Quicksilver Rising
Book One of the Quicksilver Trilogy
STAN NICHOLLS
For making a stranger feel a little less alien in a strange land, Quicksilver Rising is dedicated to the Brum Balti Boyz – Mike Chinn, Peter Coleborn, John Howard, Joel Lane, David Sutton; and to the Gurlz – Jan Edwards, Sue Edwards, Sandra Sutton. And, of course, to my wife, Anne.
Contents
It was a place of cheap magic.
A swarm of tiny sphinxes gathered, fluttering just above her head. Snapping jaws, whipping wings, curling tails. They weren’t convincing. Their colours were wrong, and up close they were semi-transparent.
Serrah swatted irritably, her hand passing through them as if they were dawn mist. They disintegrated into countless infinitesimal specks, like glowing rust. The tips of their spread wings were the last to go, popping out of existence in little burnished puffs.
‘We going to skulk here all night, Ardacris?’ Phosian hissed.
He hid next to her, but the alley was too dark to make out his features. His garb, like hers, was uniformly black, with a silk mask covering nose and mouth. Where flesh showed, it had been smeared with ash. The sheen of their blades was dimmed by grease and soot.
Serrah inwardly bridled at his familiarity and the disregard of her rank. But in deference to his connections she whispered only, ‘Patience.’
Phosian sighed. Serrah needed no light to picture the conceited expression on his callow face.
Nothing much stirred. The street was a midden lined with hovels, all gloom and demented angles. Its glistening cobbles were silvered by a half moon. Flies teemed, the air stank. Now and again a low-priced glamour walked, crawled, flew or drifted by, waning, and was ignored.
The house they watched was grander than the others and set apart. Two guards were visible at its front. There were more at the sides and rear. Again Serrah wondered if her modest forces would be enough.
‘Think our strength’s up to it?’ Phosian asked, hinting criticism of her.
She was struck by the idea that he might have read her mind. But she knew such magic was likely mythical. And if it did exist it was so rare even his relatives probably couldn’t afford it. ‘Numbers aren’t everything,’ she said. ‘I’d take one seasoned fighter over a regiment of conscripts any day.’
‘And what would you call those inside, seasoned or green?’ Sarcasm dripped.
‘Ruthless bastards,’ Serrah replied, still seething at having him foisted on her. ‘But I’ve a team I can trust.’ With one exception, she thought, adding, steely-toned, ‘It’s taken weeks to get to tonight. Nothing’s going to jeopardise it.’
His silent contempt was almost tangible.
By knowing where to look, and straining to see, several others in her group could be faintly made out, grey against the blackness. They were in position.
‘It’s time,’ she