The Emperor of All Things

19

Magic of a Most Ordinary Kind



IT WAS NOT until he’d left the passage behind and burst into the cavern beyond that Quare remembered Cornelius and Starkey. He’d left the two men bound and gagged near the entrance to the passage, but they were bound and gagged no longer. Now they faced him, swords drawn.

And they were not alone. A dozen men or more stood with them, some holding torches, others swords or crossbows.

Quare skidded to a halt.

‘Well, if it ain’t Mr Quare,’ said Starkey with a grin that promised all sorts of unpleasantness. ‘What’s yer ’urry, eh?’

‘Where’s Grimalkin?’ Cornelius demanded, gesturing with his sword. ‘I’ll whittle ’im down to a splinter, see if I don’t!’

‘Oi, look, ’e’s ’oldin a watch!’ Starkey said before Quare could reply, turning to address someone behind him. ‘I told yer they was goin’ ter fetch it right to yer, didn’t I?’

‘So you did, Mr Starkey.’ The man pushed forward into view.

It was Aylesford.

‘Surprised to see me, Quare?’ Aylesford asked as he drew his blade with a flourish.

Quare felt the hunter pulse in his hand. He groaned in despair. ‘Run,’ he gasped out. ‘All of you – before it’s too late!’

This provoked a chorus of mocking laughter and catcalls.

‘I’ve got a better idea,’ said Aylesford when the general mirth had subsided. ‘Hand over the watch, and I’ll spare your life.’

‘’Course, me and Corny might not be so mercerful,’ added Starkey.

‘I don’t feel much inclined in that direction, to be sure,’ Cornelius admitted.

Quare drew his sword. ‘You should have left London, Aylesford. You should have gone back to France and kept on going.’

‘Oh, I mean to return – just as soon as I have the hunter.’

‘It is the hunter that will have you,’ Quare said grimly. ‘All of you.’

‘He’s barmy,’ someone said.

‘Just shoot ’im,’ another voice suggested. ‘Make ’im inter a pincushion!’

Aylesford raised a forestalling hand. ‘You may do what you like with him once I am through, gentlemen. But I have the prior claim. Quare and I have unfinished business.’

‘Go on, then,’ Cornelius said. ‘’Is Majesty said you was ter ’ave carte blanche, Mr Aylesford, and carte blanche you shall ’ave.’

‘His Majesty is most gracious. I won’t forget it … and nor will my prince.’

‘This man is a cowardly murderer and an agent of the French,’ Quare said, glancing over the knot of men arrayed against him. ‘By helping him, you are aiding the enemies of your king and country. Is there no loyal Englishman among you?’

‘We’re Morecockneyans,’ Cornelius answered. ‘This is our country. Not up there – down ’ere. And we’ve got our own king, fank yer very much.’

‘Enough words,’ Aylesford said, advancing on Quare with his sword at the ready, the tip inscribing tight circles in the air. ‘I prefer to let my blade do the talking.’

Quare readied himself. He knew from his previous encounter with Aylesford that the Scotsman was the better swordsman, but that would not matter now. Aylesford was in for a nasty surprise. They all were. The throbbing of the hunter had grown stronger, more insistent.

‘Gorblimey, ’is ’and!’ exclaimed Starkey, pointing. ‘Look at ’is bleedin’ ’and!’

Quare’s hand rose of its own accord, elevating the hunter like a beacon. It cast a blood-red light upon Aylesford, who came on with a resolute expression despite the fear Quare saw in his eyes. He was right to be afraid. He just wasn’t afraid enough. Quare almost pitied him.

Aylesford was gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands now. He shouted something in his own language that was incomprehensible to Quare as he stepped up and swung with all his might.

Quare watched as if from a safe remove as the blade passed through his wrist. His severed hand spun through the air in a spray of blood. Absurdly, he tried to reach for it, to catch it, with the stump. Yet he felt as if he were the one being cast away, as if his own hand had rejected him.

Then the pain took him. He dropped to his knees with a strangled, disbelieving cry, cradling the stump to his chest as if to smother the flow of blood. Aylesford meanwhile darted to where the hand had fallen. It lay on the ground like something hewn from a statue, the fingers still locked tight about the hunter.

‘Stand back!’ Aylesford cried out in warning to the Morecockneyans, who needed no encouragement on that score and were retreating en masse from the grisly trophy as if from a fizzing grenado. ‘Mr Starkey, if you please.’

Starkey edged forward, holding out a sack of some kind at arm’s length.

Aylesford reached for it …

And someone stepped to block Quare’s view. He glanced up dully. Cornelius loomed over him. ‘Nighty-night, Quaresie.’ The pommel of his sword came down hard on Quare’s skull, and he saw no more.

