The Traitor’s Sword: The Sangreal Trilogy Two. Jan Siegel

tell you about it another time. I don’t know enough yet. It’s a new place, a new world …’

      ‘Can’t you dream me with you?’

      ‘No. I mean, it would be dangerous – you could get trapped there – and anyway, I don’t have that much control.’

      You could if you wanted to, Hazel thought, suddenly convinced of it, and when he had gone she sat for a long time, her mind stuck on a single thought, going nowhere.

      Nathan, meanwhile, went to bed early and, inevitably, couldn’t sleep, let alone dream. He didn’t want to risk probing the frontier of his own volition – it might only transport him to Eos – so he sat up reading till the words ran together and he hoped exhaustion would take over, slipping across the borderland into slumber only after what seemed like hours of weary wakefulness. Even then, he woke again after a short period when his dreams were commonplace and unmemorable, slept and woke and slept again. And now, at last, his sleep was deep enough, and the portal in his head opened, and his soul poured through.

      He dreamed. Not of the princess as he had wished, nor of the city on two hills. He dreamed of the Grandir, the white-masked ruler of Eos: broken visions of him all jumbled together. The Grandir in his semicircular office high above the city, gazing out between the screens at the panorama of sunset, the western sky all fire and blood, and to the east the light reflected in a million windows, so the city sparkled like a monstrous piece of jewellery. A mounted xaurian flew past, unusually close, its hooked wingspan slicing the image in two, its bluish body turned to mauve in the glow. Then the scene changed, and the Grandir was in his secret chamber where the star-globes floated in darkness, compressed spheres of inter-dimensional space existing both in that world and in others, projecting onto the ceiling, as on a screen, glimpses of alternative universes. One of them hung in the sky above the bookshop, a star hidden among the stars, watching over Nathan and his mother – or spying on them. And then the Grandir was walking down a corridor towards a door marked Danger – it slid back automatically and there was the underground laboratory, and in a huge cage to the right was something so horrible Nathan drew back, not wanting to see it, feeling the horror of it from a distance and struggling to pull out of the dream …

      Everything changed. He was in a grey daylight room plentifully layered with dust and shadows – the cleaners had obviously gone with everyone else, taking their brooms and brushes with them. On a table by the window was an enormous open book, the reader’s place marked with a spoon. Nearby, someone silhouetted against the light was pouring things from one bottle into another, from bottle to jar, from jar to bowl. Occasionally, the mixture thus produced would change colour, or give off a tiny puff of purple smoke, or the sound of birds singing, or an eye-watering variety of smells. A diminutive oil-lamp with a naked flame, currently pale green, stood to hand; every so often the man would lift bottle or jar in a pair of tongs and warm it over the flame, whereupon the contents would bubble, or steam, or scream, until removed. As Nathan drew nearer he saw the man had a fluff of thistledown hair and very mobile eyebrows that soared in excitement and plunged in doubt according to the progress of his experiments. Frimbolus Quayne.

      Nathan was eager to talk to him but it was no good; though his sinuses smarted from one of the smells he still felt hopelessly insubstantial. Nonetheless, when the door opened he drew back instinctively into the shadows, well away from the window. The woman who walked in – or rather, bustled; she was the sort of person who bustled a lot – was the princess’s nurse, Mrs Prendergoose.

      She started to speak, but Frimbolus held up a hand. ‘Hush, woman! I am doing something very important. It needs the utmost concentration …’ He held a glass jar over the flame and carefully added a single drop of liquid from a phial which smoked. Inside the jar, there was a small – a very small – explosion. When things settled down, what remained appeared to be fluid, lime-green and phosphorescent. ‘Blinkus!’ Frimbolus swore. ‘Ah well, I didn’t really think it would work. But it was worth a try. Madam, what can I do for you?’

      Mrs Prendergoose didn’t look as though she liked being called Madam – clearly she felt it had offensive undertones – but she got straight to the point. ‘I want to talk to you,’ she said, ‘about the princess.’

      ‘What about her?’

      ‘She’s not a child any more, she’s a young lady –’

      ‘Dear me, is she?’

      ‘– and a pretty young lady, too, or she would be, if she got the chance to prettify herself a bit. Instead – look at her! Her dresses are all in tatters and we can’t get the material here to make new ones – her hair’s always in a tangle no matter how hard I brush it – she sits around in the gloom all day worrying about Urdemons and the state of the kingdom when she should be choosing her gown for a party – she never gets to meet anyone or go anywhere …’

      ‘What do you suggest we do to remedy these ills?’ Frimbolus inquired.

      ‘She needs to get away – right away. She could go to her uncle, the duke of Quilp, or those cousins in Marplott – she stayed with them a few years back, and there wasn’t any trouble then.’

      ‘Trouble?’

      ‘You know what I mean, don’t pretend you don’t. There wasn’t none of this business with magic and monsters that’s driving the poor child out of her mind –’

      ‘I thought you said she wasn’t a child?’ Frimbolus interrupted.

      Mrs Prendergoose ignored him. ‘I’m not saying it’s her fault – she’s the sweetest thing in nature, just growing a bit obstinate – but it wasn’t till she started playing around with magic that them Urdemons turned up: you can’t deny it. There’s got to be a connection, hasn’t there?’

      ‘Oh yes, there’s a connection,’ Frimbolus said, with a wealth of sinister meaning. ‘That doesn’t mean it’s cause and effect. You’ve been stuffing her head with notions of self-blame, haven’t you? Telling her she’s the plague-carrier, the imp among cherubim? Thyrma Prendergoose, if this kingdom was properly run I’d see you executed for treason! As if Nell doesn’t have enough to bear, without shouldering a load of guilt that doesn’t belong to her!’

      ‘How dare you!’ The nurse was shaking with anger. ‘How dare you talk to me of – of treason! I love the princess, and if you did you’d want what I want for her. If she went away all this magical nonsense would stop –’

      ‘How do you know that?’

      ‘The magic’s here, bad magic, it’s common knowledge. Or it would be, if there were any commoners left. The king’s sick, the family’s cursed – cursed with that evil sword they’ve been hanging on to for centuries – a sword that jumps up all by itself and stabs people. A sword like that, what do you expect? That’s where all the bad magic comes from. I won’t have my Nellwyn spending her whole life under a cloud. If she could get away from the sword, she’d get away from the curse. She could have a normal life, be happy … That’s all I want for her.’