The Dog of the North (17 page)

The stout-coach had small windows set high, and Arren could not see within. Looking over his shoulder to ensure he was not observed, he clambered onto one of the wheels, which brought him closer
to the window. He leaned across, one hand on the roof, and by stretching his neck was able to reach the bottom quadrant of the window.

He peered through. Nothing out of the ordinary was evident. His night-vision was good, but there was no cage, no rope, simply a plain couch, a chaise and various chests and robes. Where, then,
was the dimonetto?

He pushed further on his toes against the wheel’s rim to afford himself a better view. Was that a flash of movement? Stretching too far, Arren slipped and crashed to the ground, landing
heavily on his elbow. He stood up and brushed the dust from his shirt. Even if he had caught a glimpse of the dimonetto, it was not enough to make a proper report to Eilla on his return. What if
there were no dimonetto at all? The information it had provided could easily have been fabricated, and none of it was in any way controversial or surprising. Pinch had always stressed that most
magical effects could be achieved through charlatanry, and that indeed this was usually the best course. No wonder he had seen nothing through the window, and that Pinch had been unwilling to
submit the dimonetto to inspection! He liked Master Pinch – he did not have the hypocrisy of Viator Sleech, or the arid sarcasms of Master Guiles – but nonetheless this matter should be
drawn to Lord Thaume’s attention.

He set off back towards the war council. Unbidden, the image of Foulque swinging from the town gallows came to his mind. Lord Thaume was on the whole a fair and just lord, but he tended towards
the arbitrary in his exercise of justice. It seemed unlikely that he would hang Master Pinch, but Arren felt that he should at least verify the facts before apprising Lord Thaume.

He turned back towards the stout-coach. Pinch did not even have the door closed; instead a heavy burgundy curtain was drawn across the entrance, with a white lightning-bolt embroidered. This
would hardly be likely to hinder a hypothetical dimonetto’s escape, he thought.

With a deep breath he pulled back the curtain. Inside the coach all was as it had appeared through the window. The air inside seemed a little filmy, his perceptions dulled. An effect of the
moonlight . . .

He stepped across the portal into the coach: he would have much to explain should Pinch return now. His eye was drawn to the chaise where Pinch presumably relaxed. Was there something underneath
it? He dropped to the floor and peered into the shadow. As he looked into the gloom he heard a noise he could not identify. There was something under there! He was conscious of the rapid beating of
his heart. Foolish to be afraid of a noise, which could easily come from a rodent.

Clack-clack-clack.

From under the chaise crawled – something. It was brownish in colour; it had wings; and it was about the size of a pigeon – but it was no bird. Its skin was leathery, it appeared to
have at least four wings, with four legs terminating in clawed paws. The head was not unlike an eagle’s, with a cruel beak and malevolent golden eyes. Perhaps Pinch was not so mendacious
after all . . .

Clack-clack-clack.
The noise was the scratch of the creature’s claws on the wooden floor. The dimonetto advanced towards him, its eyes level with Arren’s as he lay prone on
the floor facing it. It looked into his eyes with an expression Arren had no hope of deciphering. He told himself this was a dimonetto of no force, less intelligent than a bird, and he had found it
hiding under the chaise. It was probably more alarmed than he was. And somehow Pinch had it ‘pent by magic’ – perhaps the symbols on the curtain.

The dimonetto opened its beak.
Arkh! Arkh! Arkh!

It leaped into the air, flapped its wings and skipped across Arren’s back to the doorway. In no way inconvenienced by whatever method Pinch had used to bind it, it flew unsteadily out into
the camp.

Arren scampered out after it. ‘Come back!’ he called, conscious as he did so that this was a foolish thing to say. ‘Master Pinch! The dimonetto has escaped!’

The dimonetto appeared unsure what do with its new freedom. It circled above the stout-coach croaking with an unpleasant timbre. Pinch ran with a waddling gait, Lord Thaume at his back.

‘What have you done, boy?’ shouted Pinch. ‘Have you let it out?’

‘I only wanted to look,’ mumbled Arren.

‘Fool!’ Pinch ran into his coach. The dimonetto ceased its croaking, settled to the ground and scampered under the nearest coach, which happened to be Viator Sleech’s.

Pinch emerged with what looked like a crystal in his hand.
‘Hnorr hnapp hnopp,’
he said, or something similar. Beads of sweat were standing out on his forehead.

