The City of Stars (Chronicles of the Magi Book 3) Read online

  Chronicles of the Magi

  Book Three

  THE CITY OF STARS

  by

  Dave Morris

  THE MAGI

  Now as at all times I can see in the mind's eye,

  In their stiff, painted clothes, the pale unsatisfied ones

  Appear and disappear in the blue depths of the sky

  With all their ancient faces like rain-beaten stones,

  And all their helms of silver hovering side by side,

  And all their eyes still fixed, hoping to find once more,

  Being by Calvary's turbulence unsatisfied,

  The uncontrollable mystery on the bestial floor.

  W. B. Yeats

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  “The Magi” by W B Yeats

  The story so far

  Prologue

  The Holy Land

  The Sailor’s Story

  Imprisoned

  The Healer

  The Exile

  Green Flame

  The Horse

  The Devil’s Runner

  The Pirate King

  The Prisoner of the Cyclops

  The Fire Worshippers

  The City of Stars

  The Sword of Life

  The Pale Unsatisfied Ones

  Epilogue

  Other books by Dave Morris

  A map of the world of Legend can be found here on the web.

  The story so far

  Altor, a young warrior-monk, has been entrusted with the jewelled pommel stone of the Sword of Life. This magical weapon is said to be the only thing that can overcome the Five Magi—ancient wizards who, banished from the earth, have transformed themselves into baleful comets in the night sky.

  Falling in with Caelestis, a dashing rogue who lives by his wits, Altor travels to the Kingdom of Wyrd in search of the Sword of Life’s hilt. There the two heroes learn from a prophecy that they will find the last part—the blade itself—in ‘a city of spires and domes beside an azure bay’.

  And so they travel south to Crescentium, the Crusaders’ foothold in the Holy Land, to find the fragment that will finally allow them to reconstruct the fabled Sword of Life.

  Prologue

  The heat of the day had long since fled from the desert, and under a sky of a million stars a man stood on the white sands beside a corpse.

  In the man’s hand was a long knife, gently curved, whose blade shone dark and wet in the cold moonlight. Stooping, he dipped the knife in the corpse’s gaping chest and used its own blood to draw a circle around where it lay.

  The task done, he raised his eyes to the heavens and spoke seventeen syllables in a guttural tongue.

  A wind rose, pulling ripples of fine sand across the moon-bleached dunes.

  The man directed the knife in turn to each point of the compass, his movements as graceful and precise as those of a dancer or a beast of prey. And as he turned he seemed to sing a spell under his breath in the same exotic language.

  At his feet, the corpse’s eyelids rolled open and it stared in blind horror at the stars.

  The spell ended. He thrust the knife towards the sky, uttering as he did a mighty shout.

  A star fell. In the moment of its falling, the man spoke to the corpse:

  ‘All of an instant is our entering and leaving of this world. I have sent you into the great darkness. Tell me now what you behold there. Give answers that will throw light on the riddles of days yet to come.’

  A groan rose from the corpse’s pallid lips—deep and long and tortured, escaping from a well of inexpressible grief—and gradually this terrible sound took the form of words.

  ‘Three questions will I answer,’ boomed the corpse. ‘Then let me escape into the bosom of Death.’

  ‘Agreed. Tell me first: what news of my foes? You know the two of which I speak.’

  ‘One has died already, the other soon will die.’

  In the moonlight, the man’s eyes shone like alabaster. ‘What? Am I to be cheated of my revenge, then?’

  ‘No,’ groaned the corpse. ‘You will have vengeance, but only for a time, and in the sight of countless eyes you will renounce it.’

  ‘Nonsense. You speak in riddles.’

  ‘Why should I not? You have put out my sight forever, and yet you ask me to look into your future. Ask your last question and let my soul depart.’

  The man shook his head. Then, remembering the corpse’s eyes could no longer see the things of this world, he gave a soft chuckle. Unhooking a silver bottle from his belt, he unstoppered it and crouched to hold it above the dead lips.

  ‘Your soul? That stained revenant? Cough it out!’

