaze in the hall turned to the judges behind her. “What say you?” she asked. “How does the Strand decide in these matters?”

Sal held his breath.

“We find,” said the first spokesperson for the judges, “that the Golden Tower should be studied with maximum discretion in order to ascertain the truth of its nature. We will contact the Interior Synod to advise them that they should seek a similar artefact beneath the Nine Stars, and we will mount an expedition to the Broken Lands to do the same there. Once the truth has been revealed, the chamber or chambers containing the Tower will be sealed and all knowledge pertaining to it will be restricted to the highest ranks only. This way we hope to ensure that the power contained within the Golden Tower will not be abused again.”

Sal had expected that, although he thought the argument against it had merit. The Golden Tower was only dangerous if people didn’t know what it was for. Perhaps someone in the distant past had made just this decision, and all knowledge of the Tower had fallen by the wayside as a result. Who was to say that these circumstances wouldn’t arise again: that a golem wouldn’t tempt another innocent in a world that had similarly forgotten the dangers?

That was for the future to worry about, he supposed. Clearly the Conclave thought so, too.

“On the matter of the ghosts,” said another spokesperson, “we find that their presence comprises no direct threat to the citizens of the Haunted City. Only when summoned can they do any harm. In order to deter such a summoning, necromancy will remain a Category A crime, punishable by expulsion from the Haunted City.”

A mutter rose up from the audience at that. Sal had expected this result, too. It would take more than the odd death to require the wardens to uproot their entire government and leave the island. Rather than do that, they would simply discourage people from taking risks by maintaining the high penalty. It was quite likely that the original stigma attached to necromancy had been to protect against such occurrences. Once again, the reason for the ban had been lost in the mists of time.

Two aisles across, he saw Shilly swallow. He knew what she was thinking. The Conclave didn’t keep her waiting long.

“Therefore,” said a third voice, “on the matter of Shilly of Gooron, we find her guilty of necromancy and recommend that she be punished accordingly. She may live freely in the Strand provided she does not attempt to practise or teach the Change, or re-enter the Haunted City. Any deviation from this course will result in exile beyond our borders.”

Expulsion. Exile. Shilly’s face froze into the familiar mask behind which she hid her most powerful emotions. Sal couldn’t tell if she was happy or sad about the decision, or whether the decision being taken away from her altogether had made her angry. He wasn’t sure how he himself felt, yet. It would depend entirely on what happened to him.

“We find,” said a fourth voice, “that the combination of Shilly of Gooron and Sal Hrvati is a potent one. The evidence points to a strong and synergistic meeting of talents, one that should have been nurtured from an early age. The fact that they did not meet until relatively late in life has had a profound effect on the combination. We mourn what might have been under other circumstances, and defer to caution in the matter of what might result if they are allowed to continue unchecked.

“We find that Sal Hrvati should remain in the Haunted City to complete whatever training is possible of his wild talent. He will be bound to ensure his cooperation and the safety of those around him. Master Warden Atilde will be authorised to use whatever means are necessary to ensure these ends. That is all.”

Sal’s head rang with the words in the short silence that followed. Shilly was being kicked out while he was going to be imprisoned. The result couldn’t have been worse. He couldn’t look at Shilly as the ramifications slowly sank in. The Syndic’s closing remarks barely impinged upon his consciousness.

“Very well,” she said, turning back to face the audience. “The judgment of the Strand has been heard on this matter. Unless or until evidence to the contrary is presented, that is the way the ruling will stand. All decisions will be enforced—”

“Wait.”

The interruption came from a most unexpected quarter. Heads turned to stare at the Alcaide where he had risen from his seat in the front row.

“As Alcaide of the Strand,” he said, “I have the power to veto judgments cast by the Conclave.”

“That is correct.” The Syndic was staring at him as though he’d gone mad. “Do you wish to exercise that power now?”

“Yes.”

A growing whisper spread through the chamber until the Syndic rapped her staff to silence it. Sal felt the stirrings of hope.

They were quickly dashed.

“I do not challenge the decision itself,” the Alcaide said, his burned head standing out brightly at the centre of the hall. “I dispute only the sentencing. Sending a girl out into the Strand alone is callous and irresponsible. She deserves a second chance. I require that Shilly be kept here in the Haunted City and trained as is suitable for her talents, with two provisions: she will have no access to the Change or to Sal. She too will be bound, as required to enforce those two conditions. If they are not met, then the original sentence will take effect. That is my decision.”

The Alcaide sat down. The Syndic, tight-lipped, rapped her staff again.

“So be it,” she said. “Let the amended ruling stand. All efforts will be made to ensure that the sentences are carried out immediately.”

There were no protests. Sal felt a moment of panic as the knot of attendants surrounding him closed in, preventing him from moving as the Alcaide, Syndic and judges filed from the room. The crowd began to break up, talking excitedly among themselves. Sal could no longer see Shilly over his guards, even when he stood up on tiptoes.

“She’s okay,” said the nearest attendant, the woman who spoke to him more pleasantly than the others, “and she will be okay. She can have a good future here, if she wants. She could even become one of us.” She indicated the attendants with a sweep of one hand.

Sal bit his tongue on a sharp retort. He couldn’t imagine Shilly settling for a life of anonymity and servitude, but he didn’t want to belittle this woman’s choice. It wasn’t her fault the Alcaide had chosen that way.

The crowd thinned, its babble fading to a murmur then a whisper. Sal couldn’t believe that this was how it was going to end. There had to be a mistake. It was worse than the Nine Stars, when the Stone Mage Synod had decided to send him and Shilly back to the Strand.

When the whisper of the crowd had completely faded, a timeless silence engulfed the chamber, followed by the slamming of the chamber’s doors. The cluster of attendants surrounding Sal loosened, allowing him to see again. He was ushered forward, with Shilly, to the centre of the room where the Syndic and several Sky Warden aides were waiting. To one side stood Highson Sparre and Sal’s uncle, Ranan. Both wore grim expressions.

“You heard the judgment of the Conclave,” said the Syndic, without preamble. Sal’s great-aunt looked suitably stern and impartial, although Sal wondered if he could detect a hint of triumph in her eyes. “We are here to carry it out.”

“You can’t do this,” said Shilly as Sal was urged closer to the Syndic.

“We can and will. Highson?”

The Syndic stepped back and Sal’s real father came forward. In his hands he held a length of twine that had a glassy sheen, as though it wasn’t entirely solid.

“Put your hands behind your back, Sal.”

Sal met Highson’s eyes and shook his head.

“Please, Sal. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“It’s a little too late for that.” Sal felt the Change gathering in him, wanting to lash out, but he kept a tight lid on it. He couldn’t fight every warden in the room at once, and he could feel them waiting, ready to defend themselves against anything he might attempt. “Do you really think this is the right thing to do?”

“It’s not my decision.”

“It’s your decision to accept it or not.”

“Trust me, Sal. It’s for the best.”

“Is that what you told my mother?”

A flash of hurt passed across Highson’s face. “You don’t know anything about that.”

“You’ve had plenty of chances to tell me.”

“Would you have listened?”

Highson nodded at his attendants. They gripped Sal’s arms tightly and forced him forward. Sal expected them to tie his hands together, but all they did was hold him as Highson approached, twine upraised. Sal felt a strange tingling through the background potential, but couldn’t discern what it was going to do to him.

Not until his father raised the twine and went to tie it around his throat did Sal feel the true threat. The Change gathering in him immediately began to ebb, pushed down like sand down an hourglass. He felt it rushing out of him, unstoppable, and he automatically resisted. The tattoo burned like a brand on his lower back. He twisted away from his real father’s touch. The attendants grabbed his head and held it still. He reached deep into himself to raise the Change up against the suffocating pressure, to thwart the binding that was placed upon him, to leave a chink in the prison through which he might tunnel out, and—

“Submit.”

—it met a will as powerful as his own. In the brief time he had had the Change, he had never encountered someone so strong. And where he was rough and poorly focused, operating on sheer strength alone, this talent was finely tuned and precise. It slipped through his blunt defence and subdued him almost before he saw it coming.

And so it was over. The twine tightened gently but firmly around his throat. All sense of the Change rushed out of him. His connection to Shilly went with it. There was no chink; his prison was complete. He was empty, impotent, alone.

“I’m sorry, Sal,” his father whispered. “You’ll understand in time why I had to do this.”

Sal shook his head. The hands holding him fell away, but he was no longer free. His freedom was gone, along with the Change. He had nothing left to fight for or with.

“I’ll never forgive you.”

If the words stung, Sal couldn’t tell. His real father had turned away.

Then it was Shilly’s turn. After too many wild emotional swings in too short a time, she was beginning to feel numb. Nervous relief, first of all, had come with the decision that she was going to be expelled from the city rather than kept captive. Even if that meant she wouldn’t be trained in the Change, at least she would be free. She had joked once that she would try necromancy as a means to escape the Haunted City if she could think of no better way; it had seemed to have worked perfectly.

But now Sal wasn’t going to be freed with her. They were going to be separated. It wasn’t the first time she had been threatened with such a thing, but this time it seemed particularly harsh, and struck her very forcefully. The last-minute change by the Alcaide hadn’t helped at all. They would be closely watched in the Haunted City, more captive than ever. Losing him and the Change was a double blow.

“You can’t keep us here forever,” she said to Highson Sparre as he approached her with another length of charmed twine.

“It is not our intention to,” said the Syndic. “Once you have demonstrated that you can behave responsibly, your case will be reconsidered.”

“How long will that take? Months? Years?”

“That depends entirely on you, my girl.”

Shilly stiffened as the twine went around her throat, but she felt no obvious effect. As Highson Sparre’s hands fell away, he explained: “Your binding will only activate if you attempt either to access the Change or to come too close to Sal. You are currently at about the minimum distance. I’d advise against going any closer.”

She ran a finger around the twine, prompting a warning tickle. It was tight but not uncomfortable. The knowledge of its purpose was far worse than its physical presence.

“You will return to your normal schedule as of tomorrow,” said the Syndic, standing between and in front of them. “For the first few weeks, you will be under severe probation. Your every move will be monitored. We will not allow a repeat of recent history.”

“The only way you can make us behave is by locking us up,” said Sal. “Is that really what you want?”

“Is that really what you want?” the Syndic shot back. “It’s about time you started taking responsibility for your own actions, Sal. You can’t blame us for everything.”

Sal’s face reddened. Shilly thought that the Syndic had finally done it: she’d finally cracked Sal’s reserve. After all the times his family—on both sides—had worked against him, lied to him or been blatantly rude to him, she had rarely seen him lose his cool. He would defy them and resist them, perhaps even hate them, but his actions spoke louder than his words. At times when Shilly would have been shouting, he had merely fumed.

But not now. He looked as though he was about to explode. Veins stood out on his forehead, and tendons bulged in his neck.

He didn’t say a word. He just spat at his great-aunt’s feet, as the golem had done three days earlier. Shilly felt a rush of affection for him, then. She admired his control and his determination; she envied his ability to strike back without looking immature. And the look of outrage on the Syndic’s face told her that the gesture had hit home. He had achieved what words could not: expressed his utter contempt for her, with one simple gesture.

The thought that this was the closest Shilly would ever get to Sal for a very long time was like a blow to the heart.

“Take him away from me,” the Syndic growled, waving at the attendants. “I don’t want to see him again until he’s learned some respect. And you—” The woman’s attention was suddenly directed at Shilly, aimed along one shaking finger as though a bolt of lightning was about to launch from it. “Don’t think, girl, that you have friends here because your sentence has been commuted. Dragan is soft, and it is his right to be. But I hold the whip he commands. I wield the axe hanging over your neck. Give him a reason to regret his lenience, and you will feel my wrath unchecked.”

On that, the Syndic turned and swept away, closely followed by Ranan Mierlo and Highson Sparre. Shilly’s attendants motioned that she should leave with them, and she had no choice but to do as she was told. Sal had already left, and she didn’t know when she would see him again. There would be no rescue. Lodo could only sacrifice himself once for her.

Twice, she corrected herself as the attendants took her out of the hall and into the corridors. The earthquake, first, and then the golem. No one had ever done so much for her; not even Sal. There was no one left to help her.

Not that she had ever relied on anyone else’s help to get through life. Lodo had been like a father to her, as well as a teacher, but he hadn’t got her through School, where being an outsider was considered the perfect excuse for ridicule and abuse. He hadn’t helped her in her early battles with Kemp, when Kemp had tried to project his own vulnerability onto her. He hadn’t been there in Ulum, when she had been forced to reconsider what she wanted, and how she was going to get it.

All she had wanted, in the end, was control over her life—the chance to be herself, to find out who Carah was—and now she had less control than she’d ever had. But she hadn’t voluntarily given it away. She hadn’t sold herself short, and it wasn’t too late, really, for things to change. She had the rest of her life ahead of her. Unless she made a mistake, like Sal’s mother, she might still find a way to escape.

Her attendants locked her in her room, and she sat on her bed, unsure what to do next. There was an oil lamp burning on the desk and a dark rectangular patch on the wall where the mirror had once been. It was the same room she had always been in, but for that.

She looked up at the grille in the ceiling. They had never mentioned Skender’s midnight excursions to anyone, not wanting him to get into trouble, but the wardens had taken the precaution of bolting it shut anyway. Not that she could have reached it. Her injured leg was still far too inflexible to allow her to climb. But knowing that that last avenue of escape was closed made her feel even more trapped.

There was a book on the bed. She picked it up and read the title: Elementary Principles of Transmutation. She opened it and flicked through the pages. The topic was a new one, something she’d heard advanced pupils talk about but never before seen or attempted.

A carrot, she thought, to dangle before the donkey.

Or a taunt. You can read about it, but you’ll never use it.

She briefly considered burning it, page by page, but in the end settled on reading it as she waited for dinner. You never know, she thought. When the opportunity came her way to turn Syndic Zanshin’s hair to cobwebs, she wanted to be ready.

Skender heard the news as the nurse took away his and Kemp’s plates.

“That sucks!”

“You were expecting something different?” Kemp asked, folding his hands behind his head and leaning back on the bed with a smug smile on his face. All day, Skender had been trying to determine exactly how much the albino had overheard of his midnight conversation with Luan Braunack, but details came only in the form of sly hints, like this one.

“I guess I didn’t know what to expect,” he admitted, “but that doesn’t mean I have to like it. They’re going to hate being cooped up here.”

“Who could blame them?”

Again Skender noted more than a touch of yearning at the thought of being elsewhere, a yearning he understood all too well. Now that he had decided he wanted to go home, he was keen not to drag his feet.

He lowered his voice so the attendant standing guard over the ward entrance couldn’t hear.

“I wish there was something we could do to help them.”

Kemp didn’t immediately rise to the bait. “Don’t be stupid. You’d end up in as bad a spot as them if you failed.”

“No, I wouldn’t. I’d just be sent home, and I’m leaving anyway. So what if I go a little earlier than expected?”

“In disgrace.”

“As if I care what they think. And that’s only if I get caught. Ideally, we all go home together, as free as fish.” The Strand phrase rolled awkwardly off his tongue, but the familiarity of it helped make his point to Kemp.

“Do you really think that’s likely?” the albino asked.