Quare awoke shivering in a heap of damp, filthy, foul-smelling straw. His head hurt abominably, and there was an excruciating ache in his left hand, as if his fingers were cramping. Yet when he raised his arm, he saw that it ended in a swath of bloodstained bandages even filthier than the straw, if that were possible. He bolted upright as memories flooded back of the confrontation in the Old Wolf’s den, his headlong flight, its gruesome conclusion. Even so, it took him a moment to absorb what he was seeing … or rather not seeing. Then shock at the absence of the hand whose cramping he still felt gave way to gut-wrenching sobs so primal in intensity that he seemed merely to be their conduit, rather than their source. At the same time, the visceral certainty that he was free of the hunter and its control filled him with giddy joy, so that laughter mingled with his tears. He rocked back and forth, weeping and giggling like a madman.

After a time, drained alike of energy and emotion, he subsided into the straw and took in his surroundings. He was in a cell carved out of solid rock, or perhaps it was a wide natural crevice adapted to the purpose of confinement. He could not see much more: the only light came from a flickering torch set outside a barred door across from where he lay. An iron cuff around his right ankle chained him to one stone wall, but he would have been too weak to attempt an escape in any case. It took all the effort of which he was capable to roll onto his side, fumble his breeches open with his remaining hand, and piss away from himself. The acrid smell of his urine did not improve the stench of the straw.

He wondered what had become of the hunter. Why had it failed to protect him as it had done in the Old Wolf’s den? He didn’t understand it. But it was not his problem any more. He no longer felt the slightest connection to it. He was free of that burden. Yet the knowledge that it was still out there weighed on him. Aylesford carried it now, or so he assumed. Perhaps he had already departed, heading back to his masters across the Channel. But Aylesford would soon discover, if he hadn’t yet, that he had a new master now. Nor would that be the end of it. Only the beginning. The beginning of the end of everything. For as bad as things were now, Quare did not think they would improve once the dragon hatched out of the egg.

And Quare was the only one left who understood the threat. Pickens was dead, murdered by Quare’s hand, his blood and his essence absorbed into the egg to nurture the monstrosity growing there. Longinus was gone, vanished into the Otherwhere with a wound that must surely prove mortal. Now Quare would never learn if Magnus had told him the truth about Lord Wichcote. Had the man really been his father, despite his denial when Quare had asked him point-blank? Not that it mattered. Not any more. Even if the Morecockneyans didn’t kill him outright, his wound required better medical attention than he was likely to receive here.

Quare shouted, calling out for his captors, but there was no reply. It seemed he was on his own.

Or was he?

Magnus had removed Tiamat’s geis, but that did not mean Quare could not call upon the dragon now, of his own free will. He did not know what that would accomplish, if Tiamat would even hear him – or, if it did, heed his call. He did not know what would happen if he brought a dragon into the world. But all things considered, it could hardly make things worse. Perhaps it would take a dragon to defeat a dragon.

‘Tiamat,’ he said, gazing at the shadows cast by the flickering torch outside the door of the cell, as if searching for a portal into the Otherwhere. ‘Tiamat, if you can hear me, I need your help. Please.’

‘Oi, ’oo yer talkin’ to?’ came a rough voice that startled Quare. The door banged open, and in barged his old friend Cornelius. ‘Whatcher up to, eh?’

‘Just praying,’ Quare said. ‘A man can pray, can’t he?’

Cornelius shrugged. ‘Pray all yer like.’ He was carrying a wooden tray, and as he spoke he squatted, placed the tray on the ground, then stood again and nudged it towards Quare with the toe of one stained boot, as if afraid to draw too close to his prisoner … or to the no-doubt vermin-infested straw on which he lay. Upon the tray was a wooden bowl of grey and greasy porridge and a wooden mug filled with something that had the look of small beer. ‘Go on,’ he urged when Quare made no move to take the tray. ‘It ain’t gonter kill yer.’

Quare wasn’t convinced of that. But he had other things on his mind than hunger and thirst. ‘Where’s Aylesford?’

‘Gone, ain’t he?’ Cornelius replied. ‘’ippity-opped back ter Froggy land wif that ticker o’ yers. Good riddance, says I. Give me the creeps, it did, glowin’ like the devil’s own pocket watch!’

‘He must be stopped, Mr Cornelius! The hunter must be destroyed. Surely he can’t have got far by now! We have to go after him before it’s too late!’

Cornelius gave an ugly laugh. ‘You been dead to the world for more than a day, Quaresie, old boy. Mr Aylesford is on ’is way across the Channel by now and no mistake.’

