forward and slashed down at my head. I sidestepped and, with unrestrained viciousness, smashed the pommel of my weapon into her mask, which broke in half and fell from her face.
“Disengage!” the colonel ordered.
Stepping away, I glared at my opponent’s four glittering eyes. I was angry. The rules of training stated that thrusts and cuts must be directed only at padding—thin but very robust material covering the torso, arms, and legs—but she’d repeatedly swiped at my unprotected head.
“Bravo, Fleischer!” Spearjab called, then, turning to the other guards, he added, “You see! Ha ha! That’s how it’s jolly well done! What!” He indicated that Wheelturner and I should get back in line, then waved another pair of trainees forward. They began to fight, their swords clanging.
The gruelling exercises, which had occupied almost all my waking hours, together with the heavier gravity and what proved to be a very nutritious diet, were having a visible effect on my physique. My bones were already sheathed in expanding and hardening muscle and the constant pain—for every session pushed my body to its limits—had given my face a sort of flinty grimness, quite unlike its former guilelessness.
My proposition—made some time ago—that the City Guard should man the watchtowers and patrol the streets had initially been greeted by the colonel with a response of “utterly unnecessary when the Saviour is looking upon us.” However, after I pointed out that Yarvis Thayne’s murder had occurred in the sight of the Saviour, and that the killer was still on the loose and might strike again, and that the protesters against change were growing in number and becoming rather more disruptive and unruly, he took the suggestion to Lord Brittleback. The prime minister immediately passed a mandate giving the City Guard powers and duties commensurate to those of London’s Metropolitan Police. The guardsmen now divided their time between patrols and training, with one exception—me. For some unfathomable reason, Colonel Spearjab was convinced that I was the resident expert in swordplay, and so kept me at Crooked Blue Tower Barracks to pass my so-called skills on to my fellows. His assumption was, of course, wholly erroneous. I knew no more of the sword than he did. The endless training had, though, bestowed upon me greater endurance and strength than I could have possibly imagined. I’d learned that the human body, when placed under terrible duress, possesses an astonishing capacity for adaptation.
The suns were by now at the five o’clock mark, with the thin crescent moons clustered close to them. It was impossible to calculate the length of time Clarissa and I had been on Ptallaya, though in Earthly terms, surely it must be measured in many months, perhaps even a year. The temperature had gradually increased and warm rains were now sweeping across the city at regular intervals.
I had not seen much of my companion. That she was very busy was obvious. In addition to her schooling with the Council of Magicians, she was also contributing many marvels to the Yatsills’ burgeoning new culture. Her manufacturing plant was constructing three-wheeled, tiller-steered, steam-driven autocarriages, many of which were already navigating the roads; big power houses were being built at the top of each avenue to pull the subsurface chains the trams would use to travel up and down the steep inclines; a more sophisticated sewerage system than the original was half-installed; and New Yatsillat’s factories and foundries were all being refitted with more efficient machinery. In addition, my friend had introduced a citywide postal system, which meant we now had an address: 3 Dissonance Square, Fourth Terrace, New Yatsillat.
Off to my right, Lily Wheelturner crumpled to the ground.
“Swords down!” Spearjab ordered.
We gathered around my erstwhile opponent who was sprawled motionless but for small tremors that shook her limbs.
Spearjab said, “I say! She looks to be in a bad way, what! Humph!”
I pushed one of my fellow guardsmen aside and crouched beside the stricken Yatsill.
“Lily, can you hear me?”
The fronds that fringed her mouth had turned a pale grey. They flopped loosely as her lips moved. “I can’t get up.”
“Does your head hurt? My apologies, I didn’t mean to strike you so hard.”
“You . . . didn’t. Not . . . not my head. I feel . . . I feel weak. Can’t . . . think straight. Perhaps . . . perhaps Phenadoor calls me.”
One of the other guardsmen said, “Are you chilled?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Cold.”
“I feel it, too,” he said. He turned to the colonel. “In fact, sir, I feel