Chapter 1
The 36th Realm
Ulgan the merchant, sometime haulier of cargo, very occasional tour operator, sat counting his money. As is the way with most grasping men, and such Ulgan was, the enumeration of coin was his greatest pleasure. His business did not afford him the opportunity to do so as often as his wont, so he took advantage of the hottest time of day, when the sun burnt down through the dry air of the mountains, the time when he was least likely to be disturbed by those less avaricious than he. Under the meagre shade of a worn parasol, he lost himself in a happy world of greed for an hour or two, before time and trade called him back to the tedious affair of making more.
He was therefore annoyed when a shadow took the glitter from the edges of his dirhams and his shekels and his dollars and his pfennigs and his other coins of a dozen lands. Ulgan liked to see them shine, and so was doubly vexed.
"Good day to you, sir," said the caster of the shadow. His face was a solid block of black against the sky, the merchants' argot he employed accented in an unfamiliar manner. Ulgan squinted against the halo of sunlight around the stranger's head, and wished he would go away.
He said as much, and roughly. "Go away."
The stranger was undeterred. "I and my companion are seeking transportation across the Rift," he said pleasantly, which redoubled Ulgan's irritation. "I have it on good authority that you are the finest provider of flight services to the other side." Flamboyant gestures made a shadow puppet of him.
The compliment did nothing to improve Ulgan's humour. He grunted back. "That's as may be." He dropped his gaze back to his money. "Flights are closed" he waved his hand round "is too hot, bird won't fly."
"But sir!" said the stranger. He moved round the counting table to where the haulier could see him. "Today is a most marvellous day for flight. The air is clear and pure."
"The air is too hot and too bright," grumbled Ulgan.
"No, sir! You can see for miles! Surely any creature would be desirous of flight merely for the thrill of it!"
"Who are you? You are strange here, unusual-looking, eh?" He appraised the stranger. "Your skin is dark, much darker than the men of the Skyways, but you are not so dark as the men of the Sahem-Jhaleeb, whose cities lie on the plain. Where are you from?"
"Does it matter, friend, whence I hail?"
"It matters, 'friend', that we do not care for strangers round here, and are not swift to aid them about their business." The stranger was very clean of line; his delicately made-up face carried none of the seams of hard living, no blemish of age or sun to detract from the aquilinity of his nose, no pock to drag the eye away from his firm chin and sharp cheekbones. This Ulgan did not say. Instead he spat on the dry dirt and said: "If you're so inclined, fly yourself."
"Oh, but you are so unkind, sir, to mock me. I have not the facility for such a feat, and nor has my companion," said the stranger, as if Ulgan's manners were beyond reproach, when in fact there was little beyond reproach about Ulgan. "If I did, I would not be here imploring you for passage."
Ulgan found the floridity of the man's language offensive. He had no time for pretty words from pretty strangers. Still, he was a martial fellow, that much was obvious from the metal plates sewn into his thigh-length brocade coat, the steel helm spike poking through his turban, the sabre hanging from his braided sash, so Ulgan was polite, by his usual standards, for he was above all else a coward.
"Can't fly, won't fly. Sorry." He smiled a smile that was no smile at all. "You and your friend had best come back tomorrow."
"My apologies, good sir, but I need to go today. I am on an errand of some urgency."
"A thousand pardons," said Ulgan. "No flights today." And he began the pretence of enumeration, hoping the stranger would get the hint and leave to allow him to continue for real.
"A pity," sighed the stranger. He rested his hand within the hilt of his weapon. "You do your kind a great disservice, sir."
"For God's sake, Jag, stop wasting our time. Offer to pay the weasel; money's the only language these greasy little blighters understand."
There was something hollow in this second voice that made Ulgan look up. He dropped his attention back to his cash before the sight registered.
"Great Lugel!" he cried, his eyes widening. He rose from his seat and staggered back, though not with enough force to spill his coinage. "What in all the names of the seventeen beasts of enforced repentance is that?"
"Why," said the stranger, "he is Tarquinius, my trusted friend and steed." The foreign princeling gestured towards a horsesized lion stepping round a hut, a lion of metal. The thing's face was made of sliding plates of dazzling copper, its body of blue-sheened iridium, its mane of fine-spun silver and bronze that cast a second sun of harsh reflections all around its feet. "I myself am Sir Jagadith Veyadeep, paladin. Perhaps you have heard of us?"
"N-no!" said the haulier, cringing.
"Oh, well," said Sir Jagadith disappointedly. "I suppose it has been a terribly long while. But perhaps it is not important for you to recognise us, and enough for you to know I have an important task to accomplish on the other side of the Rift. A task which, if left undone, may well spell the end for you, your village, your birds. Why, the whole of the Skyways. So, you must understand, I have to leave today."
This was bad news. Ulgan's brow creased. He thought of his family (although they hated him), his friends (although he had none), his life, his birds, the whole of the Skyways. His money. "You did mention money?" He licked his lips, and took a step forward.
"Why yes. Of course," said the paladin. "Naturally you will be amply compensated."
"It'll be extra for the Gnomic beast," said Ulgan sharply.
"Ha!" said Tarquinius, his voice sounding from the bottom of an upturned bell. "You are right and wrong there. I am gnomic, but I feel your feeble vocabulary seeks to furnish you with the word 'Gnomish', as in 'fashioned by Gnomes', which I most certainly am not." The lion walked to stand before Ulgan, the panels of its body sliding noiselessly against one another. He emitted the humming click of clockwork, and the air around him smelt faintly of ozone. "Those little bastards can hardly put together a half-decent pocket watch," he rumbled. "I am godformed, and am as old as time, so let's have a little respect." Tarquinius leaned forward until his muzzle was inches from Ulgan's nose. He blew hot, tinny air into his face, and fixed the merchant with a daggered grin.
Ulgan took a step backwards. "Er A thousand pardons" he stuttered, meaning it a little more this time.
"How much?" rumbled the lion.
"How much have you got?" countered Ulgan.
"Shall we say enough to ensure you and the next seven generations of your family will be mercifully free of the burden of meaningful employment?" said Sir Jagadith.
"Er, a reasonable price," said Ulgan, his throat dry. "Kind sirs," he hurriedly added. "Magnificent sires?" The lion sat back.
"Hmph," it said, and licked at its leg with a hideous tongue with a noise like a rasp on steel.
"Here." The knight tossed a large coin on to the table. "This is my badge of office."
Jagadith's badge was very big, and very shiny. And very gold. Ulgan gulped. He gaped. His hands strayed towards it. He stepped forward again.
The lion looked up from its ablutions. "Stand still, for god's sake, man!" it growled. "One more time and you'll have yourself a merry little dance."
