"And why would I want to do that?"

"Because you wouldn't want old Tavalisk finding out you're in league with Larn."

Gamil didn't move. He neither blushed nor batted an eye. Having spent years being insulted and harangued by the archbishop, he was a master of giving nothing away. His stomach, however, was a different matter entirely. It felt like someone had given it wings and it had taken to fluttering around his heart. Knowledge bestowed many gifts, but bravery was unfortunately not one of them.

Mentally he pulled himself together. His first job was to find out how much the boy knew. "Boy, you are a liar. And as such can be prosecuted by a judge."

"Why don't you run along and get one, then?" replied the boy. "I've got time enough to wait." With a great show of nonchalance he examined the dirt under his nails. "I know, while you're gone I'll pa.s.s the time thinking about all those letters you received from Larn."

Gamil's stomach was no longer fluttering, it was coming in to land. This was his worst fear: the archbishop finding out about his a.s.sociation with Larn. Why, Tavalisk would have him dismissed and banished on the spot! Gamil felt a trickle of sweat slide past his ear. No matter how much he loathed the archbishop, his position as chief aide was everything to him. He tolerated being a lackey in the palace, because in the city he was as good as a king. He had a network of spies and informants under him, men feared and respected him, stallholders offered trade discounts, and prost.i.tutes granted favors for free.

The last thing knowledge conveyed was a sense of ent.i.tlement, and that's how Gamil felt about Rorn. It was his city. He knew more about its people, its history, and its politics than any other man alive. By squirreling away every day, collecting information from a hundred different sources, he had earned the right to run it And now this young upsurt was threatening to take it all away.

For what? For Larn. It just wasn't worth it The only reason he'd taken to corresponding with the priests was to gather information from afar. What the seers knew could not be gleaned from gossip in a tavern, or read about in books. The seers knew the future: the most provocative knowledge of all. In return for that knowledge Gamil had granted Larn a few favors here and there. Nothing much, nothing that would compromise his position. Until a week ago. That was when he received a letter from the high priest himself. The hooded one stated that the knight would soon pa.s.s through Rorn. In no uncertain terms, he demanded that Gamil prevent the knight from boarding a boat and sailing to Lam.

Gamil had done his best, but by the time Tavalisk had begrudgingly sent out the troops, the knight had sailed off into the sunset. Which meant that he had aroused His Eminence's suspicion for nothing. Now, Tavalisk was many things--gluttonous, narcissistic, indolent, and s.a.d.i.s.tic, to name but a few-but above all he was suspicious. Little things lingered long in his mind awaiting connections, affirmations, or denials. Gamil was quite sure that the conversation that they'd had over the knight would be one of those little things. All it would take for Tavalisk's suspicions to be confirmed would be this young ruffian in front of him. True, the boy would never be able to see Tavalisk face-to-face, but he could start rumors, send messages, impute from a distance.

Gamil shuddered at the thought of it. He simply couldn't take the risk. Beckoning the boy closer, he said, "if I did agree to set up an audience with His Eminence, I take it there would be no mention of Larn?"

The boy smiled broadly. "Lam? Never heard of the place."

Tarissa was mocking him. Her voice was shrill and her laugh was cruel.

"Jack!"

The cold stuff pa.s.sed over him once more. Cold, salty, and wet, it rushed along his side and into his mouth. It didn't make him choke. Some deep unconscious instinct forced him to swallow, not breathe.

"Jack!"

The cold stuff drained away, leaving him heavier, colder, and vaguely aware of his own discomfort. Jack didn't mind: he knew it would be back.

Tarissa was above him. Screeching. He made an effort to turn away from her. Pain sizzled across his thighs. He couldn't move his legs. The cold stuff hit again. This time it came higher, past his mouth to his eyes. Jack knew he had to do sornething, but he was just so content where he was. Whatever lay beneath him was shaped for him alone. It dipped to accommodate his elbow and rose to support his head. In fact, he was so comfortable that if it hadn't been for Tarissa harping on he would have fallen into a nice dark sleep by now.

"Jack!"

Someone was calling his name. Not Tarissa, though. Too deep for her. Jack kept very still. The pain in his thighs had subsided to a background hum, and that was the way he wanted to keep it.

"Oh, my G.o.d, Jack!"

And then someone was shaking him, brushing the hair from his face, slapping his cheeks, turning him on his belly and slamming their fists against his lungs.

"Come on. Come on!"

He was turned over once more. His chest was pumped. His mouth was cleared He was dragged by his arms up a slope. Tarissa started screaming again at about the same instant the pain hit; Jack didn't know which was worse. Searing, nerve-twisting spasms raced across his thighs while he was laughed at from above by the woman he still loved. It was too much. He opened his eyes.