“I don’t care if it’s absolutely impossible,” Skender said with all honesty. “I have to try. This could be my last chance.”

Kemp shushed him. His voice had risen without him noticing.

“What did you have in mind?”

Skender leaned closer. That Kemp was acting to keep their conversation secret was a good sign.

“First, we have to get out of here.”

“They’re not going to let us go off on our own. They’ll know you’re up to something.”

“Not if we’re careful.” He thought furiously. “Homework. They’ll like that. We can say we need to go to the library, or to my room to get some notes. They’ll want to come with us, but that’s okay. They can’t watch us all the time.”

“And what about you? Are you okay to walk?”

“I don’t know.” He wasn’t game to try. The cuts on his feet were still oozing. “But the less mobile I look, the better.”

“Eh?”

“Who’s going to expect a boy in a wheelchair to get up to trouble? Especially when I’ve got you keeping an eye on me.”

Kemp nodded. “Even so, we’ll only get one shot.”

“That’s all we need.” I hope, he added silently to himself.

They pulled apart and called for the attendant. She seemed dubious at first, but acquiesced in the end. They managed to talk her into letting them go to his room, and she left to get a wheelchair.

“So far, so good,” said Kemp. “When we get to your room, then what?”

“You help me up into the crawlspace.”

“And then?”

“We find Sal and Shilly.”

“And then?”

“We’ll play it by ear, okay?” Kemp’s constant questions were beginning to get on his nerves. “Let’s not jinx it by thinking too far ahead.”

“Right, ’cause planning too much is going to get us caught.” The big albino looked as though he was enjoying watching Skender squirm.

“You don’t have to come with me if you don’t want to.”

“Yes, I do. Someone’s got to be there to pick up the pieces when you fall.”

“I’m not going to fall. I’m—”

“Shh!”

They froze as the attendant returned with the wheelchair. Skender eased himself out of his bed, not really needing to feign a wince as his feet briefly made contact with the floor. His soles felt as though glass was still stuck in the wounds. The slippers he had to put on only made the pain worse, so he held them on his lap. He would need them later.

Kemp took the handles of the wheelchair.

“Right.” Skender pointed imperiously at the door. If Kemp was going to doubt him, he’d be annoying right back. “Onward!”

Skender’s knees and footrest bore the brunt of the impact as they crashed through the door. Kemp put on an impressive turn of speed through the hospital corridors. Skender was determined not to show any sign of nervousness as they rocketed along straight stretches and careered around corners. It was all he could do to keep his hands on the slippers instead of white-knuckled on the armrests.

The attendant called directions after them and followed as best she could out of the hospital and along a short road to a rear entrance to the Novitiate rooms. Skender heard Kemp’s heavy breathing in his ear as they wound their way to the student rooms. Skender’s doorway approached rapidly and Kemp showed no sign of slowing, obviously intending to bring the chair to a sudden halt just as it seemed about to shoot past. A moment sooner, Skender applied the handbrake tucked under one armrest, and almost ended up with Kemp headfirst in his lap.

When they’d stopped laughing, the attendant opened the door to the room and stepped back to let them through. Although he couldn’t see her face, Skender sensed disapproval radiating from her.

“Sorry,” he said. “Homework is no laughing matter. We’ll get to it. Don’t mind us.”

Kemp shut the door behind them and pushed the chair to the centre of the room.

“We’ve come this far,” he whispered. “Are you sure you want to go the rest of the way?”

“Are you?” This question was still bothering him. Kemp hadn’t answered it properly before. “It’s not as if you can push me into the vent then just walk off. You’ll have to come with me, if I go.”

“I know that. I’m not stupid.” The albino looked at him with unnerving frankness. “Look, do you think you’re the only ones the wardens have their eye on here? I thought the Novitiate was going to be somewhere I could get away from Fundelry, from my father. But it’s not. I don’t want to be like him, and I don’t want to be like Tait—pushed around and dragged halfway across the world, then just discarded. There has to be an alternative.”

“Pushing me around instead?”

“Well, it makes a change.” White teeth flashed in a pale grin. “Let’s just do this and see what happens afterward.”

Satisfied, Skender nodded. “A man after my own heart. Okay, move the desk. Quietly!”

Kemp rearranged the furniture, firstly to block the door, and secondly so they could reach the grille. Skender put his feet into the slippers and gingerly stood. Gritting his teeth, he climbed onto the table and let Kemp boost him up. He experienced a moment’s hesitation as he hooked his elbows on the edge. The second-last time he had gone into the crawlspaces, he had watched Radi Mierlo die. This time, he reminded himself, the golem was safely out of the way, and it was the people who walked openly in the halls he had most cause to be wary of.

With a grunt, he hauled himself into darkness. When he was safe, he turned and offered his hand to help in return.

“It’s okay. I can do it.” Kemp followed easily despite his large frame, swinging his legs up and over and promptly banging his head on the low roof above. “Ouch! And phew. Someone needs to look at their housekeeping.”

“Quiet.” Skender heard a thump from below. The attendant was trying the door. “Quick—the grille!”

They put the grille back where it belonged and peered nervously into the room, not daring to make a sound.

The cupboard blocking the door rocked, then was scraped backwards into the room. The black-robed attendant squeezed through the widening gap, followed by another figure in grey. They looked around the room. The attendant cursed.

“They’ve gone,” snarled the figure in grey. “You should have been more careful.”

The voice was familiar. Skender’s suspicions were confirmed when the man looked up at the grille. Shom Behenna. Skender felt for an instant as though the ex-warden could see through the grille, just as the golem had after killing Radi Mierlo—see through the darkness to where he and Kemp crouched motionless, holding their breath—but that was impossible. A second later, Behenna’s gaze slid aside.

“We’ll find them,” said the attendant, the picture of contrition and anxiety. “I’ll sound the alarm, get everyone out in force.”

“No,” said the ex-warden. “I can guess where they’ve gone. Come with me. I know what to do.”

The two left the room in a whoosh of robes.

“Now what?” hissed Kemp.

“We crawl—quickly!” Without waiting to argue, Skender set off along the familiar path through the crawlspace to Sal’s room. It was closest and bound to be the first place Behenna would go. The ex-warden wasn’t stupid.

Skender crawled as fast as he could. He found it less painful than walking would have been, since the majority of the deepest cuts were on the bottom of his feet. Kemp gamely followed, larger and therefore more restricted in the cramped spaces, but uncomplaining. He didn’t say a thing as Skender navigated through the strange forest of upward-pointing shafts of light and its only inhabitants: dead mice.

Skender warned Kemp to be quiet as they neared Sal’s room. Hardly breathing, he leaned over the grille. There was no sound from within, only a faint yellow glow from a lamp similar to that in Skender’s room. By its light he could see that the room was empty.

“He’s gone,” whispered Kemp in his ear.

“More than that.” Skender peered closer. “His bag’s gone as well.”

“What does that mean?”

“I don’t know. Maybe they’ve moved him.” He pulled back. “Let’s get to Shilly, see if she knows.”

More dusty scrambling took them to Shilly’s room. The same yellow glow greeted them, but this time the room wasn’t empty. Shilly was lying on the bed, reading a book.

“Shilly!”

She jumped and sat up. Her face was a brown oval as she squinted at the grille. “Skender? Is that you?”

“No, I’m a ghost-mouse and I want your cheese. Of course it’s me!”

“What are you doing?” She slithered off the bed and picked up her crutch.

“We’ve come to rescue you,” he said, reaching forward to lift the grille out of its hole. “We—uh.” He stopped when the grille didn’t budge. “Hang on.”

She didn’t look surprised. “It’s bolted in place.”

“Maybe Kemp can work it loose. He’s stronger than me.” Skender shifted aside so the albino could get better leverage.

“Kemp’s there, too?”

“He helped me escape.” Kemp strained at the grille. It warped slightly, but still didn’t come free. “This isn’t going to be as easy as we thought.”

“That’s stating the obvious,” muttered the albino.

“Listen, Shilly,” called Skender back down the hole. “You have to be careful. We’ve just come from Sal’s room. He’s not there, and neither is his pack. They must have moved him. If we don’t know where he is, we can’t get him out.”

“How are you going to get him out even if you can get to him?”

“I don’t know.” Skender searched his memory for anything that might help. Charms to soften bolts, dissolve rock, or create deceptive illusions all existed, but he didn’t have Shilly’s knack of putting them into effect. Neither did he have Sal’s sheer talent behind him. Most of the obvious methods were beyond him.

“Hold on, Shilly,” he said. “We’ll think of something.”

The lock on her door clunked. She backed nervously away as the door opened and an attendant walked in. Just one attendant. There was no sign of Behenna.

“Get your things,” said the attendant. “You’re being moved.”

“What if I don’t want to be moved?”

“That’s irrelevant. You can’t stay here.”

“What are you going to do if I refuse? Carry me?”

“If necessary, yes.”

Skender was so focused on the discussion below that he almost didn’t hear the noise from behind them, a slight scrape followed by a thump. He looked up, suddenly not interested in whether Shilly or the attendant won the argument.

“Did you hear that?” Skender whispered.

“Not a thing,” came the reply. “You’re just—”

White light blossomed around them. Skender glimpsed four bright light-sources surrounding them before his eyes automatically squeezed shut. Behind them crouched half-seen figures. The Change swirled as thick as panic in the crawlspace.

Sky Wardens!

Or something very much like it, he corrected, as he grabbed Kemp’s arm and headed for a gap between two of the lights. Blinded and disoriented, their only chance was to try to crawl out of the wardens’ clutches, even if that chance was overwhelmingly small. Voices shouted; hands clutched at him and he dodged aside barely in time. A muffled curse followed him. The adults were restricted by their size, but they could see while he couldn’t. There had to be something, he told himself, that would even the scales a little.

A memory came to him: an intricate pattern of U-shaped curves. He grasped at it and forced it into shape. Summoning every skerrick of the Change he had—defying every rule that told him he couldn’t do what he was about to do, because he was on the wrong side of the Divide—Skender flung the pattern out into the world. And it worked. The charm took hold, bent reality to his will.

A strong, curling gust of wind swept around him with a noise like a moan. The charm Atilde had shown him on their first morning in the Novitiate was supposed to send refreshing breezes along corridors and through enclosed rooms. Skender wasn’t Sal, but with so much desperation behind it the charm created something more like a miniature hurricane in the crawlspace. The wind whipped up centuries worth of dust, clogging eyes, nostrils and throats and prompting a chorus of coughs. Skender hadn’t had time to warn Kemp. The albino floundered, choking, but Skender found Kemp by feel and, breathing carefully through the top of his tunic, pulled him out of the circle of wardens.

The coughing and shouting fell behind them. Skender’s first thought was to head back to his room, knowing the way by memory, but he assumed that there would be more wardens waiting for them there. Recalling the path he had followed to the library, he set off in that direction instead, avoiding obstacles by feel until the dust storm was well behind and he could open his eyes again.

“Are you all right?” he whispered to Kemp.

“I’ll live,” came the hoarse reply. “Probably.”

“I couldn’t warn you. It was the only thing I could think of.”

“That’s okay. I forgive you, even if my lungs don’t.”

“I don’t know how long it’ll hold them up.”

Behind them, the shouting had turned to anger when the wardens had realised that their quarry had escaped. The cries were louder. Skender couldn’t tell if they were also getting closer.

“Where are we going?” Kemp asked as they slithered over the top of a stone wall protruding into the ceiling.

“I can take us to an exit. We can leave the Novitiate that way, if it’s not guarded. Once we’re in the city, it shouldn’t be hard to get to the caravan unnoticed.”

“What about Sal and Shilly?”

That question nagged at him for the small eternity it took him to answer. “I don’t know. There’s nothing we can do for them right now.”

“That’s what I thought, too. I just wanted to make sure you agreed.”

The darkness pressed in as they hurried on. The shouting had stopped, which Skender took as a sign that the chase was continuing. He told himself not to worry as he led Kemp across the uneven and occasionally unsafe ceilings. It was going to work out all right. Things always did. They could move faster through the crawlspaces because they were smaller and knew exactly where they were going. They hadn’t actually done anything wrong, so even if they were caught the consequences wouldn’t be too severe. And even if Behenna or one of his cronies did try anything stupid, Skender’s father would soon hear, and someone would pay dearly.

The silence from behind them grew thicker, more ominous, and his anxiety mounted. There was just him and Kemp and a number of unknown pursuers. There were no witnesses. Anything could happen to them and no one would know. His father might actually believe that he had taken a wrong turn while exploring and broken his neck in a fall. The fear that he might have inadvertently put himself in very real danger began to suffocate him more than the darkness and close confines of the crawlspaces ever had.

They came to a Y-junction of three long, cluttered roofs where they were able to stand. Pipes, chimneys and knee-high brick walls filled the ways ahead. Skender paused to catch his breath and instantly regretted it. A rush of previously ignored aches and pains clamoured for attention. The gashes and cuts all over his body stung in a discordant chorus. All he wanted to do was curl up into a ball and hide.

“Which way?” Kemp whispered, his dusty face almost invisible in the blackness.

Skender shook his head. He was confused and tired. For the first time in his life, his memory let him down. Neither fork of the Y-junction looked familiar. He didn’t remember coming this way at all.

“I don’t know,” he said, fighting the frustration aching at the back of his throat.

“I guess we’ll just pick one at random, then.”

“No, wait. I’ll remember. I have to. That’s what I do.”

“Take it easy.” Kemp shushed him. “It’s no big deal. Okay?”

“It’s not okay.” He forced himself to be calm. Just because they were trapped in the dark, hunted by an unknown number of people and suddenly forgetting things, that was no reason to panic.

He desperately considered the two ways. Both looked completely unfamiliar, yet he knew he had come this way before. He must have. As he fought to find a single landmark he recognised, he realised that he hadn’t just forgotten which way to turn. The mental map of the entire route to the library was gone too.

After the death of Radi Mierlo, he had wished that he could forget. Then, in the Void Beneath, he had learned a very good reason to be glad he couldn’t. Why now, when he really needed to remember, was his wish being granted?

A wave of dizziness rolled through him. He felt as though the world had shifted beneath him without him noticing, picking him up and placing him somewhere completely different, somewhere strange and unknown. Losing his memory was like losing a part of him. It was something on which he had relied completely all of his life. What if more had gone without him noticing? What else was missing from his mind that he would never know about until he needed it and it wasn’t there? Losing his memory was beginning to feel like the perfect reason to panic.

He sat down on an exposed beam. Despair rolled through him. It was all too hard. He couldn’t do anything to save himself, let alone Sal and Shilly. Who was he kidding? He was just a kid. The Weavers or the wardens or whoever was chasing them would always win in the end. If they weren’t caught, he and Kemp would get lost and end up like the mice, two dusty skeletons slowly decaying into dust.

It suddenly seemed so simple. They were doomed.

“Skender?” A face loomed at him out of the gloom, white hair and skin not completely hidden by thick smudges of dirt. “Skender, are you all right?”

He blinked in surprise. “Who are you?”

“Quit fooling around. Sitting here isn’t doing us any good at all. I think we should get out of here and find the exits the normal way. They can’t watch every passage, can they?”