  A dark swirl, like a tattered scrap of night, escaped from the corpse’s mouth and was sucked into the bottle.

  The man smiled and put back the stopper. ‘For a while I think I’ll keep you, like a fly in this bottle. I must have answers to these riddles before I pose my third question. Then you’ll have the peace you crave—and I’ll have my revenge on Altor of Ellesland and that trickster Caelestis.’

  One:

  The Holy Land

  The city was a maze of streets, market squares, bazaars and alleyways that rose in tiers between the buildings of hard-baked clay, stone or patterned brickwork. Under the shadowed colonnade of a hostel, merchants and pilgrims sat listless in the day’s fierce heat.

  The two friends emerged from the foetid confines of yet another winding alley to find themselves gazing out over the seafront.

  ‘Back where we started!’ cried Caelestis with feeling. He threw his hat to the ground and slumped down on a heap of sacks.

  Altor wiped the sweat from his brow and looked around. It was indeed the same stretch of quay where they had disembarked only that morning. White sails slid majestically across a cobalt harbour, enclosed by fortified walls like the flanks of a great armoured dragon. Altor turned his head. Above rose the minarets and jewelled domes, shimmering like etchings on a gold plate in the dusty haze of late afternoon sunlight.

  It was here, Altor felt sure, they would find the lost blade of the Sword of Life.

  Caelestis seemed to read his mind. ‘It’s not here,’ he growled. ‘Do you know how many cities in the world lie ‘beside an azure bay’? It’s one of those others, not Crescentium.’

  Altor knew better than to argue with his friend who, when tired and out of sorts, could be stubborn indeed. ‘We’ve only been looking for a few hours,’ he pointed out. ‘It’s too much to hope that the blade would just be lying in the street for us to stumble over.’

  Caelestis retrieved his hat, scowling at the dust and sweat that had accumulated on it during their long afternoon’s slog through the twisting streets. As he did, his gaze fell on the magic ring he wore. Briefly he considered rubbing the jewel, calling out the occupant that dwelt in its smoky depths.

  ‘Let’s ask the Faltyn, then,’ said Altor, seeing Caelestis eye the ring thoughtfully.

  Caelestis jumped to his feet in irritation. ‘What? Then we’d have to give it the last of our money and we’d have nothing left to pay for passage on a ship out of here.’

  Altor counted out the contents of his money-pouch. Forty silver florins. ‘Not enough to get us back to Ferromaine,’ he said. ‘We’d better choose our next port of call carefully.’

  Caelestis nodded, a little better-tempered now he’d had the chance to let off steam. ‘We’ll discuss it tonight over a meal and a glass of Opalar wine.’

  As the sun sank below the harbour wall, the sound of church bells drifted over the rooftops, mixed with the poignant song of Ta’ashim priests as they called the faithful to prayer.

&
nbsp; ‘We’ll need to find a place to spend the night, certainly,’ said Altor. ‘I have somewhere in mind, but I’m not sure if they serve wine. The monastery of the Knights Capellar, at the Temple of the Roc.’

  Caelestis reeled back in exaggerated shock. ‘A monastery? I need a bath, a hot meal, soft sheets... Not a bowl of gruel followed by an uncomfortable night on a wooden board!’

  ‘At least it would be free,’ said Altor, slipping the coins back into his money-pouch.

  Caelestis stared at him in fury. ‘In the last three months we’ve slogged through snowdrifts in the Drakken foothills, crossed the Gouge, slept in any number of cheap lice-infested inns between the Rathurbosk Bridge and the Ferromaine League—then spent a month cramped inside a ship that stank of sweat and stagnant bilge water. We’ve suffered rainstorms, icy winds, baking heat, thirst, discomfort. And now you expect me to spend the night in a monastery? Not a bit of it! I’ve put up with quite enough. For this one night I intend to sleep in luxury.’

  Altor planted his hands on his hips. ‘And how will you afford that?’

  Caelestis smiled a self-assured smile. ‘You take yourself off to the Knights Capellar. Don’t worry about me—I have my resources. Tomorrow morning we’ll meet outside the Temple of the Roc—and don’t blame me if your back’s stiff from sleeping on the floor of a monk’s cell.’

