The Heart of Winter 1

sorry, I meant to post this earlier, but our Morrison's delivery was early and I got sidetracked by the logistics of packing fish fingers. 

Sheridan Winter’s bride, Fanny, died in a freak snowstorm on her way to marry him, and his heart has been frozen ever since. Fanny’s little sister, Lucy, would like to melt the heart of Winter, in which she is aided and abetted by Sherry’s sister, Marjorie. Sherry looks as though he might be ready to emerge from his frozen state, but unfortunately, two young people who love each other very much, and know each other fairly well, but not well enough, can hurt each other very badly in any attempt to drag romance into the relationship.

Fortunately, Sherry’s mother is ready to come to the rescue of a romance she would like to promote, with calm good sense and an understanding of both young people.

Chapter 1

 

Winter Hall,

Oxenbridge,

Wiltshire,

7^th February 1787

My dearest Marjorie,

You will remind Sherry that poor dear Lucy finishes school at Easter, won’t you? He promised Fanny that he would care for her little sister if anything happened to her, and it’s four years now since poor Fanny died. Is there no sign of him recovering? Really, one has to admire his loyalty, but he should think of the family name as well. I expect he will foist poor Lucy onto you, my love, but at least Babbington is an easy-going husband to you, and will not make a fuss. But do make sure Sherry is polite to her, and pays, for having promised, he should keep his  promise, and ignoring the child in case she has grown to look painfully like her sister is the height of bad manners. And she looks nothing like poor Fanny, poor child, being shamefully skinny, and quite red in aspect, where Fanny was ethereally blonde. 

Can you ask in town if there is any preparation to deal with moles? I have had mole catcher after mole catcher, and the little beasts are, I swear, laughing at me.  Another hill has popped up within sight of the window as I write. It is fortunate that Sherry has never had any desire to flatten the lawn, for it would be fighting a losing battle. I just object to the unsightly effect the moles have. If they would only leave small hills, I should mind less. But Sherry cares for nothing but keeping himself occupied, and, I suspect, tipsy. It is high time he got over it, and married. I wager half his grief is bad habit, and would improve if  he would only take a course of liver pills and find a girl compliant enough to learn to sport in the bedroom.

Your loving mother.

 

8 Harley Street

London

12^th February 1787

Dearest Mama,

I have reminded Sherry of his duty to pick up Lucy from the academy in Bath, and offered to have her to stay. Babbington does not, as you surmised, mind, he is very good natured, which is why I married him. Sometimes he is too good natured and  I have to work to irritate him enough not to just agree with me, but he is getting to know when I expect him to be a prop and stay, and disagree with me tactically. You trained Papa well enough, so I am sure Babbington will learn. And he does care enough to put his foot down  if he really minds. I had to wheedle to get him to agree to let me wear a robe a la reine. But he has agreed that they are not immodest and that I look very nice in one. He likes being able to embrace me without panniers or bum-roll! So I expect my summer wardrobe will include more of the same. And I will outfit Lucy in such, for the heat in town in summer can be prodigious.

You are right about Sherry, I fear; he is always at some gathering or other, looking like the soul of sobriety and never less than half cut. He has not moved out of blacks, and though it is a coup for any society hostess to get him to come to her event, if you ask me, his presence is enough to cast a blight anywhere. He is sarcastic and almost rude when he does speak to anyone, he does dance now, but only with married women or gazetted flirts, whose name he then forgets next time he meets them. He is downright disagreeable these days. I hope he may fall in love with Lucy and be spurned by her, for he deserves it, but he will not.

Mama, on no account buy any patent preparations for moles. It is all a hum, and some of them are dangerous. Just resign yourself to the little perishers until they move on and then have the men roll the lawn.

Your loving daughter, Marjorie.

 

Mrs. Godings School

4 Laura Place

Bath

14^th February, 1787

 

Dear Sherry,

Mrs. Godings says I ought not to be so free with a diminutive of your given name, but I remember you telling me I should get used to you being family. And when you write to me you sign yourself ‘Sherry’ not ‘Sheridan Winter’ so I will use it unless you tell me not to do so.