Skender stared at the dirty shadow in absolute confusion.

“Who can’t?”

“What are you talking about? The wardens, of course!”

“What wardens?” He looked around. “Where are we? What’s going on?”

The face backed away slightly. “Skender, something’s wrong. This isn’t right.”

Skender agreed completely. He was tired and he was sore. “What’s happened? I don’t remember.”

“I’ll explain later.” A big hand grabbed his arm out of the gloom. “You have to come with me. We’ll pick a way at random. As long as we keep moving—that’s the important thing. We can’t wait here any longer.”

Skender resisted as the strong hand pulled him to his feet. A terrible disorientation filled him. “Not until you tell me who you are and where we’re going!”

“Quiet, Skender. We don’t want them to hear.”

“Too late,” said a voice from Skender’s left. “Don’t move. You’re not going to surprise us, this time.”

It was like a flashbulb going off in his head. The prickly suspicion that something wasn’t right became an absolute certainty. Suddenly everything was clear again. He knew where he was and what he was doing. He knew who had spoken and what it meant. A charm had been laid on him to make him forget. The effects had built up slowly so he wouldn’t notice them. While he had stood, frozen and indecisive at the junction, the wardens had caught up with them.

He and Kemp stood back to back, trying to find their pursuers in the darkness. All they saw were shadows, but that didn’t mean the wardens weren’t there. They could easily have been camouflaged. They wouldn’t have revealed themselves by speaking, unless—

Skender felt like a fool for the second time in a minute.

The wardens wouldn’t have revealed themselves unless the forgetfulness charm had begun to fail. A simple thrown voice could hold the fugitives in place long enough for the wardens to catch up properly. If that was the case, then the shadows really were empty, and he and Kemp were gawping like fools as the wardens closed in on them.

Grabbing Kemp by the arm, he turned and ran down the junction to the right, the one he now remembered. A shout rang out. He ducked as something black lashed out of the darkness. Whatever it was, it struck Kemp’s shoulder instead. The albino stumbled forward, tearing at it. Skender tried to help him. The thing looked like a bat—all webbed wing and hook-like claws—but it had no central body. Skender pulled at it, wondering if it was really alive. It came away with a ripping sound just as two more passed narrowly over them, unfolding like vicious little umbrellas designed to tangle in their hair and clothes.

Skender helped Kemp to his feet, then felt himself being pushed away.

“Run, Skender! I’ll hold them back.”

“Don’t be an idiot. I can’t leave you here.”

“I’m not an idiot, and you will. Get!”

Kemp gave him another shove that sent him stumbling across fragile beams. Skender staggered into something soft that hadn’t been there before and felt an arm go across his throat.

“Got you!” crowed a voice in his ear.

“No, you haven’t.” Reflexes honed by years of play-fighting with older students came to his rescue. He dropped and twisted with one movement, forcing the warden holding him to grab tighter. At the same time, Skender hooked one leg around an unprepared knee and pulled hard. The warden lost his balance with a grunt of annoyance and crumpled backward. Skender was dragged with him, still pinned by the arm around his neck. They hit the roof with a dusty crash.

Annoyance became alarm as the ancient wood gave way beneath them and they fell through. There was a horrible moment of freefall during which Skender wondered frantically where they were in the Novitiate. If they were over the dining hall, the fall could easily kill them both.

They landed in a corridor, warden-first, after a three-metre drop. Skender felt the air explode out of his attacker and the grip around his throat go limp. He clambered unsteadily to his feet, brushing splinters and cobwebs out of his eyes. By seemingly bright mirror-light the corridor was empty. The warden didn’t move.

“Kemp, hurry!” he called into the ragged hole above him.

“—can’t!” came the muffled reply. “Got me!”

The ceiling shook, raining dust. Kemp’s voice was cut off by the sound of fighting. Skender stood frozen, unable to tell what was going on or to help his friend. A cry of pained defeat from Kemp suggested that running might be a good idea, but it wasn’t until black-clad legs slipped through the hole that Skender saw the wisdom behind it.

Pausing only to yank on one of the legs, bringing the attendant down in an ungainly heap, he fled. Angry curses followed him, but it was some seconds before the downed attendant set off in pursuit. Skender used those seconds to his best advantage, taking the first two turns he came to and putting as much distance behind him as possible. Ignoring the tearing pains in his feet, he ran for his life, too afraid to look behind him, half-expecting a hand on his tunic at any moment. With breath sobbing in his throat, he followed familiar landmarks to the only possible sanctuary he could think of.

The double doors of Master Warden Atilde’s windowless office were open. Skender skidded between the two attendants guarding them, yelling for help. Atilde was inside, bent over a wide desk that hadn’t been there the first time he had seen the room. Her hat rested to one side. Her pale, translucent face looked up at him in unconcealed surprise.

“Skender? What on earth—?”

“Help me!” he gasped, running to put her between him and the door. “They’re after me. They got Shilly and Kemp—and Sal too, I think.”

“Easy, boy.” She made urgent soothing motions with her gloved hands. “Who is after you? Tell me, quickly.”

Hurried footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. “Behenna and the others,” he said, swallowing. “The Weavers, I think.”

“You think? What makes you think that?”

“Mage Braunack,” he stammered in his haste to explain. “She was with him. I saw them. She said—” His suspicions sounded stupid in the face of her glassy stare. He had so little to base them on. “She said she was an interested party.”

“Did she, now?”

There was no time to say anything else. Master Warden Atilde straightened to face the door as someone walked through it.

That someone was Shom Behenna.

“I see,” she said with a voice that could have turned steam to snow.

The ex-warden came to a halt in the middle of the room.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking nervous. “They were more trouble than I expected.”

“Obviously,” Atilde replied. “I hope you haven’t left too much of a mess behind, otherwise everything will be undone.”

He shook his head. “It’s being cleaned up as we speak.”

“Good.” Atilde looked down at Skender, and his heart sank right down to his feet.

“Yes,” she said. “It’s coming together nicely. The time has arrived, at last, to act.”

CHAPTER 19

A POWERFUL NEED

Sal waited anxiously in the small room at the rear of Gram’s house. He had been there for an hour, watching the old lady sleep. She was in the same chair as last time, wearing the same clothes, and might never have moved. Beyond acknowledging him when he arrived, she had done nothing but snore.

When Sal had said that he would like to see her again, he had expected something more than this. The attendants who had collected him after dinner and brought him to her had given him no choice about coming, but that hadn’t concerned him. He’d thought it would distract him from his predicament. In the end, all it had given him was more time to think, and a new fear: that Highson might turn up. He didn’t know what to do if that happened. The attendants were standing guard at the entrance to the house, and the one time he had tried to remove the charm around his neck powerful stabbing pains along his spine and at the base of his skull had encouraged him to stop.

Trapped and abandoned, he waited out the night, wondering what would happen next. It wasn’t just an academic question. If you can see what’s coming, Skender had said, you can take steps to avoid it. That means we can try to avoid the bad and aim for the good. If Skender was right, no matter how bad things looked there had to be a way out. It was just a matter of finding it.

Presumably in the near future someone would come to put Gram to bed, if she didn’t, in fact, sleep in the chair. He assumed he would have to go back to the Novitiate then.

The only thing he had found so far was the trick to the silver, self-playing harp. If he snapped his fingers, its tune changed at random in mid-stream. If he let it play on of its own accord, the melody wandered from tune to tune, following subtle patterns of mood and tone. Some of the tunes he knew, others he attempted to commit to memory before they changed. All of them were beautiful, and just sufficient to keep him from going utterly crazy with inactivity.

Gram twitched and opened her eyes.

“You’re still here,” she said, as briskly as though she had never been asleep. “Don’t you have somewhere else to go?”

“I guess so,” he said. “It’s really not up to me.”

“Of course it is. Everything is.” Gram straightened in her chair as though she’d made her point perfectly well. “He would’ve been Alcaide, you know, but for her.”

“Who?” Sal knew exactly who she was referring to, but any chance of derailing the conversation had to be taken.

“Your father, of course. Would’ve been Alcaide easily.” One withered hand clutched at the arm of her chair. “He was strong, popular, well-placed. It was a certainty he’d be voted in. The only contender was soft and easily manipulated. What was his name?”

Sal shrugged. “Dragan Braham?”

“That’s the one. When Alcaide Mustienes retired, Braham got the job because there was no one else to contest it. Highson had been disgraced.” The old lady sighed, and seemed to deflate in the process. Her hand went limp. “He was a fool to let her go.”

“I don’t think he had much choice,” Sal said with some satisfaction.

“There you go with your choices again.” A spark appeared where just a second before had been only weariness. “Of course Highson had a choice. Don’t you see? You’re a bright boy. Don’t be blinded by what you think you know.”

“I know that there are more important things than being Alcaide.”

Gram’s face split in a surprising grin. “Exactly!” she cackled. “I knew you’d understand.”

Sal wasn’t sure he did, and wasn’t given the chance to find out. The sound of the front door opening and closing, followed by heavy footsteps approaching down the hall, stilled his tongue.

Shilly followed the solid back of the attendant through the streets of the Haunted City, increasingly unnerved. If she had asked once where he was taking her, she had asked a dozen times. The unbroken silence was beginning to worry her more than the consequences of not doing as she was told. What if the golem had broken free from Lodo and taken over the attendant? It could be leading her somewhere nice and quiet to break her neck and toss her body into the sea. And she was following it like a lamb, shivering every time she felt the cold gaze of a ghost pass over her.

They reached the outskirts of the city, where slender glass towers mixed with the exposed rock and dark soil of the rest of the island. Ahead was a deep, ominous darkness. The moon was hidden by clouds. The only sound was the distant whisper of the waves crashing far below.

Enough.

She stopped.

“I’m not taking one more step until you tell me where we’re going.”

The attendant turned. “Don’t argue, girl. I haven’t got all night.”

“Then you’d better be quick.” She folded her arms and stared into the blackness under the hood, wondering why his voice sounded so familiar.

“If you want to see your friends again, you’ll do as you’re told.”

“That’s not a destination. That’s a threat.”

The attendant stepped forward. “You’re trying my patience.”

Before she could think of a fitting response, a new sound broke the night: a rhythmic chugging, growing louder. It took her a moment to place the sound. Something propelled by an alcohol engine was coming toward them out of the darkness.

She and the attendant turned to face the source of the noise. Whatever it was, its headlights were off, making it difficult to see in the dark. It was almost on top of them when a low, angular frame resolved out of the blackness. A buggy ferrying several people was silhouetted against the dark sky, rocking as its wheels dipped and rose over the uneven ground.

The attendant tensed on seeing it, then relaxed. He seemed to have been expecting it.

“You’re late,” he said as Sal’s buggy came to a halt beside them and the engine fell into an idle purr.

“I know, sir, and I’m sorry.” The grey-clad driver of the buggy was suitably chastened—and Shilly couldn’t have been more surprised to recognise Shom Behenna if he’d been wearing a purple jester’s hat and matching tights. “We were held up.”

“Do you have everything?”

Behenna glanced over his shoulder, and nodded. Shilly’s surprise grew in exponential proportions. Balancing on the back of the buggy were Skender and Kemp. Between them leaned Mawson’s top-heavy weight. Both were filthy and looking as apprehensive as she felt. They acknowledged her only with their eyes; waving, even speaking, seemed grimly inappropriate. In their stares Shilly saw fear.

“Did I hear voices?” asked Highson Sparre, easing with a tinkle through the bead curtain separating the back room from the rest of the house.

“Just bringing the boy up to date, Harun.” Gram slapped her bony thighs with satisfaction. “I think you need to have a talk to him about choices.”

“I will, Gram. Don’t worry.” Highson looked at Sal. His expression was concerned. “We have to go now.”

Sal was no longer keen to leave, not if it meant returning to captivity with the man who had put him there. “Do I have to?”

“We don’t have long.”

“For what?” Gram peered up at him suspiciously. “What’re you up to now, Harun?”

Highson glanced behind him, almost nervously. “I can’t explain now, Gram, but I will later. I promise.”

Sal took the only opportunity he had to stall. “Who’s Harun?”

“Harun’s his father,” Gram supplied. “Shifty, talentless layabout. Never amounted to anything.”

“Why do you call him Harun, then?” he asked, pointing at Highson.

“Do I?” she asked, eyes wide and innocent.

“Don’t let her fool you,” said Highson. “She’s more alert than she pretends to be half the time.”

“And a daft old woman the other half.” She settled back into her chair with an amused harrumph. “Take your pick, boy. You’ve got a fifty-fifty chance of being right.”

“I don’t think you’re daft,” Sal said.

“If only Harun and Nu had your good sense, then. Fortunately I’m blessed with sensible grandchildren.” She looked fondly over her shoulder at Highson, then down at Sal. “And great-grandchildren. It all works out in the end.”

Harun and Nu…The phrase caught his attention, reminding him of something that was all too easy to forget. The Syndic’s real name was Nu Zanshin and she was Sal’s great-aunt. That made her Highson’s father’s sister, and therefore Gram’s daughter. Sal couldn’t imagine two people more different than Gram and the Syndic.

Highson cleared his throat. “We really must go,” he repeated. “I’m sorry.”

Gram nodded glumly. “I understand. You’ve got to put him back where he belongs.”

Sal tried but could think of no other means to delay. “I’ll come see you again,” he promised his great-grandmother.

“Perhaps,” said the old woman with a watery smile. “I know I’d like it if you did.”

“Are you all right sitting here?” asked Highson.

“Fine, dear.”

“I’ll be back later to put you to bed.”

She nodded absently, as though already falling asleep.

Sal pushed aside his father’s guiding hand and walked through the house on his own steam. There were two attendants waiting outside. They went to fall in behind Sal and his real father as they headed back to the Novitiate, but Highson stopped when they reached the first corner.

“You two go on ahead,” he said to them. “I’ll walk Sal back myself. I want to talk to him alone.”

The attendants protested, but he was firm.

“What can he do?” Highson indicated the collar around Sal’s neck. “The boy’s not going anywhere without me, I assure you.”

Reassured, the attendants headed off into the darkness. Sal watched them go with a feeling of dread. He was sure his real father’s intention had to be particularly malignant if he didn’t want the attendants to witness it.

When the two black-clad figures had turned a corner, Highson took Sal by the arm and practically dragged him off in a different direction.

“I have to talk to you, Sal.”

“You said that,” he said, struggling to free himself but once again unable to resist his father’s strength. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say.”

“You should. It’s important, and we don’t have much time.” Highson’s grip tightened and they hurried down a side street cloaked completely in shadow. “I need to tell you the truth about me and your mother.”

“You mean there’s more?” Sal couldn’t help his bitterness. “You drove her away from you, then you hunted her down like a dog. You stole her back against her will, and you let her die trying to escape. What else could there be?”

“Plenty.” His real father’s face echoed his anger. “You don’t know everything. You may think you do, but you don’t. And if you don’t talk to me now, you’ll never learn. Can you live with that?”

Sal dug in his heels and managed to wrench himself free. Father and son took a step back and confronted each other, eye to eye but utterly at odds.