  So saying, he spun on his heel and strode off up the street they’d just come down.

  Reaching the top of the street, Caelestis paused to take stock. A variety of smells assailed his nostrils, not all of them quite masked by the exotic spices and incense wafting from the traders’ stalls. The effect was a curious contradiction that in many ways seemed symbolic of the city of Crescentium—squalid and splendid by turns, a place where grand palaces and temples soared above streets crammed with the hovels of beggars.

  Caelestis was determined to enjoy the best the city had to offer. But how to achieve that without cost? Only a few months earlier he would have solved the problem simply by stealing what he needed, using his knife to slit the purse of some passing priest or merchant in gold-trimmed finery. That seemed unworthy of his noble quest, however, and he knew that Altor would disapprove. Also, he knew the penalties in Crescentium for even petty thievery.

  ‘Jablo the Knife!’ he said aloud, snapping his fingers as the name occurred to him.

  Jablo had once stolen trinkets alongside Caelestis when they were both children on the streets of Tamor. The last Caelestis had heard of him, he’d been involved in the jewellery trade here in Crescentium. Surely he would not object to a visit from an old friend.

  Obtaining directions from a camel drover, Caelestis set out for the jewellers’ market. At this hour the streets were full of people making their way to evening prayers in one of the city’s countless churches and mosques, and it took him some time to struggle through them.

  By the time he reached the market, red sunset laid a tangle of purple shadows under the branches of dusty cedar trees. The shutters were closed over the jewellers’ shop windows. As dusk settled, the clangour of church bells died to a few distant chimes. The last notes of the call to prayer echoed over the rooftops and then faded with the sun.

  A young lad scampered to and fro nearby, trying to leap up and dislodge the shutter across one of the windows. Caelestis smiled indulgently, reminded of his own childhood. After a moment he cleared his throat.

  The boy jumped into the air, ran off a few paces, then looked back warily.

  ‘Tell me, lad, do you know where Jablo the Knife lives?’

  The boy thought for a moment, then grinned. ‘Cost you.’

  Caelestis frowned. As an idea came to him, he glanced furtively over his shoulder, leaned closer to the boy and put his finger to his lips. ‘This is very hush-hush, lad. I’m on a secret mission for the Ferromaine League. It’s vital I find Jablo at once.’

  The boy looked dubious. ‘Are you a spy, then?’

  ‘You know of Jablo. Surely an astute lad such as yourself must have realized there was something shady about him?’

  ‘I always thought he was just a crook.’

  Caelestis put on a wry smile. ‘Ah, clever Jablo. The perfect cover for someone in our profession.’ He nodded reflectively.

  ‘What’s your mission?’ asked the boy, his eyes widening as he started to accept Caelestis’s yarn.

  ‘That I cannot say. Too many others have died already. Best if you never speak of it to a living soul.’

  ‘Will I have to be sworn to secrecy?’

  ‘Hmm. Not just that, but I think I must instate you as an emergency operative of the Ferromaine League. Do you agree to uphold the principles of Justice, Truth and Free Enterprise?’

  The boy, by now thoroughly confused as well as excited, nodded quickly. ‘Jablo awaits you in that building across the square. The rooms on the first landing.’

  Caelestis put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘Excellent. Now slip quietly home and be ready to receive further orders.’

  As the boy darted off, Caelestis turned to size up the building he had pointed out. It was a tall tenement of pale-coloured bricks with a forecourt of cracked ceramic tiles.

  The faithful were now ensconced in their temples, the faithless in their taverns. With the crowds thinned out and the dry stifling heat of the day giving way to the cool of evening, Caelestis felt more relaxed. Jauntily he loped across the square and up the steps to the first landing, where he rapped on the door.

  There was a long pause. An old Ta’ashim man opened the door a crack and looked Caelestis up and down in the twilight filtering through the decorative casement over the stairwell.

  ‘You want Jablo?’ said the old man, his voice thickly accented.

  Caelestis nodded.

  ‘Next floor.’