‘Then I demand to speak with your king at once. There is no time to lose.’

‘Perhaps you’ve not noticed that you are chained ter the wall in a prison cell. That is ’cause you are a prisoner. As such, Mr Quare, you are not in a position ter demand anyfing – certainly not an audience wif ’is Majesty.’

‘Then you must take him a message. Tell him—’

Cornelius kicked suddenly and viciously at the tray he’d deposited on the floor, scattering everything on it. The bowl struck Quare in the shoulder, dumping its slimy contents along the side of his face and down his neck; the thick goop smelled of mushrooms. ‘What, do you fink I’m to be ordered about like a bleedin’ errand boy? You fink ’cause I’m a lowly Morecockneyan, that makes you my master? Is that it?’

‘No …’

Cornelius ignored him. ‘You surface dwellers are all the same. Fink you’re better than us ’cause yer ’appen ter live under open sky. Well, that’s about ter change, fanks to ’is Majesty.’

‘I don’t understand you,’ Quare protested, angry himself now. ‘Granted, you live below the surface of London … but this is still English soil, is it not? English blood runs in your veins. The bonds of history and family tie you to the surface and those who live upon it, burrow however deep you like. Yet you conspire with England’s enemies; indeed, you have given them a weapon more potent and deadly than you – or they – know.’

‘’At’s where you’re wrong, Quaresie. ’Is Majesty knows more than you fink. More than Aylesford finks.’

‘Who is your king?’ Quare asked.

‘Wouldn’t yer like ter know,’ Cornelius replied, laying a thick finger alongside his carbuncle of a nose. ‘Suffice it ter say, ’is Majesty knows very well what is likely to transpire when Mr Aylesford reaches France. Indeed, I dare say ’e is countin’ on it.’

‘Does he imagine, then, that what is about to be loosed upon the world will stop at the surface, and that you people will be safe from it here? If so, I fear he is very much mistaken.’

‘Might be ’e is. Might be ’e ain’t. I reckon we’ll just ’ave ter wait and see. But if I was you, I’d be finkin’ less about Mr Aylesford and more about me own prospects.’

‘I don’t imagine they are any too bright.’

‘They are not bright at all, Quaresie. In fact, you might say they are black as pitch.’

‘So, you mean to kill me, then.’

‘There’ll be a trial first. We ’ave judges and juries ’ere, just like up above.’

‘And what am I charged with?’

‘A capital crime. Trespassin’.’

‘What? Trespassing? You would kill a man for that?’

‘Aye, we would. If Mr Pitt should ’ear of us, ’e’d ’unt us down like so many rats. Don’t fink it ain’t ’appened before.’

‘Why not just kill me now and get it over with?’ Quare said bitterly.

‘That would be murder, not justice. ’Oo knows? Perhaps yer barrister will speak wif such eloquence as ter persuade the jury ter acquit – though I wouldn’t count on it. I wouldn’t count on it at all.’

‘And why is that?’

‘Because ’is Majesty ’as done me the great ’onour o’ appointin’ me ter act in that capacity,’ Cornelius said. With a mocking bow, he turned to go.

‘Wait,’ called Quare.

Cornelius looked back from the doorway.

Quare raised his bandaged stump; he could not help but notice that the bloodstains had grown darker since he had awakened. His arm felt as if it were on fire. ‘I find I am more in need of a physician than I am a barrister …’

‘I regret we do not ’ave one available at present.’

‘But … what then am I to do?’

‘The trial is set for tomorrow,’ Cornelius said. ‘Until then – well, a man can pray, can’t ’e?’

After that, Quare was left alone … in a manner of speaking. Fever took him, and he sank into a fitful half slumber in which figures from his distant and more recent past appeared in the cell to harangue him in so tedious a fashion as to constitute a form of torture. Though he was aware for the most part that these interminable one-sided conversations – for he could not get a word in edgewise, try as he might – were hallucinations, that knowledge proved insufficient to escape from them. Fellow orphans he’d known in the workhouse, whose very existence he had consigned to oblivion, returned to tax him with the crime of having forgotten them, of having left them behind to suffer while he went on to a life of luxury as the apprentice of Master Halsted. And here came old Halsted himself, walking him step by step through the most rudimentary clock repairs, as if he were once again the untutored apprentice he had been so long ago. Grandmaster Wolfe, meanwhile, berated him yet again for having bungled his rooftop opportunity with Grimalkin. Master Magnus chimed right in, as if the two men were allies now. Nor was Longinus absent – in all his various guises, each more critical than the last. Aylesford, too, was present, as were Pickens, Mansfield and Farthingale, along with Arabella and Clara. Even Mrs Puddinge put in an appearance, hectoring him about the fate of her late husband’s second-best coat … and there as if on cue came the malodorous thing itself, flapping through the air like a disreputable ghost. Indeed, the cell was full to bursting with ghosts, not only people Quare recognized and remembered but others who seemed to be perfect strangers, as if another person’s hallucinations had spilled over into his own. They seemed to be getting on very well together, having a grand old time. Most disconcerting of all was the return of his missing hand. Yes, there it was, back on the end of his wrist, as if it had never left. Except now it seemed to have only perched there, for to his amazement it rose like a bird and took flight, joining the coat in its airborne perambulations even as it dripped blood with the perfect regularity of a clepsydra on all those below.