“I lived most of my life knowing nothing about her, thanks to you.” A cascade of ugly emotions poured through Sal. He felt his face screwing up in a grimace. “Then you took my father from me as well. Why should I talk to you, you—” He struggled for words. “You murderer!”

He couldn’t read Highson’s expression in the depths of the alley. “Is that what Dafis told you? That I killed your mother?”

“How could he know that? He thought Mum was still alive.”

“Yes, that’s right. He did.” Highson’s voice wavered. “But is that what you think, now? Even though you know I loved her? Would you kill someone you loved?”

“Never—but I’m not you,” Sal spat. “You couldn’t have her, so you drove her to her death. You wanted her all to yourself. You’d rather see her die than let her be happy with me.”

Sal’s voice broke on the last word. The shadow of his father moved closer, and he instinctively lashed out with the Change. There was a bright flash of silver from the band around his neck—and the next thing he knew he was on his hands and knees gasping for breath. He felt as though he had been punched in the stomach.

Highson crouched beside him, one hand on his back. Sal pushed it aside with the last of his strength, and vomited onto the ancient paving stones.

“I’m trying to help you, Sal,” he heard his father say.

“Like you helped my mother?”

“Exactly like I helped her.”

“You admit it, then.” Sal had no energy left to fight him off, even with words. It was all he could do to think. “I’d rather not have your help. I don’t want to end up dead like her.”

“Is that what you think your choice is, Sal? Between fighting me and dying?”

“Give me another one and I’ll consider it.” That was Shilly talking again, and fresh spasms in his gut left him gasping at the thought that she could have died the same way as his mother, for the same reason. But if he had to choose between the ghosts and his real father, he’d take the ghosts every time. At least with them he knew where they stood. All he saw when he looked into his father’s eyes were lies.

There was one other passenger on the buggy. Sitting hunched in the front seat was a small figure wrapped in blankets, listing gently to one side. Shilly knew who it was before Behenna adjusted the blanket and accidentally revealed his face.

Lodo.

But how? And why?

She turned to the attendant beside her. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Tell me now or—”

“Or what?” The attendant shook his head. “Get on the buggy, Shilly. You’ll find out soon enough.”

“I don’t want soon enough. I want now.”

“You’re in no position to make demands.” The attendant pointed at her throat, and her collar squeezed, choking her. “You kids are the bane of my life. The sooner we’re rid of you, the better.”

“Don’t hurt her,” Skender yelled. “Don’t you dare!”

The attendant turned. Shilly sucked in air as the pressure eased.

“I’ll do only what it takes to get this buggy rolling again. Get on, Shilly, or I’ll knock you out and load you up myself.”

She ground her teeth together and did as she was told. Putting her crutch in place first, she levered herself onto the tray behind Skender and Kemp.

“Go on ahead,” the attendant told Behenna. “I want to double back in case we were followed.”

The engine revved to a higher pitch and the buggy accelerated into the darkness, leaving the attendant behind. The voice still nagged at her, but his identity remained elusive.

Skender and Kemp were watching her when she turned her attention forward. Closer to them, she could see that their hands were bound and tied to the tray so they couldn’t make a run for it.

“Do you have any idea what’s going on?” she asked, afraid that she was worse off now than if she had been with the golem.

Skender shook his head. “Atilde’s in on it, whatever it is. She turned us over without a second thought.”

“And they play hard,” Kemp said, showing her a large bruise on one side of his head.

“They are the Weavers,” said Mawson.

“That’s what I thought,” said Skender gloomily.

“Are you sure?” Shilly asked the man’kin.

“As certain as I can be.”

“What do they want?”

“To get rid of the problem.”

“That’s us, I guess,” said Skender.

“Yes.”

The flat affirmative sent a wave of nausea through Shilly. She had wondered when the Weavers would step in to fix the situation, but she had never dreamed that imprisoning them wouldn’t be enough, that the Weavers would kill them, thereby erasing the situation completely. It didn’t seem possible. It couldn’t be.

But as the buggy trundled on, it became apparent that they were heading for the crack in the island’s uninhabited headland through which they had been rescued from the catacombs. The cavern-riddled bones of the Haunted City were the perfect places to dispose of potentially incriminating bodies: hers, Lodo’s, Skender’s, Kemp’s, Mawson’s…

There was one missing.

“Where’s Sal?” she asked, gripping Skender’s arm.

“His room was empty, remember?”

They got him first, she thought with bleak finality. If Mawson was right, the chances were good that he was already dead, his body lying broken on some underground rock or drifting out to sea with the tide.

“Sal is on his way,” Mawson said, prompting a surge of relief as powerful as it was short-lived. “His father is charged with bringing him.”

The buggy jerked to a halt. Shilly considered running, but knew she wouldn’t get far over the rocky ground with one good leg. Her only hope was to make a break for it when Skender and Kemp were also free. If they could overpower Behenna together they would have a chance.

The ex-warden was thinking along the same lines. He motioned to her. “You first. Come with me.”

Shilly’s body moved without her mind’s volition. Shock had overtaken her senses. She barely resisted as he grabbed her arm and pulled her after him. A black hole in the hillside gaped before them, and the world spun beneath her. Any moment now, she thought, she’d feel a blow to the back of the neck or something equally as crude.

This is it. Goddess, make it quick.

“You’ll never win, Sal.” Highson’s breath was hot in his ear. “You can hate me as much as you like, but you’ll never defeat me. Do you really think you could, with all the might of the Conclave and the Alcaide and the Strand itself behind me? You knew that when I put the charm around your neck—I could see it in your eyes—and there’s even less point fighting now. Or later. You can try to escape if you want to, and I have no doubts you’ll find another way, in time, with similar consequences. But you’ll never truly succeed. I will always haunt you, as long as you live. As you burn out in a blaze of something that might have been glory, but ended up stifled and turned back on itself in frustration, you’ll remember this moment and you’ll wish you’d listened.”

Highson’s voice dropped to an intense whisper. “Hear me out, or die fighting me. For that is surely what will happen. The decision is yours.”

Sal nodded weakly, slumping back onto his backside, powerless throughout. He wanted to fight. All the rage pent up in him was yearning for a way out. If he could reach into his real father’s mind and rip whatever it was he wanted to tell him right out of his thoughts, he would happily do it.

But he couldn’t. He was helpless with the charm around his neck. Part of him wanted to deny Highson his confession or whatever it was he was looking for. Another part wanted to hear what he had to say and get it over with. Highson was obviously the one haunted, not Sal. If he could just get it out, maybe he would leave Sal alone.

If someone’s throwing stones at you, Lodo had once told him, don’t throw a bigger stone. It’s always better to make them not want to throw stones at all.

“All right,” he said, “let’s finish this. Tell me what you want me to hear and get out of my way. I want to go back to my room—anywhere away from you.”

“I didn’t kill your mother,” Highson said. “I loved her.”

“You keep saying that—”

“Because it’s true, Sal. She was so easy to love. So beautiful, so full of life. When she said she wanted to leave me, I was grief-stricken. I’ll admit that I didn’t know what to do. I had hoped that she would come to feel the same for me as I felt for her, in time, but her betrayal of me made me see that this would never happen. I couldn’t live with a woman who was in love with my friend’s journeyman, no matter how discreetly we maintained our affairs. But how could I let her go when her family and mine forbade the divorce?”

“So you hunted her down when she escaped,” Sal said, “and you dragged her off against her will. You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

“How do you know it was me?”

“What? Of course it was you.”

“But how do you know?”

“Lodo said you led the sweep across the Strand when they first escaped. He was here, he said, when it happened.”

“That’s right, he was. And what else? Did Dafis tell you anything about me?”

“He said that you took my mother from me.”

“Did he say how he knew it was me?”

“No.”

“Unless he actually saw me, how could he be so certain?”

Sal shook his head, not wanting to get bogged down in a meaningless discussion over who said what. “What difference does it make?”

“All the difference in the world, Sal, because it wasn’t me. It was my aunt. The Syndic.”

Sal vividly remembered the power of Nu Zanshin’s all-seeing eye when it had scoured the Strand for him. “So? That’s the same thing.”

“It’s not. Don’t be an idiot, Sal. Think!” There was so much urgency and hurt in Highson’s voice that Sal could only listen, transfixed as his real father explained. “Seirian and Dafis loved each other as much as I loved Seirian, if not more. I could see that. They were determined to be together despite the ruling of everyone involved. Such defiance was destined to cause trouble. It was always going to end in disaster, whichever way it went. I decided that I wouldn’t contribute to it. I wouldn’t put her through hell on my account. My happiness was secondary to hers.

“I heard about their plan to escape. They had friends who stole a buggy and planned to smuggle them out of the city on a supply ferry. I aided them without them knowing, using my contacts to make sure they weren’t seen at either end. I helped them, Sal. I didn’t get in their way. The search party, yes, I led that—but I had to in order to hide my complicity in their escape. I did everything I could to lose the scent. I let them get away. I allowed them a life together.

“Or so I thought.” Highson hung his head. “That should have been the end of it. I didn’t reckon on the power of revenge. My aunt was humiliated by the whole affair. That I had lost the stomach for politics only rubbed salt in the wound. She maintained the chase, and she succeeded where I had deliberately failed. She snatched Seirian from the man you call your father, and robbed you of a mother. She brought back to me the woman I loved—the woman I had hoped never to see again, although I longed for her with all my heart.

“You can guess the rest. Returned against her will, Seirian never believed that I willingly let her go, although I think she knew at the end how I felt for her. She gave me the letter for you knowing I wouldn’t betray her. And I never did—although I wish I had, now, since what killed her almost caught Shilly, too. Seirian’s death was a tragic accident I would happily give anything to undo, including my own life. She died alone, with neither the man she loved nor her child by her side. My part in that tragedy wasn’t as great as the Syndic’s, but guilt still consumes me. I am trying to atone for it now, Sal, if you’ll only let me.”

Sal couldn’t move. Stronger than any physical blow was the shock he felt at Highson’s words. It couldn’t possibly be true.

Yet…Of course Highson had a choice, Gram had said. He was a fool to let her go.

“I don’t believe you,” he said.

“Still? What do I have to do to convince you?”

A nervous tremor ran through him. “If it was true, you’d let me go.”

Highson reached behind Sal to touch the collar around his neck. With a faint sigh, it loosened and fell away. “Exactly.”

Sal felt as though a weight fell off him with it. The Change rushed back in, buoying him up. He rocked back on his haunches. His real father stared at him from the shadows, silently awaiting his reaction.

The blow didn’t come. Slowly Shilly realised that Behenna was talking to her, not killing her.

“Look down. Shilly, listen to me. Look where I’m pointing. There’s a ladder. See it?”

She blinked. In the faintest gleam of moonlight through the clouds she could make out the top of a rope ladder that hadn’t been there before, attached to bolts fixed securely to stone. “I—I see it,” she stammered.

“Climb down while I untie your friends. Tell them down there that I need help up here. We’ll have to winch Lodo down.”

She gaped like a fool at him. “What?”

“He can’t very well climb in his condition, can he?”

Shilly looked back at the buggy, at where Lodo’s withered body sat hunched in the passenger seat, and shook her head.

“You’re not going to kill us?”

Behenna snorted and pushed her toward the ladder. “Get going before I lose my patience.”

Numbly, she did as she was told. One step at a time, with her crutch slung over her shoulder and the pain in her leg a constant reminder that she was still alive, she descended toward a faint light glowing at the bottom.

CHAPTER 20

THE POWERFUL SOLUTION

Skender craned his neck to watch as Lodo’s unconscious body, strapped to a stretcher, disappeared into the hole in the headlands. Kemp had gone ahead to help steady the old man as he descended. Behenna was paying out rope through a series of pulleys and winches, grunting with effort. Skender was still tied in place on the back of the buggy with Mawson. He kept his face as expressionless as the man’kin’s to hide a growing sense of hope that they had received not just a reprieve, but an indefinite stay of execution.

“What’s happening, Mawson?”

“The Weavers are acting.”

“But acting how? What are they doing with us?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On what you decide to do with yourself.”

Skender shook his head. Being irritated and confused by the man’kin was a familiar feeling, but now more than ever he wished it could talk in a straight line.

“Are they going to kill us?”

“No. You still have work to do.”

“What sort of work?”

“Again, that is up to you.”

Behenna had finished winching Lodo down into the hole. He returned to where Skender sat, bound to the buggy. A knife gleamed in his hands.

Skender wasn’t as frightened as he had been the first time that knife appeared, and not just because of Mawson’s words. Behenna had used it to cut Kemp free of his bonds minutes before, and he did the same again now, slicing through the rope holding Skender’s wrists together as though it was cotton.

“You know where to go,” the ex-warden said, indicating the ladder with a jerk of his head.

Skender didn’t waste time in case Behenna changed his mind. Mawson watched him descend backwards down the ladder, expression blank. He didn’t have far to climb, no more than fifty rungs. The familiar light of glow-stones welcomed him at the bottom, and he looked around in wonder, rubbing his chafed wrists. He found himself on the edge of the same tidal pool they had walked around to enter the catacombs with the golem. He hadn’t recognised the scenery from above, at night. The pool Sal had almost drained dry was full again, and gleamed darkly in the light. The white sand was soft beneath the ragged soles of his feet.

The entrance to the catacombs gaped darkly before him under a looming stone overhang. Its twin guardians, centuries dead, reminded him of the twins who had lost their minds in the Void Beneath simply to be together.

“There’s still some way to walk, I’m afraid,” said a voice from the shadows.

He spun around to see Iniga, the Surveyor, moving toward him, a water bottle in one outstretched hand.

“What are you doing here?”

She thrust the bottle into his hands. He sniffed at its contents, but couldn’t detect anything other than water. His mouth, parched from so much nervousness, sang as he quenched his thirst.

“What am I doing here?” Iniga repeated, her beaded hair rattling softly. “Exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. Examining the Ruin you found. That’s the official story, anyway.”

Someone else emerged from the tunnel entrance behind them. Skender wiped his forearm across his lips as he recognised Luan Braunack, slightly flushed in the face.

“Whew,” she said, breathing heavily. “That’s a long hike.”

“You too?” he asked, a feeling of unreality creeping over him.

“Alas, yes.” She indicated the tunnel mouth. “Give me a moment to recover and I’ll walk you down.”

The bottom of the rope ladder had begun to dance. All three of them looked up to see who was coming. Skender assumed it would be Behenna, so was surprised to see the black robe of an attendant instead.

“Any signs of pursuit?” asked Braunack.

“Not yet.” The attendant—the same one who had met the buggy on the road out of the city, with Shilly—shrugged off his hood.

Skender’s eyes bugged. Beneath was none other than the Alcaide.

“I’ve received a high-level alert from the Novitiate,” he continued. “The children have been missed. They’ll be searching the city as we speak.”

“How long until they come here?”

“I have no idea. But the sooner this ridiculous charade comes to an end, the better. What’s wrong, boy?” Alcaide Braham growled in response to Skender’s stunned expression.

“N-nothing,” he stammered. He felt as though whole chunks of his mind were shutting down, one by one—giving up trying to make sense of things and quietly going to sleep.

With a bad-tempered snort, the Alcaide headed off down the tunnel.

Skender turned back to Iniga and Mage Braunack.