Marjorie said she would remind you that term ends on March 23^rd, which is the end of my schooling, so I will have considerably more luggage than can be squeezed into a curricle. Which is a shame, because there is nothing like driving in your curricle at prodigious speed. You will collect me, won’t you, not urge me to hire a chaise? We don’t have maids at school, and we are not allowed much in the way of an allowance, as you know, being my trustee, and I would feel somewhat intimidated stopping for comfort breaks in inns without someone with me. I do not think anyone could mistake me for a woman of easy virtue, though I am not precisely sure what a woman of easy virtue might be, or why it is undesirable, since I would love to find it easy to be virtuous, as I have to pray very hard to want to repent of my numerous catalogue of misdeeds [Miss Godings’s description] and not to want to giggle at them again.  I ask you, Sherry! When a poor little duckling has been separated from its mama and the rest of the gaggle [do ducks come in gaggles?] what else is one to do but pick it up and arrange a temporary pond in a bath tub? I wasn’t even trying to be naughty over that, nor do I consider it wrong. I know I was bad to put lye soap in Amabel’s comb so it made her hair icky and stung her scalp, but people who boast of their golden curls and make disparaging remarks about red hair and sneer so are almost asking for retribution. I opened my eyes wide and said that I had set the comb to soak because of the huge amounts of scurf jammed in it [a calumny but she deserves it] and must have  failed to rinse it properly. So I got away with that, which is my worst actual misdeed this term. I was whipped for firing paper pellets at the back of Amabel’s neck with an elder stem pipe I made but it was well worth it for the shriek she put up about being stung by bees. In January? Honestly!  And it wasn’t me who ground sugar to put in the salt-cellar. I don’t know who did, but I do not approve of Mrs. Godings not believing me, for I either have an excuse or I own up to my misdeeds.

Anyway, if you get a report on me, I didn’t do that, but they didn’t find out that I slipped Amabel some senna for accusing me.  I bet she did it to get me into trouble.

Love,  Lucy Laughton.

 

Sheridan Winter chuckled at the letter. What a harum scarum child Lucy was! Surely she could not be leaving school? He counted on his fingers. She had been fourteen when Fanny had been caught in that snowdrift on the way to marry him, and froze to death, freezing his heart with it. She must be eighteen now... well, she was old enough to come out, and his sister was willing to bring her out. Marjorie was always a good sport.  He had asked her more than once why she had married a dry stick like Frank Babbington, and Marjorie had told him, ‘Bab is reliable, Sherry!” as if that explained it all.

He had better write back to Lucy that he would be there to pick her up.

 

11 Upper Wimpole St.

London

17^th February

 

Dear Lucy,

Yes, I did invite you to call me Sherry, in anticipation of becoming your brother; we are both bereaved, but I still count you as a little sister, or possibly my favourite pest. You don’t seem to have grown out of being a pest; don’t think I have forgotten you filling my boots with frogspawn to test my temper to see if I was suitable for Fanny. I was impressed by your fearless and unapologetic owning up to the deed, and explaining why. Your loyalty to your sister earned more approval from me than disapprobation. I was also pleased that you were desirous of returning the frog spawn to its pond, in the hopes that some would survive; and I remember you checking it out until it hatched.

However, I am mostly writing to tell you that I will be picking you up in the morning of the 23^rd March, and I will bring a maid engaged by Marjorie for your countenance as the road to Bath cannot readily be traversed to London in one day. I have heard that the mail can do it in 13 hours nowadays, but you do not want to be rattled like a pea in a frying pan, and moreover I have too much respect for my nags. Consequently we shall stay overnight somewhere sufficiently respectable. I expect Marjorie will know which is the best hostelry.

No, you may not dress as a boy to be either my tiger or sit on the driver’s seat. I may teach you to drive in London, but only in a curricle and only in the park. I may let you sit up beside me if it is fine on quiet stretches, if you promise to behave yourself.

You see, I know you too well.

Sherry Winter.

 

“He does know me too well,” said Lucy to herself.

 

Mrs. Godings School

4 Laura Place

Bath

21^st February

Dear Sherry,

I look forward to your arrival.  I have mostly enjoyed school, but I am finding it boring now. I did study some of your school books which I filched from the attic when I was staying with your Mama last year, which were more interesting. It’s not fair, boys have more fun than girls. However, I now know more about Arithmetic than we are taught, and I want to try out the theories of Fermat and Pascal when I am on the town.  But I also understand acids and bases and I shall add tartaric acid to the toothpowders of all the preceptresses for the last morning, so I can watch them froth at the mouth as most toothpowders are based on soda ash. It should be a really good show! Then I can put aside such pranks in order to become a young lady, which is not going to be easy, but at least will have the novelty of being different.

Your pest, Lucy.

 

“She is a pest,” murmured Sherry.

“Who is?” asked his friend, Bernard Underwood. Bernard was heir to a viscounty, and had been through school and university with Sherry.

“Fanny’s little sister; she’s leaving school. They are probably glad to be rid of her. But that’s what you get when a young girl with a lively, enquiring mind is trammelled into the things girls learn at school. Well, she has money, so she doesn’t have to marry straight away. She can afford to wait for someone who appreciates her.”

“Just as well; if I recall correctly, she’s a carroty little thing with freckles and skinned knees,” said Bernard.

“I’m sure she’s grown out of having skinned knees,” said Sherry, who was not actually sure, but had a vague feeling that Lucy was his pest and he needed to defend her.

“Well, if she ain’t, it’d be peculiar,” said Bernard. “Cured of skinned knees, I mean. You don’t have young ladies with skinned knees.”