So vivid were these apparitions that it was some time before Quare became convinced a particular voice among the throng was real. Or at any rate so insistent that it compelled his attention away from all the others. Especially since it was accompanied by a stinging slap across his cheek. And then another.

‘Mr Quare! Can you hear me? Wake up!’

Quare attempted to focus his bleary gaze. Gradually the ghosts faded from view, until he found himself looking into fierce, dark eyes in a grey-masked and hooded face. His mouth worked to shape a name.

‘Drink this.’ A grey-gloved hand tipped a wooden mug to his lips. He drank the cool water, spluttering in his haste.

‘Easy.’ A strong hand slipped behind his head.

He swallowed until the mug was empty. Then spoke, his voice so faint as to be barely audible. ‘How …?’

‘Come on.’ The mug clattered to the floor. ‘We’re getting out of here.’

‘Can’t.’

‘I think you can.’

Quare found himself hauled to his feet. ‘No.’ He shook his head, trying to clear it. ‘Chained.’

‘Not any more.’

Sure enough, the cuff was gone from his ankle. Quare took a faltering step, then another, leaning heavily against his rescuer. He felt himself slipping back into his fever dreams and fought to remain anchored in the here and now. His tongue was swollen, his thoughts muddled, and his words slurred, but still he forced them out. ‘Aylesford. He’s got the hunter.’

‘Shh. Save your strength.’

‘We’ve got to stop him, Longinus. There’s no one else but us.’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not Longinus.’ The rescuer reached up and pulled hood and mask aside. Blonde hair tumbled free.

‘You!’

It was the young woman from the rooftop. The false Grimalkin. Her expression was almost mischievous as she regarded him. The corners of her lips ticked upward in the hint of a smile. Then, compounding his shock, she leaned forward and pressed her mouth to his.

The result of this kiss was even more astonishing than the fact of it. Blessed coolness radiated out from the touch of her lips, and Quare felt his fever retreat before it, all the way to the end of his arm, where it pulsed distantly.

The woman pulled away. ‘Better?’

He was – so much so, in fact, that whereas mere seconds ago it was the struggle of marshalling his sluggish thoughts into speech that had impeded him, now it was the rapidity of thought that made articulation difficult. ‘I … How …’

She laughed. ‘You may ask as many questions as you like – only not here. Not now. My kiss is no cure – you require more help than I can give. We must away, before your captors return.’

‘But … who are you? How did you know to find me here?’

‘You called, and so I came, as was promised.’

But he hadn’t called her. The only one he’d called was …

‘My God. Tiamet?’

‘You may call me that if you like,’ she said with a smile and a sly sideways glance, as if enjoying his befuddlement.

Quare’s questions – of which he had many – were brushed aside by this self-assured if not imperious young woman who went by the name of a dragon. She led him out of the cell and into a narrow, torchlit corridor extending in one direction only. They followed it, coming to a room whose sole occupant – the turnkey, Quare assumed – lay dead or unconscious upon the floor.

‘How did you get in here?’ he asked.

‘The same way we are getting out.’

‘But why did you not come sooner? I could have used your help that night at the Pig and Rooster, and many times since then.’

‘I am sorry,’ she said, wincing as if at a painful memory. ‘I was unavoidably … detained. But no more questions, Mr Quare – in fact, it would be best if you not talk at all. The Morecockneyans have sharp ears, among other things.’ She accompanied her words with a gesture, as if flicking away an insect, and Quare felt – as he had before – the sovereign weight of an implacable will descend upon him, sealing his lips. ‘Stay close,’ she whispered, pulling her hood and mask back into place so that she was once again, to all outward appearances, Grimalkin. ‘Stay quiet.’