“Shom didn’t tell you what we’re doing here, did he?” asked the mage.

He shook his head.

“Good. He was under strict instructions not to talk to anyone where he might be overheard. Now we know we can trust him, we’ll leave him here to watch the entrance. Give it five minutes, Iniga, then follow us down.” Braunack took a long drink from her water bottle. “Okay, Skender, we’d better get moving. I’ll tell you the rest on the way.”

She guided him into the tunnel mouth, and he let himself be led.

Occasional glow-stones illuminated sections of the passage, welcome sanctuaries that approached too slowly and fell all too quickly behind. The fear with which he had last walked this route returned to him unbidden—and perhaps, he was beginning to consider, unwarranted.

“Can you guess why we’re here?” the Mage Braunack asked him.

His mind worked. There was only one possibility he could think of. “You’re opening the Way into the Golden Tower?”

“That’s half-right,” she said. “The Golden Tower will remain sealed forever, I hope. This time, your destination will be somewhere much safer.”

“Where?”

“That’s up to you and your friends.”

“You’re letting us go?”

“More than that. We’re setting you free.”

Skender stared at the mage with what he was sure was a dumb expression on his face. He couldn’t tell in the dim light whether the mage was telling the truth or not.

“Who are you?” he asked. “Not you. All of you: Iniga, the Alcaide, Atilde, Shom Behenna…” He trailed off, not knowing how far the conspiracy went.

“You know what we’re called,” she said.

“The Weavers?”

“Yes. But we’re not what you think we are. We’re not a secret society that controls everything in the Strand and the Interior. We don’t breed superior stock to fuel the Conclave and the Synod. We don’t compete for mastery over the Change. Is that what you’ve heard?”

He admitted that it was, pretty much. “Some people think you don’t exist.”

She laughed softly. “That’s the beauty of rumours. You hardly need to spread them. They form on their own. The truth, as always, remains hidden.”

“What is the truth?”

“The opposite of everything you’ve heard,” she said. “We do exist. We don’t control anything that happens in the Strand or the Interior, although we do have influence, here and there. We don’t breed people like cattle, and we have no interest in increasing tensions between the Interior and the Strand. Quite the reverse, in fact. Much of our work is involved in keeping friction to a minimum. Can you tell me the last time there was a war between the Interior and the Strand?”

Skender shook his head. “I don’t like history.”

“Good. Perhaps that’s because it’s been boring for the last few centuries. And you can thank us for that. The Interior and the Strand used to fight all the time. Coast-huggers wanted minerals and space; desert-mongers wanted fish and water. Huge wars were fought over access to resources but, more often than not, masqueraded as conflicts over ideology. The Broken Lands are just one consequence of that war. The two nations grew spiritually as well as physically apart, until they became fundamentally—some would say artificially—opposed in all things. Those were terrible times.”

“What happened? Did someone win?”

“No,” she said, “the Weavers stopped the fighting. They created the Divide to physically separate the two nations. They encouraged the diverging philosophies of Sky Warden and Stone Mage to ensure that people would never compete for the same repositories of Change. They promoted trade instead of raiding parties. They influenced the mingling of bloodlines to blur the boundaries of race that ever undo the best attempts at diplomacy.

“They knew, though, that without conflict there is no growth, no change. It doesn’t have to be progress; change is an end unto itself. The first Weavers tried to set up a system wherein change may occur without tumult—a system of dynamic stability, if you like, not dissimilar to life itself. If either the Interior or the Strand becomes too strong, threatening to dominate and stifle the equilibrium, we have ways of correcting the imbalance. The system of checks and balances persists today—guiding, not controlling, and invisible to all.”

She glanced at him, as though testing his reaction. He was remembering something Master Warden Atilde had told him: It’s amazing to think that we’re still here after all this time, fighting the same battles. He’d thought she was just talking about his father and Lodo. Perhaps not, he realised.

“Do you see why we’re here now, Skender? Do you understand our purpose?”

He still wasn’t sure. “You’re trying to keep the peace?”

“Exactly.” She nodded. “The union of Sal’s parents was intended to unite a Line and a Clan that had never crossed before, thereby creating a new tie between the nations. No one could have predicted how badly it would go wrong. Seirian’s elopement with Dafis Hrvati was a public humiliation for both Strand and Interior—as was Seirian’s capture and subsequent death. That a child was on the loose—potentially one strongly gifted in the Change—didn’t help. There are more than just the Weavers involved in this game, you see. There are families whose pride depends on what Sal will do, whose ‘side’ he will choose. The tug of war between the Strand and the Interior hasn’t been as tense for a long time as it has been in recent months. All our efforts are directed at reducing that tension—and by helping Sal make the choice he needs to make.”

“I thought he already made it, in the Nine Stars,” Skender said. His head was spinning from all the new information. It was all he could do to keep up.

“That decision was forced upon him. With the Syndic at his heels, who wouldn’t have done the same? It was good for him to experience the Interior, however briefly, but he also had to see the other side. The decision to send him here was a harsh but necessary one. Now that he has seen the alternative, what he stands to lose by sticking with that decision, we think he is properly equipped to re-examine that decision. Our function is to give him the opportunity to do so without hurting anyone in the process.”

“The Syndic wants to keep him here,” he said, thinking through everything he had learned and trying to force it into shape. “Does that mean she’s not one of you?”

“That’s right. She was simply in the right place at the right time, for a while. As was Radi Mierlo and Shom Behenna.”

“For a while,” he repeated darkly, remembering the golem throttling the life out of Sal’s grandmother, and the anger-filled hopelessness of Behenna’s life since the Nine Stars. Any excitement he had felt about potentially escaping drained out the soles of his feet. “You abandoned Behenna when you didn’t need him any longer, and you killed Radi Mierlo. Will you kill me, too, when I’ve outlived my usefulness?”

“You’ll note that Shom is now working for us—for the first time, not as a reward for earlier service. Until now, he has been the Syndic’s unknowing puppet. As for the death of Radi Mierlo, we had nothing to do with that, and I hope we’ll have nothing to do with yours,” said Luan Braunack. “This I vow to you, Skender. It’s true that we no longer needed her, but we neither ordered the golem to murder her nor encouraged it to consider her as a victim. It was an outcome we had not foreseen.”

“Would you have saved her if you had foreseen it?”

Braunack shook her head. “To be honest, probably not. We are not normally in the business of rescuing people, particularly people like her, who don’t make it easy to help them. You must understand that we aren’t puppeteers, pulling strings and making people jump. We use those who are suitable in ways they often do not see, then when they are no longer suitable we let them go. What happens to them then is irrelevant to us—and yes, sometimes they do come to harm, through no fault of our own. Those standing in the spotlight are always the easiest targets.

“Our eyes are set on a goal much larger than individuals. For the most part—except at pivotal times such as these—we don’t even acknowledge individual lives. They get in the way of the bigger picture, the encompassing…”

She trailed off as though searching for a word.

“Aesthetic?” Skender suggested.

“Yes,” she said with a smile. “That’s the perfect word. Thank you. It’s not a plan. There’s no grand finale we’re hoping to achieve. It’s more like life itself, or evolution. The journey is what’s important.”

They walked in silence for a while. Skender’s head was spinning.

“So where do I fit in?” he asked. “You offered me a lift home with you. I don’t need the Way. If I’m here, it must be for a reason.”

“We need you to remember the charm the golem gave you to open the Way. Every potential entrance has a different key, you see, and only you have the key to this one.”

“Why not use another entrance?”

“Because those known to exist in the city are guarded, and it’s very difficult to create new ones. They either form naturally and rarely, or at great cost to individuals. Few today are strong enough to accomplish the feat.” Braunack studied him again. “And you have a choice to make, as well as Sal. Shilly, too. We all do. Everyone touched by this affair has to decide where to go next. It is a time of great upheaval for us all.”

Skender could understand that sentiment. It echoed uncertainties expressed by both Tom and Mawson over their occasional glimpses of the future. Things were shifting underfoot, like sand. He felt as though he was trying to climb to the summit of a particularly steep dune, slipping back two steps for every one he took forward.

“And Lodo?” he asked. “Why is he here? He can’t talk. How will you know what he wants?”

Braunack’s expression was solemn. “We know. Payat Misseri has made his choice many times over.”

“And that is?”

“I can’t tell you. It would be wrong to influence anyone in the decisions they must make.”

“Isn’t that exactly what you’re trying to do, by telling me the truth? Assuming it is the truth, finally,” he added, forcing himself to acknowledge the possibility that he was still being lied to.

Braunack smiled. “I can see you’re nicely paranoid by now. That’s good. You shouldn’t trust anyone too far. Everyone has an agenda, hidden or otherwise, and that includes us. We are setting Sal and Shilly free only in order to maintain the balance between the Strand and the Interior—to preserve the aesthetic. That is our goal. Where a decision will make no difference to the outcome we seek, we allow complete freedom for all those concerned. We only apply coercion or punishment when we have no other choice, and we do it safe in the knowledge that our aim is not an ethical one.”

He shook his head, bothered again by the image of Radi Mierlo, abandoned to the golem because she was no longer necessary. “You’ve lost me again, I’m afraid.”

“The ends justify the means, Skender. That’s all I’m trying to say. Remember that in the years to come, and it might help you sleep at night.”

Behenna was waiting for them at the top of the crack in the earth. Sal found it ironic that the man who had hunted him so doggedly across the Strand and the Interior was now helping him escape from his former masters. Whether the ex-warden was thinking along the same lines, Sal couldn’t tell. The man’s pitch-black features were closed, and his words were curt.

“Are we the last?” asked Highson.

“They’re waiting for you.” Behenna indicated the rope ladder. “I’d move quickly. There are search parties combing the city.”

Highson waved Sal forward. “That didn’t take long. Thanks for the warning. Will you be all right?”

“I’ll manage.”

Sal wanted to say something to the ex-warden, to apologise for what he’d done, but he couldn’t find the words. Instead, before he climbed down, he turned to Mawson, tied securely to the back of the buggy, and asked him instead.

“Are you happy like that? Do you want to come with us?”

“I am content.” Mawson nodded once, perhaps in gratitude at the question. “I have freedom and mobility. They will be sufficient until I am next needed.”

“Will I see you again?” Sal was surprised by sadness at the thought that he might not. Irascible and incommunicative though the strange being was, Mawson had been an interesting companion, and of some help.

“There are an infinite number of futures diverging from this moment,” the man’kin said. “In some of them we will meet; in others we don’t. As time passes, it will become clearer which future you are most likely to inhabit.”

Sal frowned. “Is that a no or a yes?”

“I don’t know, Sal.”

“Well…thanks anyway, I guess!”

Sal couldn’t think of anything else to say. It wasn’t as if Mawson seemed to care much. To something as old and strange as a man’kin, Sal assumed, people flitted by like moths: there one day and gone the next. It was unlikely Mawson would remember him at all, if they ever did meet again.

Without another word, Sal turned and backed down the ladder. His last glimpse of the buggy was as an angular silhouette against the faint glow of the Haunted City. Saying farewell to it was becoming a habit.

He waited restlessly at the bottom as his father followed, unsettled by the thought that the Sky Wardens were already looking for him. The small sliver of beach was deserted. He did his best not to look at the two desiccated bodies swinging silently on either side of the catacomb entrance.

“You know,” said his real father as he dropped from the ladder onto the beach beside him, “this is the only sand anywhere on the island.”

Sal didn’t know how to respond to this. “Really?”

“Unless there are other hidden pockets like this one, of course.” Highson bent down and scooped up a handful of the fine sand. “This was a mountain, once. We and all our works will end up just like it, far in the future. Ground down into dust.”

“Why bother doing anything, then?”

“Because this isn’t the end.” Sand feathered through Highson’s fingers. “Some of this dust may go on to lay down new strata, even further in the future. Those strata may buckle to form new mountains. Our works will return in unknown, unknowable ways. What we call sand or dust is the beginning as well as the end.”

“That reminds me of something Lodo said.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.”

“He said that the beach was unique. It’s not water or earth, but somewhere between.”

“Between beginning and end.” Highson nodded as though that made perfect sense. “Come on. We don’t want them to start without us.”

They hurried into the tunnel, leaving behind the remains of mountains and dead guardians alike. A feeling of anticipation was growing in him. He was being offered a way out of the Haunted City, not just out of the clutches of his great-aunt and the Conclave, who would do everything in their power to bend his talent to their ends. He was being offered his freedom. Not even the memories of what had happened last time he had walked along the gloomy tunnel could get rid of that feeling. If everything Highson had told him was true, he wouldn’t be coming back this way ever again. It was a one-way trip.

Part of him still half-expected it to be a cruel joke—that at any moment the Syndic was going to appear and put him back behind bars.

“There’s one other thing you should know,” Highson said at the halfway point, where a cluster of glow-stones created a relatively pleasant place to take a breather.

Here it comes, he thought. The catch.

“Okay,” he said.

“It’s about your mother.”

“What now?”

“Just that I knew she was pregnant when I let her escape. And I knew the child was mine. I deliberately kept the knowledge from my family because, if they had known, the hunt would have been all the more intense. I couldn’t have deflected them.”

Sal waited for more, but that seemed to be it. “So?”

“So…” By the light of the glow-stones, Highson’s expression was strained. “I knew you were there, Sal. I knew there was a child growing inside the woman I loved. I gave you away, for her sake—and yours, too.”

Sal’s stomach seemed to be sinking faster than he was down the tunnel. “Was it hard?”

“Unbelievably so. Even then I think I had an idea of what you could be, given the chance. But I wouldn’t be there to find out. Your mother was never supposed to be found. No one was ever supposed to know you existed. That was supposed to be the end of it.”

“But it wasn’t.”

“No. And that still feels strange to me. All my life I’ve put thoughts of you from my mind. I couldn’t let myself wonder where you were, what you were doing, what you were like. I couldn’t hope that I might meet you one day, and tell you the truth.” He smiled crookedly. “I certainly never thought I’d be in this position.”

“What position?”

“Helping you escape from my family, and Seirian’s. It’s like the past is repeating itself. I’m losing you again. Only now I’ve seen you, come to know you—my child and Seirian’s—it’s so much harder to let you go.”

Highson trailed off into awkward silence. Sal didn’t know what to say or feel in response. He was more confused about his real father than ever. Just an hour ago he had hated him with a blinding passion. Now they were grieving together over his mother. And only a subtle feeling remained that he still wasn’t being told everything. That, he told himself, was probably just habit.

They walked on down the tunnel, side by side, their pace perfectly matched.

“It’s stupid, I know,” Sal’s real father said, “but sometimes I imagine what might have happened if I’d kept you here, if you’d grown up with me instead of Dafis.”

“I’ve wondered that too,” said Sal. “I might’ve been a completely different person.”

“And my life could have been happier.” Highson offered a slight chuckle, as though attempting to lighten his words. “I like to think that we would have been close, but there’s no way of knowing, now. And there’s no point forcing anything. It’s too late. If I took my chance to keep you here, the second time, I suspect I’d do more damage than good.”

Sal nodded, knowing that second thoughts about Highson would never be enough to counterbalance staying under the Syndic’s thumb.

“You could come with us,” he suggested, somewhat nervously.