“I can’t say I’ve ever looked,” said Sherry. “Never mind my pest’s knees! I’m supposed to be a brother to her, and I’m glad she doesn’t look like Fanny. It would be too cruel.”

 

 

8 Harley Street

London

March 12^th.

 

Dear Lucy,

I have engaged a maid for you, who is the younger sister of my personal maid. Her name is Molly, and she is a little rough around the edges, being used to helping around her father’s farm and not having gone into service before. However, I am sure she will oblige in every way, as she seems keen and eager. Sherry will divert to see Mama and pick Molly up on his way to collect you. Try not to plague him too much.

Marjorie.

 

2, The Cottages,

Winteringham estate

Wiltshire

13^th March

 

Dearest Maggie,

Cor, who’d of thought I’d be in service to a fashionable young lady! I’ll reelly have to mind my P’s and Q’s, speshully in front of Mr. Winter who is wot they call ‘orse-tear’ or in other words a Friday-faced curmudgeon. I suppose it is called ‘orse-tear’ because it’s enough to make a nag weep. 

I hopes my lady ain’t as managing as yours.

Molly.

 

8 Harley Street,

London,

18^th March

Molly, you little fool, I am having to waste my Sunday off writing to you so you behave. The word is ‘Austere’ and has nothing to do with horses. It means of serious mien, and not demonstrative. And don’t you dare talk to him or ask about it! He was engaged to marry your new lady’s older sister, who died, and he is bereaved.  Now you behave yourself and don’t you cause me mortification for asking questions all the time.

Your sister, Margaret.

 

“Oh, that is romantic, I should think he will fall in love with Miss Lucy now she’s all grown up, shouldn’t you?” said Molly to her brother, Jack.

“Now you do as you’re told, behave yourself, and never mind romance, Molly Meadowes,”

“You have no soul,” said Molly.

“Well, some on us has to grow out o’ that nonsense to make a way in life,” said Jack. “And I know you, your tongue is hung in the middle. You’d think at fifteen you’d of grown out of such nonsense, but we can do with you getting a wage so we can get another cow.”

Molly stuck a tongue out at her brother’s back, and took her bandbox to await being taken up by Mr. Winter on his way to Bath.

 

Jermak in England 1

Chapter 1 Autumn 1648



“I suppose you’re some kind of Papist, Colonel Or-zell?” asked the austere de facto leader of the British Parliament. He regarded the, to him, outlandishly dressed young man in amazement. The man wore a gaudy long coat of brocade in golds and browns and black, the split sleeves hanging entirely loose, not merely open with the wrists in the cuffs as some of the more fanciful fashions of the west dictated. Under the hem of this garment might be seen trousers of considerable width, which neither fastened to the knee nor hung with beribboned or lace edges, but tucked into neat, soft boots. His dark hair was in a single lock which hung from the centre of his otherwise shaven head as he doffed the extraordinary fur hat to bow down to the ground, in a very different fashion to the western making of a leg. His sword.... was very workmanlike and large.

“It’s Orzeł, my lord. Eagle, it means. And, my lord, I don’t ask your religion nor make any comment on it, and perhaps you will do me the courtesy to do likewise,” said Jermak. “We both love God; let us leave it at that, for I wager when we both stand before the Almighty, naked and stripped of all human vanity, he will explain to us both how mortal men’s forms of worship fall short of His design, and we shall run, exposed and ashamed, on His mighty palm until we are forgiven the transgressions we repent, and permitted into Paradise. How can any mortal man frame the Almighty in such a way as to comprehend His will? To try to do so is arrogance, and pride, and a deadly sin.”

Cromwell stared. Then he nodded.

“Well spoken, young man; I hear the sincerity in your voice. I like a man who knows his own mind and is not afraid to speak it; your king has chosen well.”

Jermak hid a grin that Prince Jeremi Wiśniowiecki had suggested his name to King Jan Kazimierz, to get Jermak out of the way of Chmielnicki who had taken it into his head that Jermak was some kind of spymaster, because of his ward, Ninochka, sending intelligence to Jeremi.

“I’m a plain, blunt man, my lord, and I believe in plain, blunt speaking,” said Jermak.

“Good; I shall like you the more for it,” said Cromwell. “Your wife, as I understand, is the child of a Royalist.”

“Nominally,” said Grace. “My father, Charles Greville, believed firmly in the divine right of Charles Greville, and it got him poisoned by a Russian Prince. I am a believer in the Royal Commonwealth of Poland-Lithuania, but as a native English speaker, I am of use to my husband. We elect our kings in Poland, from those eligible, which seems more sensible than strict primogeniture. I knew both the deposed king’s young sons, and unless they’ve improved, I wouldn’t trust either of them with the running of more than a whelk stall in Billingsgate.”

A rare smile ghosted across Cromwell’s face.

“They teach you to be forthright in Poland,” he said.