She had given him no choice but to obey, yet he did so gladly, eager to be gone. He could tell that time was short, not only because it seemed certain that his escape would be noticed, or, even if it were not, that they would encounter one or more Morecockneyans along the way to wherever it was they were going, and so raise a general alarum, but also because he could feel the hot tingle of his banished fever creeping back up his arm. It would break upon him again, and sooner rather than later. He did not want to be here when that happened.

Leaving the room behind, Tiamat led him with utter assurance through a maze of passages that would have left Quare baffled had he been forced to navigate them on his own. The most he could say was that they seemed to be descending rather than climbing towards the surface. But it was plain that Tiamat knew where she was going. Equally if not more amazing was the fact that, once out of the room, she moved with confidence not only through the spaces lit intermittently by torches but through longer stretches that were sunk in near-darkness, illuminated only by phosphorescent spores of the sort with which the Morecockneyans dusted their bodies. The vial that Longinus had given to Quare was gone, no doubt taken from him along with his weapons, and lacking it he felt all the more dependent on his guide. He stuck to her like a shadow.

From time to time as they descended, Tiamat would halt, or backtrack, or pull him into a side passage – all in response to some warning signal he had not heard or seen. Twice groups of Morecockneyans walked by their hiding place, talking and laughing among themselves as if they were strolling down any busy London thoroughfare, and once a silent, armed patrol stalked past, glowing like grim spectres. More than once Quare reproached himself for not having thought to take a weapon from the turnkey, though in his present condition, weak as he was, and with the fever flowing back inch by inch, already beginning to cloud his thoughts again, he doubted that he would be much good in a fight.

At last, after what might have been hours, the sound of a great hunting horn reverberated from behind them, its urgent echoes multiplying even as the blast was repeated again and yet again. Quare knew then what the fox must feel.

‘Pity,’ Tiamat remarked. ‘I had hoped we might have a bit more time. I’m afraid it’s going to be a race now, Mr Quare.’

Yes, but a race to where?

He could not ask, could only follow as she picked up the pace, pulling him along. The horn continued to blow, further harrying them. Perhaps it was the exertion, or just the fading effects of Tiamat’s kiss, but Quare’s head was soon buzzing, and his stump was throbbing so painfully with each step that he could barely think at all … though he did wonder why it was that a dragon would be running from anything, and why Tiamat, who plainly possessed more than ordinary abilities, did not simply whisk them away through the Otherwhere as Longinus would surely have done.

After a while, Quare noticed a yellowish glow in front of them; it was hard to say just how far away it was, but it seemed to be growing brighter. Tiamat slowed, then halted. ‘Just a little farther, Mr Quare. Can you manage it?’

He nodded, though in fact he was anything but certain of how much longer he could stay on his feet.

‘You have suffered much,’ she said now, and he could feel her gaze upon him though shadows hid her features. ‘Much has been asked of you. Little has been offered in return. That is about to change.’

He heard her take a breath as if about to say more, but instead he felt the soft pressure of her lips on his own again. This time there was no cooling effect, no ebbing of his fever, but there was or anyway seemed to be magic of another sort, for his heart swelled with courage, and he felt himself ready to do anything she asked of him, and more. Though perhaps that was not magic at all. Or if it was, only magic of a most ordinary kind.

She pulled away. ‘They are behind us. We must hurry.’

Quare glanced back and, indeed, could see faint glimmers dancing in the dark.

‘Ahead lies an ancient structure,’ she informed him matter-of-factly. ‘As soon as you can, run to the centre of it.’

‘And what of you?’ he asked – for he found that her kiss had unlocked his tongue.

‘I will join you when I can.’

‘If there is fighting to be done—’

‘I will do it. You are not fit. Nor do you have a weapon. Trust me, Mr Quare.’

‘I do,’ he said and meant it.

She did not reply but was already pulling him onwards. Soon enough he could see that the light was coming from around a corner. Tiamat did not pause but broke into a loping run, leaving Quare to follow as best he could.

When he came around the corner, he stopped in astonishment. He stood at the entrance to a huge cavern – the largest by far that he had seen in his time underground. The floor and walls – and, as far as he could make out, the ceiling, too – were blanketed in mushrooms that emitted the yellowish glow he had noted earlier. A constant bright haze of incandescent spores drizzled down from the ceiling. It took him a moment to grow accustomed to it, as if he had emerged blinking into the light of day. But once his vision had adjusted, his gaze was drawn to the centre of the cavern, where stood a circle of dark stones such as were popularly believed to have been deposited upon the plains of England and Scotland by giants or fairies or druids in bygone days. One such site – the Nine Stones – was located on the outskirts of Dorchester, and as an apprentice Quare had sometimes ventured there to study his books and dream of clockworks and more than clockworks: of ages past, when magic had suffused the land, and of ages yet to come, when a science more wondrous would hold sway. But those had been small and stunted stones, lichen-covered, precariously tilted, two or three even toppled into the grass, so that the effect had been rather like a cemetery gone to seed. Not so here.