“I don’t think you really want that,” Highson said, “although it’s kind to mention it. I couldn’t do it, even if we did both want it. Someone has to look after Gram. Until she dies, I have obligations here.”

Sal nodded, understanding that completely.

“And besides,” Highson added, “I think you’re my chance to redeem myself. Nothing more. If I can’t—couldn’t save your mother, then I can at least save you.”

“So you’re doing it for her, not me?”

“In a sense. Her memory, anyway. And I don’t think that’s unreasonable. I knew her better than I know you.” He half-smiled. “Were my concerns genuinely for you, I would keep you nearby as long as possible. Your great-aunt is quite right, in one sense. You are a great danger to yourself and others, the longer you remain untrained. I don’t think you’ll do anything stupid, out on your own, but I have no guarantees. And I took that risk once already, when I let you go the first time. It is a chance I am still prepared to take. If there are consequences, I will bear them. And if you come back to me a second time, then I’ll know it was for a reason. Wherever she is, I think Seirian would be happy with that.”

“If I was her,” Sal said, “I’d want revenge.”

“Would you really?”

“It’d be tempting.”

“A lot of things are tempting that ultimately lead to harm. Think of the storm you summoned, Sal. Think of the lives it could have disrupted, had it crossed inhabited territories. Who’s to say that Seirian’s revenge couldn’t have been just as dangerous to the innocent around her?”

Sal nodded, understanding what Highson was trying to tell him. The memory of the storm’s ferocity was still vivid, reinforced as it was by the numerous times he’d dreamed about it in recent weeks. When the Change flowed unchecked through him, there was a wild edge to it. He had seriously hurt the Alcaide, the first time he had let it loose, and there had been other occasions on which he had felt it fighting to be freed. He wondered sometimes what would happen if he went too far and couldn’t rein it in. Golems and ghosts weren’t the only things he had to be frightened of.

But he had controlled the outpouring in the face of the ice-creature. Despite his panic and his fear that Shilly had been hurt, he had kept his mind coolly on the charm and let the Change flow only as he wanted it to. It had bucked and fought, but he had contained it. He had had the measure of it, then.

Controlling the Change, though, was just the beginning. As Highson said, the storm could have wandered across vast tracts of the Interior, laying waste to farms and homesteads. That was a consequence of his actions that he hadn’t foreseen and couldn’t control, that stood separate from the Change. Similarly, his grandmother had died partly as a result of one of his decisions, as had the man he called his father. He remembered the moment of pain when he had instinctively reached for the Change to fight his real father in the streets of the Haunted City. But for the charm keeping him contained, Highson Sparre might have joined the roll call of the dead.

So much for self-control, he thought. How many more have to die before I manage to get myself under control?

None, he swore. I’m going to teach myself restraint. I’ll never use the Change against another person again—even if that means never using it at all.

And as for storms…

He stopped then, on the heels of a new thought.

“How did you know about the storm I summoned?” he asked.

Highson cast him an unreadable look. “How do you think I knew about it?”

“Someone must have told you. Was it Shom Behenna?”

“No.”

“My grandmother?”

“Not her, either.”

“But they were the only people there who…” He trailed off into silence, feeling like an idiot. “No. There was Skender’s father, the Mage Van Haasteren. It has to be him. He’s been talking to Mage Braunack ever since we left. He could just as easily talk to you.”

“That’s right, Sal. He told me what you’d done so I would know what you were capable of.”

“He warned you about me?”

“Not in so many words. He advised me to be careful, as did the Alcaide.”

Anger flared in him at the thought that they were all talking about him behind his back. “What would you have done if I had turned on you? Do you think you could have stopped me?”

“I hoped it wasn’t necessary. I took precautions, and I trusted you.”

“What sort of precautions?”

Even as he asked the question, the answer came to him.

The dreams. The dreams of a storm rolling across the wide plains, unstoppable and indefatigable, clouds thick and roiling above, wind tugging him as a wall of water rushing toward him and lightning stabbed from the encroaching darkness…

“The storm is the Change,” Highson said, speaking rapidly, passionately. “It destroys what once was, and sows the seeds of what might be. It simultaneously powers the wheel of life and swings death’s axe; in its nature lie both things. As a result, you cannot wield it without some sort of cost. It is simply not possible. In the case of a simple storm—for a storm is a simple thing when compared to some of the workings of mages and wardens in the past—the cost may not be immediately visible. But try harder, and the consequences are steeper. Perhaps you could have fought your way out of here, as I fought to free Seirian behind the scenes. Perhaps you could be the greatest mage or warden in the World, and finish what you did the day you struck the Alcaide. But what would that solve? Might isn’t the same thing as right, and you have to earn the right to get your way, even more so with the Change than anything else. Using force to get through a wall might leave you buried under rubble, not free. Do you understand?”

“Yes, but—” Sal shook his head, remembering a dream exactly like that he’d had in the Interior, while he was wondering how to escape the Mierlos. Just before he summoned the storm. “But you invaded my mind. You invaded me.”

“People do that every time they talk to you using the Change. Does that bother you? And I swear to you that that’s all I did. All we did, for I didn’t undertake this action on my own. We did it as a group.”

“The Weavers?”

“Yes.”

“You had no right.”

“Didn’t we, Sal? You were immensely powerful, and you were coming right at us, just like the storm. In that sense, you are the consequences of my actions, long ago. When I set you free, I always knew there was a chance you would come back to me, looking for answers.” Highson’s expression was weary and guarded. “You don’t have to be that storm, Sal, if you don’t want. That’s all the dream is trying to tell you. You can just be you for a while, and then decide.”

“Decide what?”

“What you’re going to be, of course.”

What am I going to be? Sal wondered. He had put so much thought into getting away from the Sky Wardens that he had spared little on what came after. He could avenge his mother’s death, somehow, on the ghosts or on the Syndic—but what would that solve? It wouldn’t bring his mother back to him. And what would it make him?

Perhaps he could be a Weaver, like his real father. They had both created storms, one real and one dream. They had both taken steps to mould the future. Perhaps that was what the golem had meant, on the bank of the tide pool, about being afraid of him. Do I dare to be a Weaver, Sal asked himself, just because I attempted it once?

“For now,” he said, certain of only one thing, “I just want to be free.”

“That’s as fine an aspiration as any.” Sal’s real father patted him on the shoulder, and he allowed the intimacy for the moment. “The older you get, the clearer it becomes that there’s no other goal worth aspiring to…”

When Sal emerged from the catacombs with his father, Shilly’s first impulse was to hobble to him in the best imitation she could do of a run, so glad was she to see him alive.

She had taken barely three steps, however, when the collar around her neck sent stabbing, purple fire down her back and into her brain.

She flinched, clutching her head and hissing in agony between her teeth. All conscious thought ceased. She felt as though her skull was being cracked open like a walnut. When it finally subsided, she found herself weak and sweating all over, gasping for breath.

And something had changed. She put her hand to her throat. The collar was gone.

“I’m so sorry,” said Highson. “You came within the minimum distance before I could deactivate the charm. It wasn’t my intention to hurt you, simply to deceive the Syndic.”

Shilly shook her head, still getting used to the idea that Sal’s real father had been on their side all along. The return of the connection to Sal, restored with the removal of the collar, prompted a surge of relief that was as strong in its own way as the pain. Everything was going to be all right, now. Everything was back the way it should be.

Sal approached nervously. She grabbed him and pulled him into a bear hug. She had never been so glad to be close to someone before. They had been separated for only a few hours, but those hours, when they had been the beginning of forever, had been awful. The thought of never seeing him again had been worse than the thought of never using the Change. With him back, she could have both.

If he was startled by the intensity of the hug, he soon recovered. His arms came around her back, and he relaxed into her. He breathed deeply next to her ear, as though smelling her. She panicked briefly about when she’d last had a shower, but reassured herself with the thought that he had experienced her under far worse conditions.

When they pulled apart, everyone was there, watching: Skender, Kemp, Highson Sparre, Stone Mage Luan Braunack, Alcaide Braham, and the Surveyors guarding the newly-found Ruins. The Weavers, she thought, flushing in the unnatural glow of the Change-rich air. The ghost had warned that the closer she got to the truth the more likely it was to be a lie, but as long as those calling themselves the Weavers were helping her she was quite happy to believe it.

She let go of Sal so the Mage Braunack could hand him his pack. She didn’t stop smiling, though. The Golden Tower turned slowly on its side behind them, its mottled surface the most bizarre backdrop she could have imagined.

The Alcaide cleared his throat.

“Don’t misunderstand me,” he said. “I’m not here out of the goodness of my heart. I’m here to put an end to this, once and for all. There’s no doubting your talents and how useful you could be to us, but locking you up is only going to turn a firework into a bomb. And I for one would rather have you explode somewhere far away, where I won’t get hurt.”

Again, thought Shilly, noting the way the Alcaide’s purple-red scar gleamed in the Change-light.

“I’m going to let you leave,” he said, indicating the Way entrance in the wall behind them. The words were welcome, but they came with ill-tempered grace. “I’m also going to do my best to stop pursuit. Nu will suspect, but she will never learn the truth. I’ve done everything I can to frustrate her so far, to make sure you didn’t fit in. She wanted Sal to meet Highson; I made sure the only time available conflicted with your classes. And so on. I’ll continue to confuse her efforts to find out what happened here today. Unless you come back, she will never know.

“If you do decide to return one day, well and good. I won’t stop you. If you don’t return, I can’t say I will be particularly heartbroken. We are not allies, and we will never be friends. That goes for all of you.” The Alcaide’s glower swept over Sal’s real father and the other adults behind him. “Whatever you think you are, whatever you think you’re doing, I am not part of it. Our goals just happen to overlap.”

“We understand, Dragan,” Luan Braunack said patiently. “There are no illusions between us.”

Highson Sparre stepped forward. “Our plan is to reopen the Way so you can use it to get out of the Haunted City. We will close it behind you, ensuring that your destination will be unknown. You can go anywhere you want, provided you know what your destination looks like. The further it is, the better you need to know it. Apart from that, the choice is yours.”

Getting rid of the problem, Shilly thought. Indeed!

“What do you think, Sal?” she asked. “You said we should take a holiday when all this is over. Here’s our chance.”

“I could show you the Keep,” said Skender. “Dad would take you back.”

Sal shook his head. “That’s the first place they’d look.”

“It’s a big place.”

“They’d have the Synod behind them. We would be defying the decision made for us, after all. They’d find us eventually.”

Skender looked disappointed, but he understood.

“Where, then?” asked Highson.

Sal looked at Shilly.

“I know,” she said. And she did know. The right decision burned in her like a psychic brand. What’s more, she suspected that Highson knew too, for why else would Lodo have been there?

Sal nodded. “Lodo’s workshop.”

“In Fundelry?” said Kemp.

“Well, it’s not in Fundelry,” said Shilly. “It’s actually closer to Tumberi, a hundred kilometres away. But the only exit at the moment is near Fundelry, so that’s sort of right.”

“Why would you go back there?”

Shilly glanced at Sal. “It’s a start.”

He nodded. “‘Athim will go home.’ Tom said that earlier. He was talking about Lodo without knowing it.”

“If that’s what you want to do, we can help you.” Highson turned to Skender. “Would you go with them?”

The boy hesitated, then shook his head. “No. I think I’ll go back with Beli Brokate. I’ve had enough adventures for a while.”

Highson nodded, and Shilly turned to face Skender. If they made the decision to open the Way into the workshop, they would be going their separate ways. She might never see him again.

But…Home, she thought, feeling the call of it as strongly as she had when she’d learned that the underground workshop was still intact, the entrance hidden in the sand dunes near Fundelry, impossible for anyone to find but her. Not only did she know it as well as she knew herself, having lived most of her life there, but there were books, and Lodo’s tools, and maps, and all manner of things they might need to teach themselves the Change. They could open another Way somewhere else, one day. They could open a dozen Ways and explore the world from the safety of their new home. The possibilities were endless.

Returning to the workshop would solve all their problems. They would be safe at last.

“Is that your decision?” Highson asked.

Sal looked at Shilly. She agreed without hesitation.

“Skender?”

The boy looked surprised that he had been asked. He swallowed.

“It’s the right thing to do,” he said, “although I’ll miss you both. You know I’ll never forget you.”

Shilly nodded, grateful for Sal’s hand in hers. “It’s not forever,” she said.

“It’ll be never if we don’t get a move on,” snapped the Alcaide. “Behenna has raised the alarm. There’s only so much time we have left.”

Shilly’s heart skipped a beat. “Behenna did what?”

“Don’t worry,” Highson said in a calming voice. “Shom was supposed to do that. You don’t have to be afraid of him any more. It was only a matter of time before the search parties came here. This way, they won’t surprise us.”

“Enough talking,” the Alcaide growled. “If we’re going to do this, let’s do it now.”

Shilly nodded, agreeing. There was no point dragging it out. Even if the thought of being on their own was suddenly looming terribly large and scary ahead of her—a real possibility, instead of a vague dream—she would rather run to it than drag her heels. Especially with the Syndic swooping down on them at that very moment, wanting to snatch them back.

Highson took Sal’s hand. Shilly took Skender’s. Skender linked with Luan Braunack, who connected through Iniga to the Alcaide. Only Kemp stood apart, not naturally Change-attuned. When the line was complete, Shilly felt a rich vibration run through her. The golden haze seemed to grow brighter. Having the minds of so many strong and talented people so close to hers was like sinking into a warm sea with the sun shining brightly above. There was nothing they couldn’t achieve.

“The key, Skender.” Through her mind, Highson Sparre’s voice wasn’t hoarse at all. It sounded surprisingly like Sal’s. “The golem gave you the pattern required to open the Way. Do you still have it?”

“Of course I do,” the boy responded. “Here. Shilly knows how to work it.”

The tumbling, distorted clover leaf pattern appeared before her. She folded her mind around it, feeling its shape and its need to connect like a force tugging her forward. The linked minds gathered behind her as she willed one end of the pattern to attach to the oval entrance before her. The other end flailed about for a moment, looking for purchase. She thought hard, wishing she had Skender’s perfect recall, but what she was looking for wasn’t hard to remember at all.

Golden veins snaked through red-brown walls sealed with a clear glaze. Light flowed like honey from tongues of fire frozen in cages of glass. Rocks glowed every colour of the rainbow in a room furnished with cushions and low tables. There were alcoves for beds and toilet, and rugs made of animal fur stitched together. A large, black stone occupied the centre of the room, from which a flickering blue ring of fire fuelled by the Change could be summoned. The room was always hot.

Lodo liked it hot.

Shilly was unable to swallow the lump in her throat as the Way snapped taut between the entrance before her and the workshop’s antechamber. An impossibly short corridor, barely a dozen metres long, crossed the thousands of kilometres between the Haunted City and Fundelry. She felt the power of its existence humming in the air, vibrating with tension, and knew that it wouldn’t last forever. It would drift or snap, just as a narrow bridge would sway in a stiff breeze. She didn’t know how long it would hold.

“That’s it.” She heard the words through her ears and felt Highson disengage from the link. “You’ve done it!”