“We’re Polish Cossacks; the word ‘Cossack’ means free man,” said Grace. “In its literal interpretation, not the freed-man of ancient Rome, who was a freed slave. We have a patron in Prince Jeremi Wiśniowiecki, who put forward our names as ambassadors, but for mutual loyalty only. We named our eldest for him.”

“There are others logged as your children who are surely too old for either of you to be parents to?”

“Our adopted children; yes,” said Jermak. “The Tatars raid, and seize young people for slaves. Sadly, many communities will not take them back, declaring them dead, because they cannot cope with the trauma such youngsters have been through. Even those not deflowered. We were in a position to rescue a number. One community took their own back; another ... did not. We split them between my Uncle Osyp and his English wife and ourselves, and also the orphaned daughter of the szlachcic ... the lord ... of the lands I inherited. Kamila and Aleksandra are both fifteen. They are adequate warriors and can take care of themselves. They wish to be as martial as my wife and aunt, who learned to be warriors through your civil war.”

“Women have no place in war,” said Cromwell.

“Tell that to the rapacious soldiers who overrun cities raping, looting and burning,” said Grace.

“My men do not do that.”

“My lord, you are a strong warlord like Prince Jeremi. Not all are,” said Grace, dryly. “I can defend my lord’s lands at need, and my son, and our adopted daughters.”

She did not mention that she disliked Prince Jeremi intensely.

She disliked Cromwell intensely too.

And she suspected that if he thought his soldiers behaved themselves, he was fooling nobody but himself. Soldiers under bloodlust commit acts unthinkable to them outside of war.

“Well, I will assign you a bodyguard, none the less; a man who will be there to help prevent any misunderstandings between different cultures,” said Cromwell, dryly. “I am sure that without some mediation, you may find yourself in more conflicts than you would like.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Jermak. “I enjoy a good brawl, any Cossack does! And if any offend against me who carry steel, I’ve no problem in killing them.”

“I, however, have a problem with you killing them,” said Cromwell. “I don’t say duels don’t happen because they do, but it is to be avoided. As are... brawls. I can find you somewhere to live while you are here...”

“You do not need to bother, we took a house in Watling Street. We liked the look of St. Mary’s Aldermary church; we are sufficiently ecumenical not to make a fuss about the service not being as we are used to,” said Grace.

“And the road is so delightfully narrow, it is defensible,” said Jermak. “Makes me feel safer, somehow.”

Cromwell glared at him. Damned independent Cossacks! They should be grateful t o him for looking after them, not setting themselves up to protect themselves.

“I also have orders from my king to tender apologies to yours that he has been unable to send military support to him, because we have had some trouble at home,” said Jermak. “And you can afford to be generous in permitting me to meet with him, since you wouldn’t be sitting there had we sent a few thousand winged hussars and as many Cossacks to aid him militarily, since we are the pre-eminent warriors in Europe, and the only infantry capable of holding before a winged hussar charge are Cossack infantry. Your pikes are too long to be much good,” he added, “And your muskets too slow to reload. So, we come in diplomacy instead, and the offer to negotiate a settlement between you, as representative of your Sejm... parliament... and your king. As well as to point out that if you prefer to be a republic, we’ve been doing it successfully for a long time, and to offer treaties.”

Cromwell managed not to grind his teeth.

“It is too late for such negotiations, and I cannot think that your troops would have made any difference. I recognise that you exaggerate over sending thousands.”

“Why would I exaggerate?” said Jermak, surprised. “A battle is usually fought by many thousands on each side.”

If this shook Cromwell, he kept it to himself.

“I will consider having you escorted to meet Charles Stuart, former king of England,” he said.





oOoOo



The Poles found the streets to be tense. Soldiers patrolling prevented open violence, but there appeared to be distinct divisions between royalists and parliamentarians, even amongst the common townsfolk. They appeared to be waging war by song. Some young men sneaked up behind the soldiers, and sang, at first all together

Three merry boys came out of the west to make saltpetre strong

They turned it into gunpowder to charge the king’s cannon!

Three merry boys came out of the west to make saltpetre strong

They turned it into gunpowder to charge the king’s cannon!

Then they broke into a round,

And let his health go round and round and let his health go round

And let his health go round and round and let his health go round

Which being repeated several times, a second part came in,

And though my stocking be made of silk my knee shall touch the ground

And though my stocking be made of silk my knee shall touch the ground

Returning to the previous line and finishing in unison,

God bless his majesty

And send him victory

Over his enemies, over his enemies,

All or none. [1]

Jermak was amused by the way they approached to sing their line and then dodged back as the irritated soldiery turned. The soldiers were grim in their buff coats and striped sleeves, and very businesslike helmets, not quite as effective as the hussars’ szyszak helms but for plainly mass-produced pieces of armour, fairly effective.

Some supporters of the soldiery took up singing their own song to try to drown out the royalists, and sang psalms, loudly.

“They aren’t as tuneful as our psalms,” said Grace, critically.