These stones, half again as tall as a man, stood straight and true, as if they had been erected yesterday. There were twelve of them, irregular in shape but evenly spaced, forming a circle that must have been at least fifteen yards in diameter. They had been polished to an extraordinary shine, like obsidian; yet they did not seem to reflect the light of the mushrooms so much as swallow it, giving them the look of empty, gaping holes, doorways cut into the air. There was something familiar about the shapes of the stones, but he could not quite bring it to mind.

What held Quare frozen in place despite Tiamat’s clear instructions to make for the centre of this strange and imposing edifice was less the shock of coming upon such a thing deep below the metropolis of London than the sight of her at work amidst the mushrooms, single-handedly fighting what appeared to be at least a dozen robed figures. They looked like monks in heavy brown cassocks but moved more like soldiers … or, rather, like seasoned regulators: men trained to fight and to kill with brutal economy and grace. Yet they might have been blind bumblers compared with the grey-clad demon who moved among them like a tiger – or, he thought, like a dragon.

He had never seen such fighting skill. He had never imagined it. Even Longinus would have stood no chance against her – and he was by far the best swordsman Quare had ever faced. She fought with a peculiar short sword in one hand and a long dagger in the other. The two weapons wove about her in a blur that no assailing blade or whip – for the men fought with both swords and braided ropes worn about their waists like cinctures – could penetrate. Yet notwithstanding the completeness of her defence, she somehow found or made opportunities to go on the attack. And in this she was more impressive still, as the blood of her enemies attested. She was in constant motion, her entire body a weapon: darting, tumbling, leaping, at times seeming almost to fly. Her speed was uncanny; there were moments it seemed that her opponents were standing still. This was death-dealing brought to the highest level of art … or even beyond art, to a kind of mechanized perfection. It was beautiful and terrible to watch. Her brown-robed adversaries were brave: they did not cry out, did not make any sound at all, as if they had taken vows of silence. They continued to fight even after it must have been plain to them that they stood no chance. Quare could not help but pity them. Yet he did not tear his eyes away as they fell like stalks of wheat before a merciless scythe.

So engrossed was he in this consummate display of killing craft that he forgot about the pursuing Morecockneyans until a crossbow bolt clattered off the wall beside him. Looking back, he saw a group of palely glowing men charging up the passage – which, luckily for him, was so narrow as to compel them to come in single file. That was why he had faced only a single bolt rather than half a dozen. But his pursuers would soon have ample room to spread out and fire upon him without fear of shooting each other. Cursing under his breath, he turned and ran into the cavern, making for the circle of stones.

It was not easy to run through the mushrooms; his boots crushed them into a slick paste that made every step perilous. His progress consisted more of slipping and sliding than it did of running. But he managed – just – to keep his feet. The constant rain of glowing spores from above, added to those stirred up by his passage, had soon turned his grey clothing into a suit of light. He could not help breathing the spores in; their brightness seemed to concentrate inside him, coming together into a single point of light behind his breast, hot and focused as a small sun, and it occurred to him that he might be turning into a spore himself and would soon float up from the ground. But then he thought that must be the influence of his fever rather than any transformation effected by the spores.

As he ran, too intent on keeping his balance to spare a backward glance for his pursuers, one of the remaining brown-robed men noticed him and broke away from Tiamat, angling towards him through the field of mushrooms. He was not glowing as Quare and Tiamat were; the brown robes, it seemed, were proof against the shining of the spores, which winked out like sparks settling on water upon alighting there. Quare did not think he would reach the stone circle before the man was upon him, and in any case he had no reason to believe the monument would afford him any protection from attack. Tiamat had told him that she had come this way to find him; he wondered how – assuming that were true – she had managed to avoid these silent, stalwart defenders. It was beginning to look as though he would not have the opportunity to ask her, however, for the man was close enough now that Quare could make out his features: a bulbous nose, dark eyes that regarded him with fierce, unreasoning hatred, lips bared in a soundless howl, displaying teeth filed to sharp points and an empty space where a tongue should have been. The man had lost his sword in the fight with Tiamat but was whipping his cincture in a wicked circle over his head as he came on; the thick hempen rope, Quare saw now, had an iron clasp at the end. It filled the air with a low, ominous thrumming that he felt in the very marrow of his bones.