She opened her eyes and saw the Way stretching ahead of her exactly as it had in her mind. Freeing both her hands from Sal and Skender, she stepped eagerly forward.

“I’ll go first,” said Iniga, cutting her off. The woman’s tattooed face was unexpectedly stern. “Wait here until I return.”

“But—”

Highson held her back as the woman headed down the Way.

“Surveyors know methods to test the stability of Ways,” he said. “If everything is safe, you can go next.”

Shilly reined in her excitement. Getting back into the workshop had been one of her goals, but not one she had considered likely to come true. Now that she was on the brink of achieving it, she was afraid that it would be snatched from her. She couldn’t bear to lose it twice.

Before long, Iniga returned up the Way, her brown robes flapping behind her in the cramped space.

“All clear,” she said. “The air is a little musty, but that’s easily fixed.”

“There’s a chimney,” Shilly said. “I’ll open it.”

“I’ll walk you down,” said Highson, gesturing mock-gallantly. “After you.”

On the verge of stepping inside Shilly realised that she probably wouldn’t be coming back. She turned to give Skender a quick hug.

“Thank you for everything.”

He nodded. “And you.”

“Tell your father thank you, too. And the Mage Erentaite.”

“Hey, you can tell them yourself, one day. Right?”

“I hope so. And say goodbye to Aron. I’m going to miss him.”

“I will.”

She turned to Kemp. “Do you want me to pass a message on to your family?”

The albino shook his head. “No. That’s not your job. Probably best to steer clear of them. That’s my advice.”

She nodded, still not comfortable with the idea of Fundelry’s bully suddenly being an ally. “Thanks.”

That was the end of her obligations, as far as she was concerned. She didn’t stop to watch Sal’s farewells. Instead she ducked her head and walked as fast as she dared along the Way.

The light from behind her lasted several metres, after which she found herself in complete darkness. She was glad that Iniga had gone first, and that she could assume nothing dreadful waited for her at the end of the Way. As she neared the end, a faint glimmer of light appeared. Some of the light-stones were still working, despite having been left unattended for months.

She stepped over the threshold of the Way and into the workshop’s antechamber, where a second Way led to the sand hills. The air was indeed musty, but it was also rich with familiar scents: candle smoke, fish oil, cured skins and the earth itself. She breathed deeply. It smelled like Lodo. It smelled like home.

Footsteps from behind her urged her forward, into the workshop itself. Nothing had been touched since the last morning she had spent there, prior to their sudden flight from Fundelry. Everything was exactly as she’d left it. Her clothes hadn’t cleaned themselves; the dishes still needed washing; a book lay open at an exercise Lodo had given her to keep her occupied. It felt as though time had stood still for all the weeks she had been on the run with Sal.

Another wave of sadness washed over her. If only Lodo could see it…

As though answering her thought, Highson Sparre came down the tunnel, followed by Iniga. Between them, they carried Lodo on his stretcher. The old man was still unconscious. He might never recover consciousness again, but Shilly was glad that he was there with her, where he belonged.

She pointed at the pile of animal skins that had once been his bed. “Put him there.”

“Are you sure you can look after him?” Highson asked.

“We’ll manage,” she said, thinking: two or three days, probably no more. If he lasted longer than that she would happily do everything he needed, but there was no mistaking the mortal thinness of his skeleton. At least they’d made it home in time.

“You know that you can always call for help—”

“We won’t. But thanks. I appreciate everything you’ve done for us.” Shilly was amazed that she was thinking so coolly. She couldn’t decide whether her brain had shut down from too many surprises in too short a time, or her emotions were simply worn out.

Sal emerged from the antechamber, gazing around him in wonder. Shilly knew how he felt. Even through her strange calmness she felt an incredible joy and sadness that they’d made it.

“We’ll close the Way when we get back,” Iniga said, breaking a silence too full for words. “From then on, you’ll be alone.”

“I don’t know how I’ll ever make this up to you,” said Sal to his real father.

“You don’t have to,” Highson said. “Live long. Be free. Don’t hurt anyone.”

“We’ll try not to.”

Highson and Sal laughed awkwardly, clearly lacking the means to express what they felt.

“Goodbye, Sal,” Highson said, his voice even hoarser than usual.

“Goodbye.” Sal nodded. “Tell Tom he was right. He can go back to trusting his dreams again.”

“I will.”

“Peace,” said Iniga, inclining her head.

Shilly moved to stand next to Sal as the two adults left the workshop. The sound of their movement through the antechamber, and then the Way, faded. Shilly finally began to feel something like nervousness that she was alone with Sal and Lodo. There was no one else but them.

We must make our own fates, Atilde had said.

“That’s it,” said Sal. “We’ve done it.”

“We sure have.” She looked around the workshop, still not quite believing it was real. There was the chime Lodo used to summon his friends from town when he wanted their help or company; there was the kit from which he had made the charms used to disguise Sal from the Sky Wardens; there—

She stopped, struck by something she hadn’t done.

“Wait,” she yelled, grabbing something long and rope-like from a stone shelf before running out of the room. “Wait!”

“Wait!” The sound of Shilly’s voice echoed up the Way just as everyone linked hands and prepared to shut it forever. “Wait!”

Skender opened his eyes in alarm, imagining all manner of terrible things that might have happened. It was a trap; the exit to the dunes was buried under sand, shutting them inside; Lodo had chosen that moment to die, and the golem had found a way to enact its revenge upon them, where they couldn’t be helped…

Shilly emerged flustered from the mouth of the Way, bearing something in both hands before her.

“Skender, this is for you,” she gasped, out of breath. “It belongs to your father.”

He looked down at the thing she thrust into his hands, not immediately comprehending. It looked like a long whip with metal threads woven through it. He felt a tingle of the Change thrill through him as it touched his skin, and received a confused impression of fire and ice, earth and air. Only then did he realise what it was.

“The Scourge?” he said, staring at the glittering whip with incredulity. “The Scourge of Aneshti? I thought it was lost!”

“Your grandfather gave it to Lodo,” she said. “I don’t think he’ll be needing it any more.”

Skender gaped at Shilly in amazement. The Scourge had been at the Keep for generations, then had mysteriously disappeared during his grandfather’s term as the head of the school. The scandal had been enormous among those who knew about it.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw Luan Braunack nodding approvingly.

“It’ll be yours, one day,” said Shilly with a smile.

Skender opened his mouth to protest that there was no way he was going to end up a teacher like his father and his grandfather and the Goddess knew how many generations of Van Haasterens. But the words never came out. The protest sounded hollow even in his own head.

“Dad will be glad it’s back,” he ended up saying. “Thank you, from him.”

“Does that make us even, then?”

“What?” Skender feigned outrage. Shilly had declared that she owed him a “big one” on the night Radi Mierlo died. “Not even close,” he said, not meaning it. “And believe me, I’ll collect one day.”

“You’ll have to find us, first.”

“Welcher!”

She smiled, then turned and headed back up the Way. Iniga followed to make sure she was clear, then returned.

“It’s done,” she said. “Let’s finish it.”

Skender put the Scourge at his feet, and tried very hard not to think about the friends he was losing. Everyone linked hands again. Arcane patterns swirled in his mind; strange forces blew through him; there was a subtle shifting in the world, as though it was a curled-up piece of paper unfolding flat again. When he opened his eyes, the Way was gone.

Sal and Shilly were gone with it. Just like that. One moment they’d been there, with him, and the next they were thousands of kilometres away, back where they’d started. It didn’t seem possible, yet he’d seen it happen with his own eyes.

There was a new hollowness inside him as he picked up the Scourge and walked with the others back into the catacombs. Nothing more was said. Nothing needed to be said. The glow of the Golden Tower and all its impossible vistas fell behind them, returning them to a decidedly more mundane gloom. Kemp stayed near Skender, and he was glad of it. He was going to miss his friends from the south. Maybe they would meet again, but maybe they wouldn’t—and the worse thing was that he could never talk about the last time he had seen them to anyone. He would never forgive himself if they were caught because of him.

The silence weighed heavily on him. His adventure was over. He just wanted to go home, or at least get a good, long sleep.

As they emerged from the tunnel to see the cold light of dawn creeping through the crack in the hill above, he realised that the chances of sleeping any time soon were decidedly slim.

“What is this?” demanded Nu Zanshin as they emerged from the tunnel. She and a large party of Sky Wardens and attendants were examining the beach while more descended the ladder, one by one. “Dragan. Explain yourself!”

There was a terrifying moment when everything seemed to freeze. He felt Highson and the others tense and gather the Change about them. Stories about war between Change-makers were more legends than real history, and he had never expected to see it happen, but for an instant he was convinced he was about to.

“It’s really very simple, my dear Syndic,” said the Alcaide, slipping easily into the lie. “You let them get away.”

“I—?” She swallowed an automatic protest. “Don’t be ridiculous. I had nothing to do with this. You—”

“I left Behenna on watch at the entrance. Did he explain as I asked him to? I instructed him to call for help. It’s not our fault you arrived too late.”

“He offered some ridiculous mishmash of conspiracy theory and unlikelihood. Are you telling me it’s true?”

“Only an official inquiry will determine the whole truth.” The Alcaide feigned a look of exasperation. “The salient points are that Sal and Shilly have been kidnapped by an unknown party and taken through the Way. We don’t know where or why. Highson and I learned of the plot in time to save Skender and Kemp, and we were lucky to do that. Luan and the Surveyors were shown papers indicating that these people were operating with our authority. They had no reason to stop them until we arrived to tell them otherwise.”

“Our authority?” the Syndic exclaimed.

“Forgeries, of course.” The Alcaide’s expression sharpened. “Unless you’re accusing me of being in league with the kidnappers.”

“No—no, of course not.” The Syndic looked as Skender had felt upon coming face to face with the conspiracy. Her eyes seemed to glaze over, but only briefly. Within moments, they were as sharp as ice daggers again. “These people. You have no idea who they were?”

“None. As soon as they saw us coming, they closed the Way behind them. There are no means of tracing where it ended up, of course. They could be anywhere.”

One of the wardens shuffled nervously behind the Syndic. “The Weavers,” he offered. “There have been rumours—”

“Claptrap!” exclaimed the Syndic. “Whoever is behind this will happily use fairytales to deflect our search. I won’t have it. Mark my words, all of you. These are real people we’re hunting, not shadows.”

“People who manage to sneak in and out of the city without attracting your attention?” said the Alcaide. “I wouldn’t be so quick to dismiss such possibilities, if I were you.”

The Syndic turned her attention back to the Alcaide, embers of suspicion glowing in her eyes. “The children will be found. We will make every effort. Whoever has them will be brought to justice. They cannot hide forever.”

She stormed off into the catacombs to inspect the scene for herself, waving for her pack of wardens to follow. The potential for violence gradually ebbed. Skender hid a grin as the remaining wardens guided the Alcaide to the ladder and made way for the rest of them to climb.

“What now?” he asked Highson.

“There really will be an inquiry,” said Sal’s real father, a look of heavy resignation on his face. “Another one. You’ll be held for that. But afterwards, I’m sure you’ll be allowed to leave. Brokate’s caravan is on standby to take Mage Braunack back to Ulum. Behenna has already booked passage with her. He’ll be taking Mawson back north. You could ride with them.”

Skender shrugged. The ex-warden would be dour company, but he might lighten up as he left the scene of his disgrace. Behenna had proved himself strong and capable enough to survive something like this.

“Why don’t you come with us?” Skender asked Kemp, remembering the albino’s dissatisfaction at being in the Haunted City.

“And do what?”

“Study at the Keep, of course.”

“But I’m not talented like you. I wouldn’t fit in.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that. Can you cook?”

“Sure, I can cook.” Kemp looked puzzled. “You don’t have cooks at the Keep?”

Skender shook his head, remembering the best efforts of Raf and the other students. He had thought them perfectly acceptable at the time, but one thing he would definitely take away from the Novitiate was the memory of breakfasts fit for royalty. If Kemp could come close to that, he was sure the other students would welcome him. And his father would come around, he was sure of that. With both his son and the Scourge returned, most things would be easier for a while.

“Well, I’ll think about it,” Kemp said. “I have to decide if I can put up with you, first. It’s one hell of a long trip.”

Skender punched Kemp’s shoulder, but felt warmed by the bickering. It made up for the thought that he might be travelling all that way home on his own. It was a long way, and he couldn’t do it in a handful of steps like Sal and Shilly had.

And he had decided that there was something outside the Keep beyond murder and boredom. If he took nothing home but memories of the friendships he had experienced, that easily outweighed the rest. There was always room for more…

By the time Skender reached the top, the sun was well and truly up. He rode to the city on the back of the buggy with Highson and Kemp. Mawson, facing backwards, watched him stonily in the bright sunlight.

I should be more like him, Skender told himself. Nothing seemed to faze the man’kin. Death, conspiracy, strange monsters, lost minds: he carried with him an air of having seen it all before.

“I have,” said the man’kin into his head.

Skender stared at the stone head. “You knew it would end like this, didn’t you? You knew I’d go home. That’s why you told me to watch the golem kill Radi Mierlo.”

“That is correct.”

“You said it would change the path of my life.”

“It changed it from what it might otherwise have been.”

“Who’s to say I wanted it changed? No, forget it.” Try as he might, he couldn’t find the energy to be truly angry. “What about Sal and Shilly? Do you know what happens to them?”

“They are less easy to predict.”

“Why?”

“It’s different every time. If it wasn’t, all stories would be the same, in the end.”

“But this isn’t a story. It’s real life.”

Mawson smiled. “It is now.”

Skender gave up trying to get sense from the man’kin, and went back to watching the shining towers of the city grow closer against the backdrop of a restless sea.

EPILOGUE

LIGHT AND HOT WATER

“Sal, look.”

Shilly’s urgent whisper roused Sal from a puzzled examination of one of Lodo’s many cupboards. There were an unexpectedly large number of repositories tucked away in all sorts of nooks and crannies, and their contents were uniformly puzzling. One held coins scrimped and saved, Shilly surmised, after years of favours for the people of Fundelry. Another held roll after roll of parchment, bound with string, that appeared to be blank until held up to a glow-stone, whereupon they revealed writing in an unfamiliar language.

This one contained samples of sand in tiny jars, ranging in colour from dark grey to deep red. There were dozens of them, none labelled. Sal doubted he’d ever know what they were for.

“What?”

“Look.” Shilly pointed to where Lodo lay swaddled on the pile of skins.

The old man’s eyes were open.

They approached him with caution. In the three days since they had left the Haunted City, Lodo had woken only once, and then to rage and curse at the top of his voice. The golem, embittered and venomous, was still trapped inside the old man’s dying body by the Sky Wardens’ charm on its wrist, and it voiced its displeasure in no uncertain terms. Fortunately, the outpouring took a heavy toll, and the golem was soon dragged back down into unconsciousness.

The after-effects of that outburst weren’t so easy to shake. Shilly hadn’t spoken for hours, and Sal could still hear the icy voice hissing: “Your mother is in here, Sayed Hrvati, and she’s forgotten you. Set me free and I’ll take you to her.”

There had to be a grain of truth to the plea, since the golem couldn’t lie, but Sal had learned his lesson. No more deals with supernatural creatures, no matter what was at stake. He would rely on his own wits from now on.