Seagulls in a blue sky. Their cries were shrill, almost human. Jack felt disappointed: it hadn't been Tarissa after all. "Jack, are you all right?" It was Tawl. He had a knife and was leaning over him. "I'm just going to cut the ropes." Jack tilted his head forward. He saw the sea, the seash.o.r.e, and then the beach. Looking farther down he saw his thighs were bound by rope. Underneath them lay a rectangle of wood: the bench from the rowboat. Tawl was hacking away.

The action of moving triggered something in Jack's stomach, and he turned to the left and vomited. Water, salty and bitter, heaved up from deep within his belly.

"Good," said Tawl, coming forward to support his head. "You'll feel better once you've lost all that salt.w.a.ter." He smiled. "I think you're going to be all right. Try and move your legs."

Jack threw a resentful look at Tawl. He knew he wasn't going to like this one little bit Beginning with his toes, he sent a warning message down along the nerves of his legs, braced himself, and then squeezed the muscles in his feet and ankles. Pain in bright, vivid flashes overwhelmed him. It shot up his thighs with vicious abandon, leaving Jack feeling dizzy and sick.

Another turn to the left was in order. More water was thrown from his belly.

Tawl slapped him on the back. "Good. Your toes moved." Grabbing Jack under his armpits, he dragged him up from the sand. "Come on. We're too exposed out here. We've got to find some cover."

Weak from vomiting, pain, and delirium, Jack most definitely did not want to move. "I don't think my legs can take my weight."

Tawl's hands moved down to his waist. "I'll carry you, then."

Jack pushed him away. "No. I'll try and walk." Weak or not, no one was going to carry him like a baby.

He ended up leaning heavily against Tawl. His legs buckled every few steps, he was shaking from head to foot, and he had a problem keeping his body level. Left on his own he would simply keel over in the sand. Together they stumbled up the small beach and then along the cove until they found a place where high rocks cast long shadows to the east.

They sat down in sand that was wet and pitted with pools. All around were rocks speckled green and brown and white. Water trickled down through cracks in the stone, and mineral deposits glistened beneath the flow. Crabs scuttled away in search of shelter, and strangely formed insects with short legs and flat bodies buried themselves in the sand. The roar of the ocean echoed around the rocks, blocking out the call of the gulls.

Jack's brain was taking longer to come around than his body. He remembered the storm and being cast adrift on the rowboat, but after that there was nothing. "What happened?"

Tawl shrugged. He leant back against a rock. "A couple of big waves. .h.i.t the rowboat, sent it underwater, and then broke it up. We were carried along with the wreckage."

Jack remembered the rope around his thighs. He shuddered. "Is that why you lashed us to the boat, so we'd be carried along with the wreckage?"

"I knew there was a risk we'd capsize, but you saw the storm, Jack. It wasn't going to stop until the boat was torn apart. I had to do something, so I took a chance that the boat would break up before we capsized."

"And we'd float to the surface with the driftwood?" Tawl nodded. "I suppose so. I didn't really think." He looked tired. For the first time Jack noticed what bad shape he was in. His face was bruised and swollen. There was a large gash on his forehead and a smaller one above his lip. His britches were torn at the knees and the thighs, and his tunic was in tatters. b.l.o.o.d.y flesh showed through all the various tears. Catching Jack's gaze, Tawl smiled. "You should take a look at yourself."

"I'm not about to do that," said Jack. "Last spring I spent a couple of weeks in a Halcus prison. I'd been chewed up by a pack of dogs and I wasn't a pretty sight. That's when I learnt the art of not seeing my body."

Tawl lifted a b.l.o.o.d.y arm up to the light. "You'll have to show me how to do that sometime."

Both men laughed. The joke wasn't particularly funny, but the laughter was more than just merriment, it was a celebration of their survival.

After a while, the laughter died down. Strangely, Jack felt closer to Tawl now. Throughout the journey, Jack had thought the knight was infallible; there was nothing he didn't know about horses, weapons, traveling, and medicine. He knew so much that at times he seemed almost too perfect. Now, by admitting that he'd bound them to the boat out of pure desperation, rather than calculated knowledge of the sea, he began to appear more human.

"The Fishy Few was lucky last night," said Tawl. "Why?" Jack tried to find a comfortable spot to lie down in amidst the wet sand and pebbles.

"Because we were nearer to Lam than anyone knew. The place is circled by shallows and rocks, and the way that storm was blowing it's a wonder the ship didn't run aground."