‘Fnurr fnapp fnopp.
Return to your cave.’

The dimonetto appeared disinclined to leave the sanctuary of Viator Sleech’s coach.

‘You, Arren,’ said Pinch. ‘Drag it out.’

‘But sir!’ said Arren.

Lord Thaume said: ‘You released it. You bring it back.’

Recognizing the justice of Lord Thaume’s judgement, Arren dropped to the ground and crawled under the coach. The dimonetto’s eyes gleamed in the darkness as it backed against the far
wheel. Arren wriggled further under the coach and reached out.
Arkh!
called the dimonetto and bit Arren’s hand. He cursed but managed to get his hands around it. The dimonetto was warm
to the touch – in fact it was actively and uncomfortably hot.

‘Pull me out!’ he called, waving his feet, which protruded from underneath the coach. He felt hands grasping his ankles and he was dragged into the camp and hauled erect.

‘Hold it still!’ commanded Pinch.

‘It’s hot!’

‘Of course it’s hot – it’s a dimonetto. Hold still!’

Arren did as he was told.

Pinch touched the crystal to the dimonetto’s head. It glowed with a pulsing blue radiance.
‘Avato!’
he cried. Arren felt a puckering sensation on his palms and then a
sense of lightness. The dimonetto was gone.

Arren looked at Pinch, his hands throbbing. Pinch was drained of all colour, his face as white as his hair. The irises of his grey eyes were barely visible against the whites.

‘We will discuss this tomorrow,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘Arren, you have disappointed me.’

Darrien said: ‘You are my son, but Lord Thaume’s subject. I hope he punishes you well.’

Arren looked at the ground.

Pinch said: ‘The lad’s hands will be burnt. The dimonetto carried some of the energy of the Unseen Dimensions with it. There is a salve in my coach which is effective. See that it is
applied to the burns.’

With that, Pinch crashed to the ground in a swoon. The cost of dispersing the dimonetto had been considerable.

7

The next morning Lord Thaume made his way through the mists to arrive at Arren’s squadron, accompanied by Master Pinch and Sir Artingaume, who was Arren’s
commander. The pain from Arren’s hands had ensured he passed a poor night’s sleep, and he hunched disconsolately before his tent.

‘Take the bandages off,’ said Pinch. ‘I would examine the wounds.’

Oricien unwrapped the linen. After a brief examination Pinch announced himself satisfied.

‘I am sorry, Master Pinch,’ said Arren. ‘I was curious to see what a dimonetto looked like.’

Pinch gave a wan smile. ‘You need only have asked.’

‘I did not bring you to be curious,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘You are here to learn warfare, not thaumaturgy. I take it the dimonetto is gone, Pinch.’

Master Pinch nodded. ‘I had no option but to disperse it. It would have been complex to bring it once more under control. We do not have the option of using it again today.’

Sir Artingaume shot Arren a baleful glance.

‘How was the dimonetto pent, Master Pinch?’ asked Arren. ‘I noticed no obvious restraint, and it escaped at the first opportunity.’

‘You have done enough damage with your curiosity, boy,’ growled Sir Artingaume. ‘Such questions suggest you have not learned your lesson.’

Guigot strolled back in from his morning visit to the latrine trench. ‘Arren is incorrigible,’ he said, stretching the last of the night’s sleep away. ‘But I am sure we
are all interested in this aspect of thaumaturgy.’

‘Let the lads indulge their curiosity,’ said Pinch. ‘There is little enough of it about, and a spirit of inquiry is the root of all true wisdom. Lord Thaume’s army would
be valiant if composed of five thousand Sir Artingaumes, but his city would be the poorer as a result.’

Lord Thaume compressed his lips against a smile. ‘Arren has paid a high price for his curiosity. Why should he not have the answers?’

Master Pinch paused to collect his thoughts. ‘You may have noticed, Arren, that the air in the stout-coach was different in nature to that outside: thick and heavy. That is the air of the
Unseen Dimension, held by a charm in my stout-coach. In entering the coach you burst the bubble, and the spell maintaining it. It allowed the dimonetto the opportunity and incentive to
escape.’

‘You will forgive me, Master Pinch,’ said Oricien, ‘but I was mindful of your lessons on thaumaturgy and misdirection. I half-suspected that the dimonetto did not
exist.’