Lodo’s slate-grey eyes stared evenly back at them. There was no sign this time of rage or despair. There was just stillness, with a hint of resignation.

Afraid that the old man might have died already, Sal put the back of his hand to Lodo’s mouth. He felt the faintest hint of breath. The pulse beating in the wrinkled neck was irregular and almost impossible to detect.

“I don’t think he has long,” said Sal, although he couldn’t explain how he knew. There was an aura of weakness about the old man that came from more than his physical symptoms. The Change was shifting around him as though preparing for something new. Or the end of something old.

Shilly nodded. She had been readying herself for this moment since their escape. Her eyes were red, but she wasn’t crying, yet.

“Let’s call the others.”

Sal left her to sit the old man upright on her own. In one corner of the workshop, near where Sal had put the light-sink Lodo had given him to absorb more light, a long, brass cylinder hung suspended from the ceiling. He struck it with a small hammer. It rang with a deep, vibrant note that echoed in four houses across Fundelry. The people who heard it would know what to do.

Then he returned to help Shilly lift Lodo upright. She had graduated from the crutch to an old walking stick they’d found in one of the cupboards, but the weakness in her leg meant that she couldn’t lift anything for long, even something as insubstantial as Lodo’s body. Sal pulled the old man’s left arm around him, ignoring the smell of decay and age, not returning the vacuous stare. Shilly went ahead to open the original exit from the workshop. Sal followed, carefully.

When they’d first tried to open the door, they’d found the way buried under a thin layer of sand that had poured in and left them choking. They still hadn’t got all of it out. But it had camouflaged the entrance and ensured that the workshop wasn’t disturbed. Stepping out into the dunes for the first time had been like going back in time. They had stood side by side for a long moment, letting the familiar reality sink in. The air stank of the ocean. The only sounds were the squawking of seagulls and the unhurried breathing of the tide. When the pounding of waves on the foundations of the Haunted City had been relentless, insistent, determined, this was almost peaceful, something Sal would never have believed himself capable of thinking about the sea.

As he staggered out of the entrance with Lodo draped over his shoulder, Sal was surprised to see that it had been raining recently; the dunes were sticky with moisture, hard beneath his feet. The sky was grey with clouds. Somewhere behind them, the sun was sinking.

Rain, whispered yadeh-tash to him, through his skin. The tiny man’kin had adopted him when Shilly had put it around his neck, safe in the knowledge that Lodo would never need it again. He was still learning to interpret yadeh-tash’s strange voice. On this occasion, the warning had come too late for him to do anything about it. It seemed appropriate, though, that they should get wet on an occasion like this.

Sal had accepted Shilly’s gift on the condition that she would accept one from him in return. A glint of silver from the open neck of Shilly’s dress as they began the hike up and over the dunes revealed that she was wearing it. His mother’s clasp, freshly polished, gleamed like a piece of the sky at her throat, suspended from a dark leather thong. What it lacked in richness of the Change, it more than made up for in significance. As far as he knew, Shilly had never taken it off.

They were halfway to the beach when the first of Lodo’s friends arrived. An old woman with hair as white as bone and a face that had scared Sal, once, came striding over the sand hills. Without saying a word, she slipped an arm under Lodo and took some of his weight.

“Thanks for coming, Aunty Merinda,” said Shilly, limping along behind them.

The old woman nodded. “I knew it in my knees before you called. ‘Not just the rain,’ I said to myself. ‘Best get a wriggle-on before Lodo leaves for good.’”

“He’d be glad you’re here.”

“I know he is, the old crank. And he knows I’ve missed him. I’m glad he’s here so I can say goodbye.”

The next to arrive was a woman about the same age as Sal’s real father, with short, brown hair. She carried a baby in a sling against her stomach, and she waved when she saw them in the distance. They met up with her on the crest of the final wave of sand, where one last strip of grass and scrub made a stand against the salt and spray. The wind was stronger there, tugging at Lodo’s stained robe with ghostly hands.

“Sorry if I’m late,” the woman said, kissing Shilly softly on the cheek. “I just put little Gil to sleep.”

“You’re not late, Thess.”

“The others are down there.” Thess nodded at two figures standing at the shoreline, watching the waves advance and retreat. “I’m sure they’d give you a hand…”

“It’s okay,” said Sal. “There’s not much further to go.”

Lodo hung unresistingly between him and Aunty Merinda as they walked the last thirty metres to where the rest of Lodo’s friends waited. Von, a tall woman wearing a wild, orange wig, didn’t say anything as they approached. She just nodded, as though not trusting her voice. The man standing next to her was holding a battered guitar in one hand.

“You’re not planning on using that, are you, Derksen?” asked Aunty Merinda. “We’re here to farewell the living, not wake the dead.”

“Lodo liked it when I played.” Derksen managed a look that combined mournful with hurt.

“Lodo had no ear for a tune, so I daresay you’re right.”

The six of them stared at each other for a long moment, unsure what to do. It wasn’t a large crowd of people, and certainly not as large as Lodo deserved, but what it lacked in numbers it made up for in heart. Beneath the occasional bickering, Sal sensed nothing but love and sadness for the seventh among them.

Lodo’s pale eyes were staring at the sea. Sal felt a tremor play through the old man, as though he was trying to move. But nothing came of it, and his gaze fell slowly to the sand at his feet.

“We should put him down,” said Sal.

“What about over here?” Shilly suggested, pointing at a nearby hollow in the sand. The beach stretched in a wide curve kilometres in length. There was very little other shelter from the wind.

“That’s as good as anywhere,” said Aunty Merinda. “Let’s dump him before my back permanently kinks.”

Shilly unfolded a rug she’d brought and placed it on the sand. She sat down first with the stick at her side. Aunty Merinda and Sal laid Lodo’s body so that he was leaning across her lap. The old man’s tangled, patchy hair spread in disarray across her dress. She tugged it into something resembling order.

The rest sat around him to wait.

Time passed.

It was the weirdest thing. Sal had lost loved ones before, but not like this. His father had died so suddenly it had taken him weeks to accept it. His mother had been dead before he ever really knew how to miss her. This silent, passive wake was like nothing he’d heard of. He wondered if he would notice anything different when the moment came.

Derksen cleared his throat. “I’ve been thinking of a memorial,” he said, “like they do in the cities.”

Sal remembered the place his mother and grandmother were honoured: the forest of totems in wood and stone; the markers for the dead. “Do you think he’d like that?”

“He’d like that we’d thought of him,” said Thess. “I can help you carve something.”

“And I’ll put a charm on it to keep the weather off,” said Aunty Merinda.

“I’ll supply the wood,” said Von, speaking for the first time. Her scarred voice broke on the last word, and she looked up at the sky.

There was another long silence.

“They miss him around town,” said Thess. “The hot water isn’t so reliable now, and of course the lights don’t work at all.”

“It doesn’t help that he blew up half the globes,” said Aunty Merinda.

“No one still really knows what happened, that night.”

“I know Mayor Iphigenia’s given up trying to find out.” Aunty Merinda chuckled. “She even came to me, looking for advice.”

“What did you tell her?” asked Derksen.

“To mind her own business. And maybe think twice, next time, before letting a certain Alder ruin things for everyone. If Sproule hadn’t stuck his nose in—”

Thess caught Aunty Merinda’s eye and shook her head slightly. Sal was glad she did. This wasn’t the time to debate what had gone wrong all those weeks ago.

Aunty Merinda mumbled discontentedly, but fell silent.

Shilly stroked Lodo’s wrinkled forehead.

Sal moved closer to her, so she would know he was there.

“He was a good man,” said Von, and didn’t say another word the rest of the day. Sal learned later that she couldn’t cry; the same fire that had burned her throat had ruined her tear ducts as well. Her grief might have run to rivers, but none of it showed on her face.

“Put that down, boy,” warned Aunty Merinda as Derksen went to fill the silence with a tune. “If you think it’s too quiet around here, I’d rather hear something positive. What’s next for you two, for instance,” she said, turning to Sal and Shilly. “When this is over, what are you going to do?”

Shilly looked up, scattering a sprinkle of jewel-like tears down the front of her dress.

“We’ve talked about it,” she said. “Sometimes I think I’d like to pack a bag and start walking.”

“Where?” asked Thess.

“That way,” she said, pointing west along the coast, away from Fundelry. “Wherever it takes us.”

“Is that safe?” asked Aunty Merinda, looking at Sal.

“As safe as anywhere,” he said. “I can’t feel the Syndic, and the seagulls don’t seem to be watching us. The wardens probably assumed we’ve gone north again and are looking for us there.”

“Do you have anywhere in mind?” asked Derksen.

“If we walk far enough,” said Shilly, “we’ll come back where we started, and then we can decide.”

Sal nodded, understanding the sentiment even if he didn’t feel it as strongly as she did. Shilly wanted to move—to do something, anything, rather than wallow in what had become of her life. Sal, for the first time, quite liked the idea of staying still for a while, of gathering his life around him and determining what it contained before leaping off in a new direction.

“If we had the buggy, it’d be a lot easier,” he said.

“Easier on your leg,” Thess said to Shilly, who nodded distantly.

“Of course, you’d be welcome enough here,” said Aunty Merinda, “if you wanted to stay. Things would be odd for a while, and you’d have to be careful. But as I said, they miss Lodo. They miss what he did for them. You’ve learned some of that. What you don’t know, you might be able to teach each other. You could take his place. It’d be a quiet life, but a safe one.”

“It’d give us one less thing to worry about,” said Thess. “Whether you’re okay, I mean.”

Sal nodded. The offer was tempting. Fundelry was a small place with small dangers, compared to some he had negotiated recently. It would come as a relief to let go, to forget all about the bigger picture and concentrate on the everyday.

But he couldn’t just switch his talent off. Nowhere would ever be truly safe again, despite what Aunty Merinda said. His life would never be simple. What he needed to find most of all was a way to coexist with that fact, wherever he was, whatever he was doing. If he didn’t, he was sure his real father would have something to say about it.

Perhaps I could be a Weaver, if I wanted to, Sal told himself, just like him…

The others were looking at him as though expecting a response. All he could think of were the words Shilly had used when Kemp had asked her why, of all places, she would ever consider returning to Fundelry. He repeated them now, feeling the truth of it in his bones: “It’s a start.”

What the finish would be, only time would tell.

The sun dipped low to the horizon. A bank of clouds opened to allow a profusion of reds and yellows to wash across the grey sea. Derksen was eventually allowed to play a tune—a simple, lilting lament that perfectly suited the moment—and even Aunty Merinda sat silently through it without commenting.

When the end finally came, it was almost an anticlimax. Sal felt Shilly stiffen beside him. Soundlessly, she began to cry. He looked down at Lodo and saw by the light of the sunset that the old man’s eyes were half-closed. His head had tilted back so he was no longer looking at anything at all. Shilly’s hands held the body close as she grieved for the man who had loved her as a daughter and done everything he could to make her life better. Sal grieved with her, holding her in turn as her shoulders shook and whispering her heart-name to her through the Change. One at a time, her arms left Lodo and came around him. They leaned on each other as the light drained out of the world and darkness took its place.

So wrapped up in their grief was he that he didn’t notice the others until Derksen gently moved him and Shilly apart so he could get at Lodo’s body. They had discussed what would happen next when Sal and Shilly had summoned Lodo’s friends to the workshop the previous day and filled them in on everything. Lodo would be buried on the beach, under the weight of ancient mountains, where things began and ended. That was the home he had found when the worlds of stone and water had rejected him. That was the place he had returned to, to die. That was where he would rest forever.

Thoughts of the future—even one as immediate as the next minute or two—seemed to break a spell. The sound of the waves returned. Sal noticed stars appearing through the gap in the clouds. A breeze danced around them, unpredictable and lively.

Live long, his real father had said. Be free.

I’ll start doing that, thought Sal in response, helping Shilly to her feet. Right now.

CHARACTER LIST

SAL HRVATI (HEART-NAME: SAYED): son of Seirian Mierlo and Highson Sparre, two Change-users with prodigious talent. He came late to his “wild talent” while leading a nomadic life with his adoptive father, the fugitive Dafis Hrvati. Fleeing capture by his Sky Warden relatives, Sal escaped with Shilly to the Interior and was partially trained at the Keep, but he was ultimately returned to the Strand by orders of the Stone Mage Synod.

SHILLY OF GOORON: orphan and former apprentice of Lodo in Fundelry, a small town in the Strand. Where Sal is talented but lacking in knowledge, she has no innate talent but, thanks to Lodo’s teaching, a keen understanding of the way the Change works, particularly when it comes to illusions. Separated from Lodo in Fundelry, she takes the opportunity to flee with Sal, with whom she supposedly shares a “destiny.” She suffered a serious leg injury on the road to the Interior and may be permanently disadvantaged as a result.

SKENDER VAN HAASTEREN (THE TENTH): son of Skender Van Haasteren the Ninth and next in line to run the Stone Mage school known as the Keep, deep in the Interior. Caught up in Sal and Shilly’s story when they came to the Keep seeking training, he smuggled himself aboard the caravan taking them south, seeking adventure. Thanks to an eidetic memory, he never forgets a charm or pattern on which the Change relies, but has little true understanding or talent to make it work on his own.

THE STRAND

RISA ATILDE: Master Warden of the Novitiate, where potential Sky Wardens are trained in the Haunted City.

SHOM BEHENNA: former Sky Warden, stripped of his rank for breaking his oaths while chasing Sal and Shilly in the Interior.

DRAGAN BRAHAM: Sky Warden and Alcaide of the Strand, responsible for justice and governance of the realm. Injured by Sal during their confrontation in Fundelry.

DAFIS HRVATI: former journeyman and Sal’s adoptive father; deceased.

SEIRIAN MIERLO: Sal’s mother, once a promising young student of the Change in the Haunted City; deceased.

HIGHSON SPARRE: Sky Warden and Sal’s real father.

KEMP SPROULE: son of Alder Sproule of Fundelry and successful candidate for training in the Haunted City.

TAIT: Tom’s ambitious brother and former apprentice of Shom Behenna.

TOM: formerly of Fundelry, now training in the Haunted City.

NU ZANSHIN: Sky Warden and Syndic of the Strand, responsible for administration of the realm. Also Sal’s paternal great-aunt.

THE INTERIOR

LUAN BRAUNACK: a senior Stone Mage and a Judge when the Synod meets.

BELILANCA (BELI) BROKATE: caravan leader plying the roads between the Interior and the Strand.

JARMILA ERENTAITE: a senior Stone Mage from Ulum.

LODO (PAYAT MISSERI): former Stone Mage, convicted necromancer and outcast. Shilly’s first teacher in the Change.

MAWSON: a non-human man’kin in the shape of a stone bust, bonded to the Mierlo family.

ARON MIERLO: Sal’s cousin, the very strong but mute “steed” of the man’kin Mawson.

RADI MIERLO: Sal’s ambitious maternal grandmother.

ABI VAN HAASTEREN: Skender’s mother and Surveyor of ancient and dangerous Ruins.

SKENDER VAN HAASTEREN (THE NINTH): Stone Mage and teacher at the Keep. Lodo’s former friend.