“I love that you are so much one of us as to prefer our psalms,” said Jermak. “No, they don’t seem very jolly, do they?”

The royalists jeered, and countered,

It’s a mad world my masters

Where kings may lose their crowns

And commoners take prominence

Set up yet soon put down.



The captain of the guard appeared to have had enough by now, and called his men to run off the tuneful royalists. One of them dodged around Jermak and his party, and with a flourish, presented Kamila with a cockade from his hat, which he hastily doffed to the women.

“Cheeky,” said Aleksandra.

“Yes, but handsome too,” laughed Kamila. “Like Papa; dashing.”

“I did not care for his manner,” said Aleksandra. “I felt him forward.”

Kamila frowned.

“I know what you mean, but young men can be brash.”.



The guard turned and came up to the small party.

“I trust those ne’er do weels didnae cause ye any throuble,” said the captain. He was a tall, rawboned man in his twenties, with a nose which had been broken at some time, and ginger hair, as might be seen when he doffed his helmet to the ladies. Unlike the beribboned and belaced bravos, his garb was sober in hue, and his piccadill, the broad linen collar, and his cuffs were devoid of lace, though of the finest linen.

“Are they ne’er do wells?” asked Kamila.

“Aye, iphm, being royalists for one thing, and o’ the ilk o’ sich over-indulged wee hellions as cause throuble for the sake o’it,” he replied.

“We’re royalists for our own king,” said Jermak. “We’re Polish; we elect our kings.”

“Weel, if they elected kings here, we’d mebbe no’ hae oor current problems,” said the captain. “If ye need onything, I’m Captain Somerled Macfarlane.”

“Thank you, Captain Macfarlane,” said Jermak. “fairly self-sufficient, but you appear to be having an exciting time of things at the moment.”

“Exciting! Aye, weel, I micht ca’ it ither things, but exciting will mebbe do the noo,” said Macfarlane. “Ye’ll mebbe be the outlandish folks Ah wis tae find and put masel’ at the disposal o’ ye.”

“I think you’ll find we’re ordinary Poles in an outlandish country without need of disposal,” said Jermak.

“Och, I mean that ye may use us for escorts and defence o’ yer household,” said Macfarlane. “It’s easy tae get confused wi’ the factions, and end up inadvertently in trouble.”

“Oh, I believe I understand,” said Jermak. “You’d not want us to be in a situation to attempt to liberate the king from his current gaol and spirit him to rule in exile. That isn’t in my instructions, only to offer him succour in exile if he is permitted to flee the country; or indeed if any of his followers rescue him. Please be aware that I have no desire to rescue a foreign king and thereby risk my family. I’ve no interest in England. If you did the civilised thing of electing your kings, and if my wife were of a royal house to add distinction to our offspring, I’d consider standing for election. But as she is not, I’d be wasting my time.”

“Losh, man! You’ve an awfu’ cheek,” said Macfarlane.

“You never get anywhere without cheek,” said Jermak.






[1] https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kzBm0uuPrb0

Scratch an errant lich 5

 

V

 

Jeronim returned to the group with a grubby bag.

“He left the knife,” he said. “They frightened him away; and I said I would take it to destroy it and him. I managed to heal the foal a little more; you felt me draw on you?”

“Yes; it was a good call,” said Amber.  “Let me see this knife.”

She unwrapped it carefully, using magic to do so, and with shields to prevent it from attacking, studying it astrally and with spells.

“Can we use it?” asked Jeronim.

“Hell, yes,” said Amber. “However, it’s going to be hard; I can get some sense of how hard he is from this, and I would like everyone to take a day or so to consider making a blood-bond of ourselves, not through amulet.”

She left them to discuss it whilst she and Wulf used their combined strength to forcibly scabbard the knife in a silver sheath to render it harmless.

 

“Well, you’ve had time to consider whether you want to go the whole way with the blood link ritual,” said Amber.  “I’m already blood-linked to Wulf, because I used it to cleanse his blood of being a werewolf. I think a lot of you have guessed that.”

“I don’t want to be linked closely enough to be in your head when you and he make out,” said Lázló, bluntly. “It’s bad enough overhearing you making little wolves and howling at the moon.”

“Oops?” said Amber. “No, there is the ability to step aside, as with the amulets. He doesn’t want to have periods, either, so ...”

“Oh, in that case, I have no objection,” said Lázló. “I like the feeling from the amulet, of closeness.”

“It would be nice to belong,” said Takeo.

“I need the protection,” said Zhanargul. “And I have liked the closeness.”

“We will be closer than siblings,” said Wojciech. “Yes? But it will not affect what is between Gosia and me?”

“No, it’s like the amulets but more,” said Amber. “And easier to reach for each other, and share power.”

“Then go for it,” said Wojciech.

Ritter was healed by now, and he nodded.

As the most stiff-necked of the group, Amber knew that if he agreed, all would be agreeable.