"We got off just in time," said Jack absently. His mind had already moved on. So they were here, on Larn. It wasn't a surprise really. Where else could they be? It was just that up until now he hadn't given his surroundings any thought. There was a beach, some rocks, and the sea. That was all that had existed for him so far.

Things suddenly began to seem different. The air was colder, the light harsher, the wet sand beneath his fingers turned to mud. "Do you think they know we're here?"

Tawl gave Jack a sharp look. "Do you?"

"I haven't got a sixth sense, Tawl." For some reason, Jack felt annoyed. "I knew about the sorcery last night because I could smell it, taste it, not because I'm a conjurer with a crystal ball."

"I'm sorry, Jack. I just don't know about these things."

"Neither do L" Jack looked at Tawl for a moment. They both needed some rest. "Did you manage to salvage anything from the boat?" he asked, changing the subject.

"No. We lost all our supplies. All we've got is my knife."

"So what do we do?"

Tawl leant forward. "We have to a.s.sume that they don't know we're here. If they caused the storm last night, then there's a good chance they think we're dead. Our best option is to lie low until the middle of the night, then take them by surprise. I say we get some sleep for now, and when it's dark we make our way up the cliffside."

Jack nodded. He was amazed that he was managing to appear calm when inside his stomach lay a solid block of fear. He was just beginning to realize that Larn, the prophecy, and the quest were more than fireside stories. They were real.

Nabber was experiencing a strong sensation of deja vu as he walked down the palace corridors on his way to his audience with the archbishop. Gamil strode ahead of him, setting a fast pace and acting like a nervous bloodhound. No matter how fast he scurried, though, Nabber still had time to take in his surroundings. And that was why he was beginning to feel distinctly ... familiar with the contents of the palace.

Gold urns, marble statues, paintings, tapestries, jeweled reliquaries-Nabber had the curious feeling he'd seen them all before.

Furtively he reached out to touch a gold urn ensconced in a recess in the wall. It didn't feel quite as warm as gold. Only one thing for it. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out his darning needle, and then shouted, "Rats!" at the top of his voice.

Whilst Gamil was busy hopping and panicking, Nabber sc.r.a.ped the needle along the urn. Just as he thought: base metal beneath.

"There are no rats." Gamil swiped Nabber across the ear. "What are you up to?"

Nabber slipped the needle up his sleeve. "Could have sworn there was, my friend. Great big hairy ones. Two of 'em." Gamil made an annoyed clicking sound in his throat, grabbed Nabber by the coattail, and hurried him along. "Any nonsense like that with His Eminence, and you'll be leaving the palace minus your tongue."

Nabber tried his best to look contrite. They walked across a lofty gallery, down a short flight of stairs, and into a marble-lined corridor. A set of double doors marked the end. Nabber, who had taken the trouble to change into his best for this occasion, smoothed down his tunic and tried hard to swallow the lump in his throat.

Gamil reached out to knock on the door. Nabber stopped him.

"One question before we go in, my friend," he said. Old Gamil didn't look at all happy at this. "What?"

"The treasure in the palace. All the urns and statues and things. They are real, aren't they?"

"Of course they are. The tributes have been collected over centuries. They are priceless. The holy treasures of Rorn are second in value only to those of Silbur."

"Hmm. Very interesting. You can knock now."

Gamil sent him a withering look and knocked, very softly, upon the door.

"Enter!" came a m.u.f.fled cry.

They walked into a glorious, golden chamber. Light poured in from arched stained-gla.s.s windows and the rugs on the marble were at least two toes thick.

"Your Eminence, this is the young man I talked to you about. I promised him but three minutes of your time." Nabber stepped forward. Like everyone else in Rorn, he knew the archbishop by sight--the man could never tam down a parade. He was dressed in exquisite silks of yellow and cream and rustled like a wealthy monarch when he moved. "Most unusual this, Gamil," he said. "Caught me in the middle of my lemmings."

"I apologize, Your Eminence. If you would prefer I'll-" The archbishop waved a heavily jeweled hand. "No, no. I'll see the boy now." And then to Nabber. "What's your name, boy? Nabber?"

"Nabber."

"Very nice. You can go now, Gamil."

"But, Your Eminence--"

"Go, Gamil. I'm sure young Nibber here would like to talk to me, man to man." He smiled benignly at Nabber. Gamil was gripping Nabber's shoulder very hard. Under his breath he whispered, "One word about Larn and out comes your tongue."

"'Nuff said, Gamil," murmured Nabber between gritted teeth.

Gamil gave his shoulder one final skin-piercing squeeze and reluctantly took his leave.

The archbishop waved a beckoning hand. "Come over here, young Nibber. How do you feel about lemmings?"

"Never heard of them. And the name's Nabber."