  The door was shut in his face. Caelestis sighed and climbed another flight of stairs, less briskly this time. Another door faced him. He knocked and waited, but there was no answer.

  Caelestis had no intention of waiting on the landing until Jablo returned home. He inserted his dagger in the lock and jiggled it around until he heard a click. He leaned on the door. It swung open, admitting Caelestis to an elegant apartment whose floor was strewn with thick velvet cushions. Silk drapes partitioned the room and hid its drab brick walls. By the window stood a stout cupboard with ivory panels set into its doors.

  Caelestis was on the point of finding a bottle of wine and settling down to wait, but there was a tiny nagging doubt at the back of his mind. Something was not right, but he couldn’t immediately place it. He surveyed the room again, this time noting that the drapes were embroidered with pictures of voluptuous houris disporting themselves in the gardens of the Ta’ashim paradise. It was an unlikely decorative motif to find in the room of Jablo the Knife, whom Caelestis remembered as something of a prude.

  Caelestis rubbed his jaw. Wasn’t it possible the years in Crescentium had broadened Jablo’s outlook? By way of confirmation he threw open the wardrobe. It was filled with brocade gowns, scented silk blouses, wispy skirts and jewelled copper breast-cups...

  Caelestis had been duped. Obviously a woman lived here. Then it hit him. The ‘old Ta’ashim man’ in the room below—that had been Jablo!

  ‘By all the hallows!’ cried Caelestis. He raced from the room and went down the steps three at a time. Jablo, still in his disguise as a Ta’ashim oldster, was just about to slip out into the dusk.

  ‘One moment, “granddad”,’ snarled Caelestis, seizing him by the shoulder and shoving him to the back of the stairwell.

  Jablo winced. ‘Caelestis! Not so rough if you please.’

  Caelestis only pressed him even more tightly against the banister. ‘Too busy to say hello to an old friend these days, eh, Jablo?’

  ‘Of course I’d have welcomed you with open arms if not for the danger...’

  ‘What danger?’ scoffed Caelestis.

  ‘I have to meet some accomplices to talk business. They wouldn’t appreciate you sticking
your nose in. Most likely they’d cut it off for you.’

  ‘I don’t care about your business. I just need a place to spend the night.’

  ‘You can’t stay here. I’ll be coming back with the, er, merchandise later.’

  Caelestis nodded decisively. ‘In that case I’ll tag along with you and my nose will take its chances.’

  Jablo nodded sourly and led the way outside, only to immediately set up a hue and cry: ‘Help! My life is threatened! Help me!’

  Some soldiers of the city militia sauntered over. Caelestis, realizing trouble was afoot, looked around for an avenue of escape. Unfortunately three Knights Capellar had also heard the commotion and were striding up behind.

  ‘What’s all this?’ one of the watchmen asked Jablo. ‘Who’s threatening your life, old man?’

  ‘Have pity on a poor beggar, sir,’ wheezed Jablo. He pointed at Caelestis. ‘This person is the notorious Jablo the Knife, the most daring jewel-thief in all Crescentium.’

  The watchmen fanned out, surrounding Caelestis. Not far off, the three Capellars watched silently. With the last pink scar of afterglow along the rooftops behind them they looked like three Angels of Death waiting at the lip of the Inferno.

  ‘Look for the mole on the villain’s jaw line,’ urged Jablo as he slipped away. ‘Even Jablo the Knife, a master of disguise, cannot hide that.’

  A barrel-bellied watchman whom Caelestis took to be the sergeant raised his night-lamp and peered at him in the twilight. ‘Yes, there’s a mole, all right,’ he grunted. ‘Jablo the Knife, you’re under arrest.’

  ‘What?’ shrieked Caelestis. ‘You blundering fat oaf. That mole is my own. Have you ever heard any description of Jablo the Knife? He doesn’t have a mole!’

  ‘How would you know?’ said the sergeant in a tone of voice that Caelestis ought to have recognized as dangerous.

  ‘I’m very well acquainted with Jablo, as a matter of fact. We’ve known each other since childhood.’ Caelestis blinked, wondering why he had said that.