As he tried to swerve aside, Quare’s feet shot out from under him and he went down, hearing, even as he fell, something whistle past his head. He hit hard and slid on one hip through the mushrooms, still moving in the direction of his attacker – who, he was certain, would have gathered the cincture back by now and made ready to cast it anew. But when he had slowed sufficiently to look up again, holding his bloody, rag-wrapped stump out before him as if to deflect the blow by a mute appeal to the loss he had already suffered, he saw, instead of the iron clasp descending towards his skull, his attacker falling backwards, clawing at a crossbow bolt buried in his throat. Had Quare not slipped when he had, the bolt would have struck him between the shoulder blades.

The stone circle was close now: no more than fifteen or twenty yards away. Suddenly he remembered where he had seen those shapes before. They were the same as the symbols on the hunter. And, like those symbols, the more he tried to focus upon them, the shakier they became, like living things intent on eluding his grasp, even if it were only visual. The stones, he realized, were moving, vibrating, spinning so fast that they appeared to be standing still.

He tried to pick himself up and go on, but he had landed badly, twisting his ankle, and it would not support him. Nor, he found, did he have the strength to crawl. He felt weak as a newborn babe. He lay on his back, gazing up at the ceiling of the cavern, which was lost in the sunny glow of the mushrooms growing there and in the steady downward drift of spores. There was something restful about it, like lying at the bottom of a huge hourglass as warm golden sand trickled down to cover him.

Then he was being lifted in strong arms. It was Tiamat. She did not speak, but swept him up and ran for the stone circle, shielding him with her body. Quare felt the jolt of crossbow bolts hitting home – once, twice, three times – and each time she was struck, Tiamat grunted in pain … but it was a sound that did not have much that was human about it, not at first and even less each subsequent time he heard it, as if she were casting her humanity aside like a hindering cloak, shrugging out of it as she ran. And indeed the arms that held him seemed to be changing, becoming larger, fingers lengthening into claws, the grey costume of Grimalkin toughening into leathery skin.

But was Tiamat shedding some fleshly disguise, or, instead, was the stone circle stripping it from her, skinning her alive? For the closer they drew to it, the more the air resisted them, as if the spinning stones had conjured a wind, a gale that pushed back unrelentingly. Tiamat snarled and pressed on. It seemed to Quare that she was trying to force herself through a space too small to admit her, a narrow opening or channel in the world … or rather out of it, the sides of which were scraping her raw. And yet the shape that was emerging seemed larger by far than what had contained it. It made no sense. Quare could not tell any longer what was real and what the product of his fever. The spores that had been falling like a gentle dusting of sand now pelted them like hailstones, forcing him to bury his head in the crook of his bandaged arm. Then he heard Tiamat snarl again as her body shuddered with the impact of more bolts than he could count. She gathered herself and, with a deafening roar, gave a mighty leap.

She did not come down.

Quare was in the grasp of claws larger than his body. They held him in a gentle but unbreakable grip, like the bars of an iron cage. On the other end of those claws was the dragon he had first seen in the vision he’d experienced at Lord Wichcote’s house. Tiamat, as she truly was: sleek, sinuous, serpentine, with scales as blue as the sky … so blue they seemed translucent. She was huge; he did not see how she could have squeezed herself into the body of the woman who had kissed him.

As before, the effect of her presence was immediate and intense. He had no sense that resistance was possible; it was not a matter of will or even desire but instead the plain working of some natural – or supernatural – law to which he was subject by virtue of being human. It had been no different inside the egg; there, too, he had yielded up his seed in reflexive paroxysms that were anything but pleasant. For a time, he was lost in it, swallowed up.

But at last there was nothing left. He was limp, wrung out, fever-stricken. Only then did Quare begin to take in his surroundings, though in a dreamy kind of way. Tiamat was flying with a peculiar wingless grace, seeming to swim through the air like a snake squirming through water; she did not glance down at him or seem to be aware of him at all other than by the fact that she did not drop him. There must have been a dozen or more crossbow bolts embedded in her body, but she seemed unaware of them as well. They were like thorns in the hide of an elephant.

Quare knew at once that he was back in the Otherwhere. Not so much by anything he saw – the desert landscape of reddish sand and rolling dunes far beneath them, over which Tiamat’s stark shadow glided, clinging to every indentation and swell, might have been the sands of some African or Asian desert undulating below the baleful, white-hot sun – as by the overwhelming impression he had that everything could change in an instant, that the underlying reality of the scene was very different from what his senses were equipped to perceive. He had felt the same way when Longinus had first taken him into the Otherwhere, and it had been much the same within the egg.

The egg that Aylesford was carrying to France.