“I worked out a time, based on our names and birthdays,” she said.

“Of course you did, Amber,” laughed Jeronim.

“Well, on my mark, slit your palms and share,” said Amber.

 

The feeling of heady exhaustion and satisfaction on the part of the newly blood-joined was not expected, though with the level of ritual, Amber gave a rueful grin that she had not considered it.

She managed to summon chocolate from the cupboard, and that gave her the energy to make coffee and find kuchen of various kinds.

“Well, that does feel good,” said Lázló.  “I feel as if I could take on fifty zombies alone.”

“You could,” said Amber. “And we may need to concentrate power to deal with Abaris. I’ve been getting in reports, and I think we can move now; Orme made a computer projection based on his movements to date, using other ritual now, and we can combine that with a dowsing from Ágnes.”

“Well, finally!” said Wojciech.

 

Amber accordingly dressed in jeans and a blouse, transmogrified an ordinary hat into something akin to the disreputable object worn by Harrison Ford and transmogrified a whip into the semblance of a snake, because symmetry was symmetry and she was not Indiana Jones, who disliked snakes in any case, but coiled about her waist there was the suggestion of his whip.

Indiana Jones never wore New Rocks either.

But at least with the hat there was no chance anyone would mistake her for Lara Croft.

 

Ágnes was ready to dowse; and Amber passed her the now innocuous knife to ponder on.  Having belonged to Abaris for as long as it had, there was bound to be something about it that remained that could give a dowser a clue.

And the map globe was scrolling, moving, projecting; and a small light showed as Ágnes’s divining rods came together to project it to the place where the knife had its counterpart.

“Baghdad?  Well if there’s a place he can get away with gratuitous violence, that’s it” said Amber “With the current mundane conflicts and political and religious murders one oddball sacrifice or a dozen ain’t going to show up.  Hats, my children; it’s a hot place and I don’t want you dying of sunstroke on me, no I’m not joking.”

She had no intention of taking Lázló’s siblings, but the rest, the blooded would go. Jeronim, Lázló, Wojciech and Gosia, Ritter, Takeo and of course Wulf.  And Amber debated wearing a robe to blend in with the local women, decided that she could never blend in with Arab women and stuck to the jeans.  With her blonde hair she was obviously a Westerner and would either be avoided or likely to be marked for attack in any case.

“Be aware” said Amber “The women of this place tend to be treated like valued but non sentient house pets and are supposed not to show their faces and to cover them up.  We aren’t going to pretend to be locals; it’ll either make people avoid us or they’ll try to kill us.  Use non lethal force.”

 

They teleported smoothly in.  They linked hands and made sure they all landed in the same place. 

The heat beat down upon their heads and Amber thought of Sparhawk’s description of his time spent in such searing heat in David Eddings’ book.  It really was like hammer blows.  They moved into such little shade as there was; which was precious little and Lázló muttered,

“By the powers, you made no joke about dying of this heat; how can people live here?”

“Because they are used to it” said Amber.  “Which way?” Lázló had not the skill of his sister, but he could get something out of divining rods, and had volunteered to try.  

He wavered; then pointed with the rods. 

They set off.

The first encounter they had was with a patrol of American soldiers; and Amber said a brief, ugly word and smiled at the sergeant in command of the patrol.

He smiled back; she was worth looking at.

“Now then ma’am, I’m going to have to ask to see your pass; reporters aren’t supposed to be in these parts” he said.

Amber smiled brightly.

“These aren’t the droids you’re looking for” she said “We can go about our business and move along”

“These aren’t the droids we’re looking for” said the sergeant obediently to her voice control “You can go about your business; move along!”

They moved, hastily.

“Since when was I C3PO?” asked Jeronim as they got round the corner. StarWars was a film they had seen. Amber grinned.

 “I’d love to be a fly on the wall when the report of that goes to his colonel,” she said, chuckling. “Using the quote enhanced the suggestion.”

She reflected, on consideration, that a British sergeant would almost certainly report the incident however bad it made him look; an American sergeant almost certainly would not.  Americans hated things that were out of the ordinary; almost as much as Germans.

They had dodged down a couple of back alleys anyway in case the sergeant had the strength of mind to turn back and look for them; and Lázló plied divining rods again.

The half dozen Arabs with Kalashnikovs that glided out of houses did not look friendly.

The apparent leader said something harsh that presumably meant that the interlopers were to go with him.

Amber smiled brightly again.

“Wezwać broń” she said.

All the kalashnikovs flew from the hands of their wielders to her; Amber was that powerful.

She pointed one at the shocked insurgents.

“I count to ten” she said, checking her weapon was ready to fire. “One…two….three….”

The inference was obvious even if the words were not understood; and the erstwhile enemies fled howling some word that Amber guessed was ‘witchcraft’.

Well they were right on that score.

“Pick up the AKs” she said. “Treat the baby of Comrade Kalashnikov with due respect my children; and pass me the ammo.”  Extra ammunition never came amiss.

