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and picked up the mailshirt.
    ‘Preceptor!’ Kaleton warned. ‘This is foolhardy!’
    The Preceptor ignored him. He raised the mailshirt over his head, slid his arms into it and let it flow down onto his torso. It was a perfect fit.
    Kaleton hissed, ‘M’lord, this thing is dangerous!’
    ‘No, Kaleton,’ said the Preceptor. ‘Now it is we who are dangerous.’

Chapter 2

    The Knife’s Edge

    ‘Y our fate is to save magic, or destroy it. The future lies on a knife’s edge …’
    Jelindel dek Mediesar stared with alarm at the large woman slumped in the ridiculously tiny chair. The woman’s eyes had rolled back in their sockets, and she was drooling. No wonder some call it the ‘idiot trance’, thought Jelindel, although those who experienced it preferred the term ‘oracular vision’.
    Jelindel’s heart skipped a beat; the woman’s words were … unsettling.
    Cimone, the most famous farseer in D’loom, renowned for her foretellings, blinked for a moment and awoke, staring about. Her eyes came into focus, peering at a slim, dark-haired and very intense girl who sat opposite. Jelindel seemed somehow much older than eighteen. Cimone beamed, revealing cracked, yellowed, but nevertheless clean teeth. She was a stout motherly woman, rather than actually fat, but would still have made three or four of Jelindel. She slapped a thigh the width of a tree trunk, causing it to ripple like jelly, and laughed raucously, as if the trance had left her elated.
    ‘Well!’ she exclaimed. ‘And what did we learn today, dearie?’
    ‘You don’t remember what you said to me?’ asked Jelindel, her green eyes bright in an expression full of doubt.
    ‘Not a word, and glad I am too, else someone would have parted this poor old head of mine from its shoulders long ago! Was it important?’
    ‘I – think so.’
    Cimone nodded sagely. ‘I only get the big seeings. That’s my gift.’
    ‘You read dreams, yes?’
    ‘That’s what the sign says, dearie. Have you a juicy one?’
    I will destroy magic, or save it. What did she mean? Jelindel wondered. Aloud, she said, ‘Last night … ’
    Jelindel awoke drenched in sweat.
    Echoes of screams faded, but the nauseating stink of burnt flesh did not. Jelindel sat up quickly, straining her eyes in the darkness. Was that real smoke, or just the remnants of her dream ?
    She shivered, pulling the blanket tighter about her.
    She had been on the roof of a great mansion, gazing at stars, when a shriek cut through the night, making her stomach lurch. Sounds of commotion followed, then more screams, and the ghastly smell of burning. Although it was night, an enormous sun hung in the sky, but it was completely black. For some reason Jelindel thought that none of this was unreasonable, but she nevertheless felt confused. Dreams tended to be like that.
    Only minutes earlier, or so it seemed, she’d been dancing with some pompous son of Skelt nobility, smiling at Grandmama and the new baby, and eyeing tables piled high with an extraordinary array of food: huge tureens of soup and stew, and whole boar, roasted till the skin had crackled, and likewise chickens, ducks, turkeys, not to mention fish. Platters were piled with spicy rice from far off Hamatriol, and with sweetmeats, and puddings, fruits and nuts and cheeses, and the freshest bread straight from the family ovens. Gravies, sauces, and syrups filled pouring jars, jugs and beakers, as did wine and beer and exotic juices. There were cakes and biscuits of every kind, bearing intricate designs in chocolate, jam and cream. Serving boys and girls passed amongst the guests offering exotic platters of meat and spiced pastry. There seemed to be enough food to feed all of D’loom for a day, Jelindel reflected, yet despite the mouth-watering temptation, she hadn’t stayed.
    The stars had beckoned.
    Dressed in the clothes of a stableboy who had never heard of baths, she had climbed onto the roof to watch a rare eclipse, and had just noticed the