"Good. Care to try one?" The archbishop brandished something small and squirrel shaped impaled upon a stick. "I have these brought in from beyond the Northern Ranges, you know."

"I think I'll have to decline. Tempting though they look, Your Eminence."

The archbishop sighed "All the more for me, then." He took a dainty bite at the squirrel-thing, then said, "Now, while I'm eating perhaps you'd like to tell me how you managed to coerce my aide into setting up this meeting. For this is the first time in my recollection that Gamil has ever brought me a boy off the street." Up came the lemming to his lips. "Are you blackmailing him, by any chance?"

The fat man was not as stupid as he looked. Nabber revised his opinion of him. To buy himself time to think about his reply, he turned his back on the archbishop and looked around the room. All that glittered was most definitely not gold. Nabber smiled, suddenly more confident. A change of plan was in order. "If I was blackmailing, Gamil, Your Eminence, I couldn't possibly tell you the reason why."

The archbishop now had a silver goblet in his hand. "Boy, I could have any information I wished out of you in an instant. My torturers are second to none. Now kindly tell me what you know about Gamil."

"Can't do that, Your Eminence. Once I've done a deal, my lips are firmly sealed." Nabber had come to the palace with the idea of bluffing the archbishop into giving him what he wanted. He knew about the archbishop's storehouse full of loot, and he had planned to state that unless His Eminence agreed to lay off the knight, the whole thing would be torched before nightfall. Nabber was even going to invent an accomplice who was poised outside the storehouse, flame in hand, ready to set it alight if he'd heard no news within the hour.

Nabber hadn't been entirely happy with the plan, but it was the only thing he could come up with on short notice. And, as Swift always said, "when everything else fails, an inspired bluff is your best resort." Things looked different now, though. There'd be less bluffing-inspired or otherwise-in what he was currently concocting.

"Boy, you do realize that I will have you tortured unless you speak?"

"Do you realize that the one thing you look for in a blackmailer is the ability to keep his mouth shut?" Nabber grinned. He took the liberty of coming forward and running a hand over the treasures on the archbishop's desk: gilded boxes, goblets, jeweled candlesticks, and incense holders. He selected a particularly pretty gold statuette: Borc's sainted mother, if he wasn't mistaken. Holding it up to the light, he said, "It's really not bad for a fake."

Four skewers worth of lemmings clattered to the floor. A soft whisking noise escaped from the archbishop's lips. His fingers strayed to the large ruby ring on his left hand. Nabber knew rubies; this one was a little too bright, a little too brazen to be real.

"I see that's one, too," he said pointing to the ring. "Of course, no one would spot it unless they knew what they were looking for. Take me, I would never have guessed all these things were fake if I hadn't seen the originals for myself."

The archbishop looked a little lost for words, so Nabber decided to carry on. "You and I both know where the holy treasures of Rorn are, and they ain't in this palace, that's for sure. They're in a smart little house just off Mulberry Street. Right nice place, it is. Looted to the rafters." Nabber knew what he was saying was right. Three years ago he'd been in that house, checking out the prospects for Swift. Of course, as soon as they'd learned that the archbishop owned the place, they'd backed away from the job. But the memory formed by the treasure was a lasting one, and the minute Nabber walked into the palace it all came flooding back: the golden angels, the enamel boxes, the jeweled chests, the countless paintings of Borc and his disciples. Old Tavalisk had ripped them all off.

"Boy, you are deranged. I'm going to ring for the guards." The archbishop reached for the bell rope. "Torture me, kill me, and the word will still get out." Nabber was beginning to feel more confident. He was back on his own territory again: inspired bluffing. "You don't think I'd walk into the lion's den without helpers in the field?" Down came the hand. "Are there others who know of this foul lie?"

"Just me and a good friend. But you needn't worry about that, Your Eminence. We're the two discreetest people you're ever likely to meet."

"What do you want?"

"First of all, I want you to lay off the knight. When he gets back into Rorn, I want him to get off the boat and leave the city in one piece."

"And?"

"I believe you're holding a friend of the knight's. A lady, name o' Megan. I'd like her released. Today. Right now. She can leave with me." Nabber didn't have the vaguest idea who Megan was, but she was obviously important enough for the Old Man to mention her. Besides, any friend of Tawl's was a friend of his.

During the conversation, the archbishop had been slowly changing color, and now he was rather an alarming shade of puce. He tugged on the bell rope. "Boy, let me make this very clear to you. What you have accused me of is an outright he. Unfortunately a great man like myself simply cannot allow his reputation to be sullied by such slanderous lies. And that--and only that-is the reason why I'm agreeing to your requests."

Nabber judged a bow was in order. "Of course, Your Eminence."