Lázló had a direction by this time and moved off, rods at the ready, Amber on point preceding him, doubling back if he had to change direction to take account of the lie of the streets.

They were soon in the narrowest and meanest streets; and eyes watched them constantly.  Amber muttered a chant and made sure to keep chanting to hold up a physical shield against supersonic as well as subsonic missiles; this was the sort of place where strangers were shot first and the corpse used for augury of what it wanted after.  She was using Yiddish to chant with; Amber was like that sometimes.

Once she was certain she had the shield up, Amber held it by whistling the theme from Indiana Jones because it seemed right.  It dragged the shield along with them which was what she had intended.

Lázló stopped at a low door.

Amber left off whistling; the shield should stay put for a while, at least until disrupted by the first bullet.  She looked around; and pounced.

The small boy was hiding in a pile of rubbish; and was doing a fairly successful job of it.

Amber gazed intently into his eyes and learned his language.

“Who lives here?  When did the scary man come?  What do you know?” she asked, again using voice control to prompt speech.  The child sobbed.

“It is my mother’s house and I was out getting supper when he came; and I did not go in because I heard a man’s voice and thought mother had a client and they do not like a boy around; but then mother started screaming and I looked in and he had tied her up and he was cutting her open and – and I ran away!”

The poor child was no more than six years old.

He was also entirely mundane; well, something would be done to care for him as he was probably now an orphan.

“Wait outside; we have come to kill the scary man,” said Amber.

“But you are only a woman!” said the boy.

“And what means that?” shrugged Amber, hefting her Kalashnikov in the professional manner of one well used to the weapon. “Salaam brat; your mother will be avenged by a woman as is only right.”

And then she exploded the door inward.

The woman still moaned feebly; Abaris was taking his time draining her life a little at a time to allow his ritual to work.  Abaris was chanting, deeply immersed in his ritual as coloured bands of light flowed from the dying woman into his own body, almost in a trance like state that the most complex of chants engendered.  He scarcely even registered the explosion of the door, certainly could not react in time as the young Talented burst in on him.  And then Amber was drawing on her new blood sibslings, and she hurled the lightening curse at Abaris, absently linking with Wulf that he throw up a lightening conductor not to burn the house down around them. 

It was spectacularly successful; the lich was himself a creature of magic, held together by enchantment.

Several thousand volts passing through his undead body did more than char it; it undid every last charm that had created it and the two thousand year old desiccated corpse crumbled into dust.

There was a small girl bound as well, a year or two younger than the boy; and the woman’s womb was exposed with the dead baby within it.

Amber removed the foetus; it would only complicate matters and if she was to have any chance at all of saving the woman she could do without complication.

Then she began chanting.  She did not need a projection to tell her where the damage was; she had read about rituals of this sort where the life force was gradually drained; it had to be slow to enhance the pain of the victim which enhanced the ability to use the ebbing life on the part of a seriously dark Talented.  And if he was ready to do this, Amber had no compunction about killing the lich.

The little boy sidled in.

“What are you doing to my mother?” he cried, running to Amber to hammer her with small fists.  Jeronim caught him. He still recalled some of the language he, too, had learned in a hurry, and had some knowledge of as well.

“Child, thy mother may yet live; the good lady is very powerful and may yet save her but not if thou disturbest her” he said “Cease thy wailing lest it kill thy mother!”

The boy gulped and was silent.

Takeo, Gosia, Wojciech, Lázló and Wulf were assisting Amber with basic healing chants; and observing her techniques to learn from.  Amber used power from the blood group to pour into the woman to replenish her almost absent life force.

“Boy, call her,” she said roughly.

The small boy complied; his little sister, untied by Gosia, was too terrified and traumatised to make a sound; and the little Polish woman was cuddling her.  Amber had little doubt that her fear had fed the ritual too; and that she would have been next to die.  Wojciech, not a chanter, was searching the clothes that were all that remained of the dead lich to remove anything dangerous and containing magic, even if as it seemed likely they had been disenchanted by electricity; as the creature also had a pack that seemed to contain most of his treasures he stuffed the gem focus and amulet of protection against efreet into that to take back. 

And the ugly wounds on the Arab woman healed; and her breathing became laboured and then easier; and her heartbeat stabilised.  Amber sank to a squat.

“She’ll do” she said.  “Can you hear me, little sister?”

The woman’s eyes flickered open.

“I – I am still in my home?  Have I not died and gone to paradise?”

“You are alive,” said Amber “The evil one who did this to you is dead; your brave son has helped call you back to care for him and his little sister.  Wojciech, see if the creep has any gold in his pack; they should have compensation.”

Wojciech nodded and searched.

“Here is strange coinage” he said.

Amber glanced.