‘Then Arren has, unwittingly at least, worked to my credit, since no one can now doubt its veracity. Nonetheless, I do not wish to have my integrity questioned or my stout-coach violated,
and the lad must be punished.’

Arren looked quizzically at Oricien. He had shown none of his doubts last night. Events might have gone better if they had investigated the dimonetto together.

‘I have already instructed Serjeant Fleuraume in Arren’s punishment,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘Arren, it was always my intention that you should provide an intelligent
counsellor for Oricien when he comes to rule, but you must develop greater judgement in when to exercise your spirit of inquiry.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ he said, bowing as Lord Thaume turned on his heel and went about his business.

‘Arren!’ called Fleuraume, ‘there are many pots requiring washing. Lord Thaume tells me Pinch has salved your hands, and you will be experiencing domestic duties for a while.
My own jerkin has popped a seam; once the pots are clean you will turn your attention to its repair.’

Arren’s head drooped but he said nothing. The sooner the breakfast pots were begun, the sooner they were finished.

8

A dimonetto summoned for obscure purposes, flying high before the moon, would perhaps have seen little difference between the two hosts encamped below it. The press of
human affairs would have interested it not at all, and it would have seen in the huddled postures around the camp-fires none of the fears so ineptly concealed by the men of the North and South. On
Jehan’s Steppe they camped; on the morrow they would meet.

Lord Thaume carried out the traditional general’s task of wandering among his men throughout the night, assessing their mood and heartening them where necessary. When he returned to his
tent dawn was only a couple of hours away. On impulse he got up and walked across to Serjeant Fleu-raume’s squadron, where there was little sleep. He sat down by the fire between Fleuraume
and Oricien, where Arren and Guigot were also warming themselves.

‘I remember my first battle,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘My father Lord Gaucelis had answered King Arren’s call to chastise King Gundovald in Gammerling. We fought on the shores
of Lake Vasi and we were beaten in two hours.’

‘That is scarcely a promising portent, my lord,’ said Fleuraume, poking at the embers. ‘Should you not be telling us of your victories?’

‘The outcome of the battle is only indirectly relevant. King Arren was ill-advised to fight, and his defeat prevented a lengthy and unnecessary war. He has learned wisdom since, including
the important precept “Only fight when you must.” I still remember my feelings the night before the battle: like you, lads, I could not sleep. But once the battle came I was not afraid:
I did not have time to be. I killed my first man, then another and another. By the end I was not counting. Our wing, which my father commanded, was not beaten. Indeed, we had almost broken through
when Arren called for terms. Lord Gaucelis was a fine commander.’

‘Are you telling us we should not be afraid?’ asked Guigot, the fire reflecting in his eyes.

‘The very opposite,’ said Lord Thaume. ‘I am telling you that fear is natural, and that come tomorrow morning you will find courage and not know where it has come
from.’

‘I am not afraid to start with,’ said Guigot. ‘I only anticipate the chance to show my prowess. My own father was at the Battle of Lake Vasi, and King Arren knighted him on the
field.’

‘If you have no fear, I envy you, Guigot, although perhaps I pity you as well. And yes, I remember Lord Borel’s valour that day. His helm was dinted in the first pass, and he had a
sore cut to the scalp, but no one fought better.’

‘He fought better than you, my lord?’ asked Guigot with a queer smile.

Lord Thaume looked at him. ‘Of course, for the King knighted him.’

‘I am surprised you admit it so freely, my lord.’

‘My valour is my own, and I fought well that day. I do not diminish my own achievements by acknowledging Lord Borel’s. Do not forget he was my brother as well as your
father.’

‘I never forget it for a moment, my lord,’ said Guigot with a smile that had nothing agreeable in it. He poked a stick into the fire, provoking a flurry of sparks.

‘He has been dead these past thirteen years, Guigot, as has my own father. Much has happened since, and we must concentrate on our own deeds on the morrow.’

‘Perhaps such a sentiment comes more easily when you have known your father, my lord.’

‘Nothing can bring Lord Borel back, Guigot. Tomorrow you become a man in your own right.’

Guigot pursed his lips and nodded. ‘As you say, my lord.’

‘Oricien, you are quiet,’ said Lord Thaume.

‘I am thinking of what must come,’ Oricien said, pulling his gaze away from the fire. ‘Sir Langlan encourages a period of calm reflection at this time, since there is no more
preparation to be done.’