have induced him to leave it. Nothing, that is, but the threat of being eaten by a lyrinx. So Nish gleaned eventually from Phar’s rambling and incoherent discourse, punctuated regularly by slugs from his putrid leather flagon.
You were never in any danger, thought Nish, looking him up and down in disgust. There wasn’t a lyrinx in Santhenar that would have touched him, not even to feed its starving children.
‘I understand that you know the warehouses of Thurkad well, Mr Phar. I wonder if you would be so good –’ He stopped at the seneschal’s slashing gesture.
‘Allow me, Nish,’ said the seneschal. ‘Phar. We want silk cloth. Strong cloth, best quality. Long bolts of it. Where do we get it?’
Nish passed Phar a map of the waterfront which Yggur had given him. ‘Can you read, Phar?’
‘Maps. Not words.’
Nish spread the map on the paving stones. Phar squinted at it, picked his nose then turned the map upside down. He grinned broadly, his wagging pipe spilling clots of tarry ash on the map. Nish brushed it off hastily. The disgusting stuff stuck to his fingers.
‘Here,’ said Phar, pointing with a snotty fingertip. ‘Street of the Sail-makers. All these buildings behind are warehouses. This, this and this, all silk.’
‘You’re absolutely sure?’ said Nish.
‘Bah,’ said Phar, picking the other nostril and parking the residue on the edge of the map.
‘Disgusting brute,’ piped Berty, cuffing him over the half-ear. ‘Wipe that off, you pig.’
Phar smeared snot halfway across the sheet. Snatching the map, Nish rolled it up and said, ‘We’ll go at first light.’
Phar began to shamble off. ‘Not likely,’ said the seneschal. He called a pair of guards over. ‘Look after this fellow for the night, will you? And take good care of him; he’s escaped more times than you fellows have changed your underwear.’
‘Never change my underwear,’ said the first guard, evidently puzzled by the comparison. ‘Only when it falls to pieces.’
‘You’re in good company then. Lock him up tight. If he escapes you’ll be explaining why to Lord Yggur.’
The mission seemed doomed from the first second. When the guards went to the cell for Phar in the morning he wasn’t there; despite all the precautions, he had got away.
‘What the blazes were you doing?’ Nish roared, practically incoherent with rage. It did not matter that Seneschal Berty had given the orders and the guards carried them out. He, Nish, was in charge and there was no excuse for failure.
Berty looked worried too, which was unusual. He was always the picture of control. He hastily roused out the guards and soon a hundred people were looking for the thief.
An hour later Nish was sitting on the step to his shed, head in hands, a position he’d spent a lot of time in lately, when Yggur came stalking out the front doors of Fiz Gorgo, holding a crumpled, twitching object as far away from him as possible.
‘I believe you’re looking for this,’ he said, dropping Phar on the ground. The villain splatted, like a cow defecating. Lying on the paving stones, reeking, he did rather resemble a pile of droppings.
‘You won’t run away again, will you, Phar?’ said Yggur.
Phar covered his face, making a ratty squeal. He shook his head vigorously.
Yggur inspected his fingers, seeming to find some distasteful residue there, for he crossed to a wash trough and scrubbed his hands with sand-soap and water.
‘You won’t let us down, will you, Nish?’ Without waiting for an answer Yggur went inside.
No, Nish said to himself, I won’t, and he finished stowing his gear in the thapter. Yggur would not let him take the air-floater to such a dangerous place, deeming it too slow and vulnerable to lyrinx attack. Nish heartily agreed. They were to leave immediately.
‘Where’s Malien?’ he said to his crew after they had been waiting for half an hour. She was to pilot the thapter to Thurkad.
No one had seen Malien. He found her in her bed, looking wan.
‘I’m sorry, Nish. I’ve been throwing up all night. I don’t think I can even stand up.’
‘Was it something you ate?’
‘No. I’m afraid I overdid it, flying the thapter all that time. I’ve been feeling poorly for days. Maybe tomorrow …’
‘Well, look after yourself.’ He went out. Tomorrow was going to be too late. Nish was acutely conscious how time was fleeting by. It was mid-winter and they had to be ready for war in less than two months. At this stage, even a day could make the difference between success and failure.