crumbling, facing the street but unable to pass the invisible barrier against
which it pounded. It stank: the smell of roasting flesh was overwhelming. Behind
it, helmets crumpled, dripped on to the contorted faces of soldiers whose
moustaches had begun to flare.
The mage who tried to break down the invisible door had no fists; he had pounded
them away. The ranks were char and ash in infalling effigy of damnation. The
doors which had been invisible began to cool to white, then to gold, then to
red.
The street was utterly silent. Only the snorts of his horse and the squeals of
the domed structure could be heard. The squeals fell off to growls and shudders.
The doors cooled, turned dark.
People muttered, drifted back into the Unicorn with mumbled wardings, tracing
signs and taking many backward looks.
Tempus, who could have saved thirty innocent soldiers and one guilty magician,
got out his silver box and sniffed some krrf.
He had to be at the Lily Garden soon.
When he got there, the mixed elation of drug and death had faded.
What if Shadowspawn did not appear with the rods? What if the girl Cime did not
come to get them back? What if he still could hurt, as he had not hurt for more
than three hundred years?
He had had a message from the palace, from Prince Kadakithis himself. He was not
going up there, just yet. He did not want to answer any questions about the
archmage’s demise. He did not want to appear involved. His only chance to help
the Prince-Governor effectively lay in working his own way. Those were his