Panic set in. People were running and shouting. A jumble of shapes appeared in the foggy confusion at the crater’s mouth. Karr, Reeth and Kutch strained to see what was happening.
Suddenly a centaur scrambled out of the hole, rearing and bellowing. It galloped through the stampeding mob, lashing out at people and knocking them aside.
A great swarm of tiny flying creatures emerged and set about plaguing the crowd like angry wasps. They proved to be fairies, their faces screwed into fiendish expressions, with wickedly curved claws in place of fingers. Kutch and the patrician struck at them frantically with flapping arms and balled fists. Reeth took wide, powerful swings at them with his broadsword. Scores exploded and vanished.
Horned demons leapt from the crater pit. Red-skinned, chisel-toothed, with crazy eyes. Goats with babies’ heads stumbled into view. Snakes with multiple legs, like centipedes. A flock of white bats, spreading rustling, serrated wings. Enormous indigo scorpions with silver bells for stingers.
‘The Dreamtime must have been a bit like this,’ Kutch reckoned.
Reeth looked unhappy with the comparison.
‘How do we know what quality they are?’ Karr shouted. He meant whether they were insubstantial and essentially innocuous glamours, or the more solid and costly variety that could interact and harm.
‘I don’t know what kind this sort of rupture would throw up,’ Kutch explained. ‘Probably both.’ He swiped at a cluster of vexatious fairies.
‘How do we know which is which?’
Kutch shrugged his shoulders.
‘Trial and error,’ Caldason offered as he decapitated a diving bat. The creature dispersed in a mist of fading embers.
Four or five miniature whirlwinds spun out of the pit. They took off in different directions, gathering masses of leaves and twigs, sucking up bricks from the stubby foundations, battering people aside.
A horde of huge spiders with venom-dripping fangs scuttled over the rim. Some made for the adjoining houses and scurried up their walls. Others began weaving webs of gold to snare the fleeing crowd.
Through the mist and chaos, Caldason thought he saw a mermaid, swimming in air. Gnarled dwarves, malevolent goblins and inebriated pixies hopped from the pit. A pair of black doves soared overhead, cooing impossibly loudly. Fountains of multicoloured sparks burst through cracks snaking out from the crater mouth.
Above the turmoil, the shrill sound of bells could be heard. Several wagons arrived at speed, loaded with men and their gear.
‘Thank the gods!’ Karr exclaimed. ‘A repair gang.’
The crews tumbled off the wagons and began wading through what was left of the crowd. They stepped over bodies on the ground, injured or worse. The crew were shouting, ordering people clear, threatening and shoving them away.
About half the repair crew were sorcerers, wielding elaborate staffs, and they concentrated on cancelling the magic. Their wands spewed fiery nullifying spells. When the dazzling yellow streaks hit, glamours imploded and dissipated. Steadily, the sorcerers obliterated and corralled their way to the crater and started to surround it. More wagons drew up, and men on horseback. There were militia and, inevitably, paladins among them.
‘Past time we were leaving,’ Karr suggested.
As they slipped away, Caldason muttered, ‘Did I tell you how much I hate big cities?’
16
In the centre of Valdarr the structures of the old kingdom mingled with the newer, more flamboyant edifices of its imperial conquerors. One of the recent additions was a grand stadium. It was the largest covered space in Bhealfa, save the gutted palace, with room for many hundreds of spectators.
For anyone wanting a microcosm of Bhealfan society, the auditorium served well enough.
The private boxes were reserved for Gath Tampoor functionaries, political, military and diplomatic. There were places for wives, concubines, and children with their glamour nannies and companions. Commanders of paladin clans, the priesthood and high-ranking sorcerers had boxes, along with Bhealfan dignitaries favoured by the empire.
Leading merchants, notables from the approved arts, guild masters and usurers occupied the balconies. The stalls were the province of ‘ordinary’ citizens, albeit the well-connected and those rich enough to afford the prices.
This evening there was standing room only. Except for the Prince’s empty box, which surprised no one.
The stage, which was large, was dressed simply but elegantly. No set or superfluous props, just skilfully arranged layers of coloured velvets, with a rainbow fan centrepiece. Subtle glamoured lighting added its own special glow.
There was just one performer on the rostrum. He was well-built, verging on stocky, as classical singers tended to be, and his height was a little below the norm. His dark hair was short and he had a neat chin beard. He wore a black silk stage costume with a yellow sunburst motif on the chest. At slightly above thirty, he was handsome, in a solid kind of way.
Kinsel Rukanis may not have been the greatest tenor in the two empires, but he was unquestionably a contender for that title. He had rivals more technically adept, and a few who could equal the range and sophistication of his voice. Arguably, none had his interpretative powers. His ability to convey the emotional force of a libretto, to make it accessible, had secured the Gath Tampoorian’s fame and fortune.
Rukanis shunned glamour amplification, using only the power of his lungs to cast his voice to the farthest parts of the hushed theatre. He had worked his way through a familiar, much-loved repertoire. Naturally,
After Dark
and
The Story of Your Heart
had featured. His rendition of
Whispering Gods
was received with delight, and
On Wings of Stars
brought an ovation.
Now he performed a song closely associated with him, and one of the most popular:
Far Have I Journeyed in the Realm of Dreams
. For this finale the theatre’s special effects enchanters were allowed a hand. Rukanis believed in using such effects sparingly. His attitude was that concerts were concerts, not image shows.
He was into the second verse when the glamour materialised. It was a quality piece of work. An egg-shaped, doorsized loop of linked bubbles appeared in the air next to him. It filled with clouds, puffy white against flawless blue. The vista held for a while as he sang. Then cracks formed, branching out to jigsaw the scene.
A silent explosion, and the loop shattered into a hundred thousand tiny crystal shards, like droplets of brass, lancing off in all directions, catching the light before they vanished. When the dazzle cleared, a figure was floating beside Rukanis, as though gently suspended in water.
She was stingingly beautiful. Her golden hair formed a rippling nimbus and there was fire in her emerald eyes. The silky tendrils of her garments drifted and swayed in unseen currents.
The glamour moved into a lithe, sensuous dance, her dainty feet skimming an invisible plane in a ballet echoing the tragic romance Rukanis expressed in song. His depiction of the lyric’s bittersweet sentiments and her exposition had the audience enraptured.
Rukanis came to the story’s culmination, the point where its fated lovers are compelled to part. As he reached the climax and its portrayal of loss and hope, rapture and heartbreak, the glamour began to weep. Not tears, but diamonds. They flowed from her remarkable eyes as silvery liquid. Rolling down her marbled cheeks, they solidified and fell as twinkling gems, pattering onto the stage in increasing abundance. They glanced off, some bouncing into the orchestra pit, a few over the first rows of the stalls, but evaporating before they landed.
Voice soaring, Rukanis brought the piece to an end. Tears dried, the glamour turned and blew him a kiss. Then she vaporised, her essence sinking as fine silver rain towards the stage, but never reaching it. Rukanis bowed.