“Lumme, it’s normal Ancient Greek coinage of his time, some of it” she said “That’s worth far more than the value of the gold.  Wojciech, take it to Marcus and ask him for a fair amount for the woman’s compensation in gold, perhaps in jewellery; and he can deal with selling the coins. She could get murdered for anything this valuable; and people trying to find out where it came from because of treasure hunters.  Marcus will know exactly what to do.”

Marcus did; and Wojciech returned queasy from jump-lag, with heavy gold bracelets that he presented to the woman.

“This for your trouble; because we would have wished to have found this evil before you were troubled by it,” said Amber. “Salaam little sister; may you and your family be well.”

“Salaam, noble stranger,” said the woman , bemused.  “Insh’Allah we will be very well with this kind gift.”

 

And then they teleported back to Festung Amber, and examined the belongings of Abaris.

The amulet of protection against Efreeti was, as Amber said, apart from now being only a decorative disc of metal, only of use against those of the fey who chose that form; because in the time of Abaris it was not known that they and Genii were but forms of the fey. 

“Fortunately, once the fey tie themselves into a form to be summoned, they find disassociating themselves from that form quite hard because it is there one tie on substance” she explained.

“There’s a crystal ball in here” said Ágnes, who was helping them look now they were home. “Why didn’t he use that?  He’d surely only keep it as a treasured item if he was a diviner; surely he could have used it to tell that you were coming for him?”

“For one thing, divination is a bit hit and miss; always in motion is the future,” said Amber “And for another, you have to kind of understand the nature of the future before you can actually tap a backwards memory from it; and he’s having enough trouble adapting to the future that is the present because we’re so way into his future that any future he sees might even be the past.”

“Run that past us slowly” said Árpád.

“Space and time make up the four dimensions of the universe” said Amber “And there’s a degree of mutability about it that enables some people to remember as it were into the future; or one future.  There are many paths which are changed as decisions are made; choosing to believe in a prophecy may make that prophecy path be the true one.  Now to deliberately look for the future – rather than being a true seer and falling into a trance which is no bloody good unless someone’s there to write down what you said – you have to have a feel of time passing and to know exactly how you relate to the nowness of now; to have some idea of what may happen in the then-ness of then, as you might say.  I’m no diviner; I’m translating the odd stuff I’ve heard from the more esoteric into language anyone might understand.  They have technical terms but that’d be like talking to twelve year olds about assimilative correlation and even so half of you don’t have a clue so I might as well be talking Scythian.  And I can’t remember the proper terms anyway because I was never that interested.  Anyway, Abaris had to adapt to the idea that the world had moved on more than two thousand years since he was last around; and even if he’d got his head round that intellectually, it was hard to assimilate deep down where it counts; so he couldn’t readily, I believe, connect with our future and his true future because to him the last couple of millennia in the past was still in his heart the future.”

“I think I kind of followed that” said Árpád.  “Twin?”

Ágnes nodded.

“I guess I’m going to have to get books and study on my own time” she said.

“’Fraid so; I can’t really help you” said Amber.

 

Amber contacted Orme so he could tell his Cairo contact that the nutcase had been finally caught up with in Baghdad and had received a rather summary death sentence; true enough and, too, believable. 

“Of course if he has more than one Phylactory he might return” said Orme “You know; return of the mummy, cue Imhotep.”

“I rather like Imhotep” said Amber mildly “Much nicer character; Ankh-sun-amun was a silly moo.  Abaris really had lost all his humanity in becoming undead; and actually if he’d had another phylactory I bet it would have been among his treasured items and I don’t think that mere electrocution would have disabled it; and none of the amulets and stuff we took back had any power left in them once I let loose a sub-station worth of spell-lightening.  Even his gem focus was a bit pathetic and it takes a lot to phase foci unless you actually ground the electricity through them.  I’d say that the knife was much more and much less than a phylactery. I’ll melt down all the metal and break the stones as a matter of precaution and send Wojciech and Lázló to look again at his tomb for anything that might be a phylactery; I don’t know if I believe in it but let’s be paranoid.”

“Damn right” said Orme “I’ll nip over and assist them; I’m a better chanter than either.”

 

The report came that nothing that could be any kind of phylactery or hidden life storage of any kind existed in the tomb; they used the summoning charm as well as going through the place with a fine tooth comb and a chanted form of power-revealing that would make to glow anything with any form of life or enchantment; they uncovered a recent colony of ants and that was it. Orme had dug out a book from Bellamy Manor on the kinds of undead which stated that the lich or thinking undead required constant sacrifice of life force or it would go torpid and return to a death-like state until it was fed by some means with life force, whether by deliberate sacrifice through the agency of a third person or by some pre-enchanted means.  There was no mention of any hidden life or phylactery and as the instructions for how to prepare your body for this form were fairly specific Amber felt sure that they were safe enough.

“Well it was a learning experience” she said to Orme. “And we have successfully scratched a lich.”

Orme poked her.

 well that's this odd little tale over, next up, Jermak in England.