At that, recalled to the urgency of things, Quare called to Tiamat, but his voice was too weak, his words borne away by the blast of the wind that was the sole indication of the dragon’s prodigious speed. Where was she taking him? And what would become of him when they got there? Much has been asked of you, she had told him. Little has been offered in return. That is about to change. But Quare had had enough change to last a lifetime. He didn’t want any more.

The desert stretched ahead without end. The sun might have been nailed to the sky.

Tiamat flew on. She did not slow, did not seem to tire. She did not once address a word to him, or glance in his direction. He wondered if she had forgotten about him. Racked by fever, he shivered and baked by turns.

It was in this state that he noticed a second shadow on the sand below. It was small, and at first he thought it was not a shadow at all but something physically present on the ground, a herd of horses, perhaps, or a caravan. But it grew, spreading like a black stain … or an angry cloud rising up to confront them. Or no, he realized dimly, with a certain distant interest, not rising but rather falling …

Tiamat swerved as something big came roaring past. At once, all was confusion. Buffeted within the cage of the dragon’s claws, Quare saw flashes of ground and sky and what might have been a living shadow, night poured into flesh. The air rang with shrieks and bellows until he thought his eardrums must burst.

Then Tiamat stopped dead in the air and hung there, her body eeling slowly, the movement somehow keeping her aloft. Streaks of a silvery liquid trickled down her blue scales. An angry hiss escaped her massive jaws.

Hovering a hundred feet away or less was a black dragon even bigger than she was. It exuded age and power. Silver ichor dripped from its claws. Its head was like a sun-blasted mountainside scored with fissures and ravines. One eye was a pearlescent orb whose surface rippled like the placid mirror of a lake disturbed by the movement of some hidden swimmer. Where the pair of that eye should have been was a dark, gaping pit into which Quare thought he might fall for ever without touching bottom. To gaze into its abyssal depths was to already be falling into them, or so it seemed. He felt himself stiffening despite his terror; then he was coming again, burning with humiliation at his helplessness, hating his human frailty, this flesh that responded without his leave, slave to masters he did not know.

Neither dragon paid him the slightest heed.

‘Where is it?’ the black thundered. ‘What have you done with my eye?’

Or was it ‘egg’? Quare, half deafened, was not sure what he had heard.

‘I do not have it,’ Tiamat replied. ‘Sister, move aside.’

‘You lie,’ the black raged. ‘You reek of time and generation! Give back what is mine – or I will take it!’

Before Tiamat could answer, the black struck. The two dragons twined together in a murderous flux, slashing, biting. They rose entangled, knotting and unknotting. The noise of their roaring was a physical thing.

The claws caging Quare came open; he fell.

He watched the dragons, still locked together, dwindle above him to a single speck. Then he began to tumble. The air swaddled him in a rough silence all its own. A flash of blue sky and sun gave way to the tawny pelt of a brown landscape leaping to meet him. Then he saw blue sky again, only a different sky, in which two suns blazed; but in the blink of an eye, this impossible vision was replaced by a slate-grey ocean stretching endlessly, wave upon wave. Another blink, and he was gazing at a night sky spangled with strange stars. Blink: a city greater than London lay buried beneath a blanket of unspoiled snow. Blink: a fleet of great ships depending from greater balloons, like Magnus’s Personal Flotation Device on an immense scale, glided through the air.

With each revolution of Quare’s tumbling body, the scene changed, as if he were flipping between worlds. But then it came to him that he wasn’t falling at all, that he was hovering in place as the dragons had done, and the sights he was seeing were glimpses of what lay beyond the spinning windows of the standing stones between which Tiamat had carried him. For all the time he had been here, for all the distance Tiamat had carried him, still he was somehow at the very centre of those stones. And if that were so, why couldn’t he just, as he had done the last time he’d been in the Otherwhere, choose a path out of it? The windows … or doors, rather, were here before him, offering themselves in swift succession. Were their shapes in some way symbolic of what they led to, like the alchemical symbols of planets and stars? If so, it was a code he could not decipher. He would have to trust to luck.

Now, without understanding what he was doing or how, as if in the grip of an instinct he hadn’t known he possessed until the moment came for its exercise, Quare groped towards a doorway, not caring where it might lead. He only knew, with a blind, animal certainty he did not question, that he could not remain here. He must escape or die. He reached out with his mind, or some aspect of his mind, like a drunken man fumbling to fit a key into a door. He thrust, thrust again. Felt himself slip in. He turned, or the world did.

All was darkness. And cold. And then it was as if he had been falling the whole time, after all. For he struck ground, or something as solid as ground, with a force that snuffed the candle of his consciousness.