Chapter 12: Pickles or Prophecy?

1

After carefully listing the day’s changes, Mandragora finished his late supper and headed for bed.2

The dim light of dawn was encroaching into the room’s darkness, as he gasped and sat up. His hands were shaking as if with ague – sweat trickled down his brow and his whole system was galvanised for flight. After a moment’s pause, he grabbed the bottle by the bedside and ignoring the glass, quaffed a stiff draft.3

Even after the warm liquid had traced its way to his centre, his hands still trembled a little. He never… well seldom dreamed and never anything like this – it had seemed even more intense than reality – an augury? He fervently prayed not.4

It had started pleasantly enough – some kind of reception – in Palace Coulter he thought. He had been in a plush lounge and caught sight of himself in a large mirror; in place of his robe he was wearing a formal jerkin with the Coulter crest on the lapels.5

Many of the people were familiar to him but some were not – which struck him as odd, wasn’t this his dream? Even as Mandragora replayed the scene in his mind he could remember clearly that thought; that despite the total realism he knew it was a dream, yet it somehow it didn’t cushion the impact as it should have.6

Mandragora had circulated for a time – speaking to the elite of the Coulter family and somehow feeling a strange kinship, as if he were part of that cabal.7

The sight of the bizarre woman had seemed to herald the decline from dream into nightmare. She was unlike any woman he had ever seen before. It appeared to Mandragora that she had been cut from old worn leather or perhaps a soft silken wood; her features were tanned and gaunt, her vivid red hair scarcely longer than a man’s. Although she was lean and muscular, her face and bosom showed her unequivocally to be female, yet the haft of a sword jutted up from behind her left shoulder. No woman was permitted to bear arms in Khlipnor - nor any man either, in a place like this.8

The whole concept of a warrior woman was so novel to Mandragora that he could not help but stare – strange as the idea was she looked every inch the part, even to a thin pale scar that ran down from the corner of her left eye to nearly the corner of her mouth; but if the flash in her green eyes and the wry half smile sent thrills running through his body it was as nothing compared to when the slim figure appeared at her side.9

Mandragora felt as if the floor had opened up beneath him and he had plunged into ice water – yet nobody else seemed to notice. He tried to find his voice to shout a warning – but the slim young man’s eyes had turned his way and his voice died in a plugged throat.10

Somehow Mandragora knew this was Laz, Lord of the Afreet, master of all djinni. Yet they were just stories and how could he know? All djinni were gifted at disguise, but the myths told that Laz, who always appeared as a slim insignificant young man or woman, could only be detected by the most powerful of wizards or in bright sunlight. If caught in the open on a bright day Laz’s shadow would give him away – for though his disguise held, he was reputed to cast a vast shadow that represented his true size. 11

It was like that now for the seer – a slim youth with no sign of beard or mendacity, yet looming behind him a shadow as vast and as deadly, as a frost covered mountain.12

Laz spoke a few words to the woman and she turned toward the seer. Her green eyes made him feel like he was an item on the menu of a large cat. Laz waved an effete hand in beckoning, and despite an overwhelming desire to flee, Mandragora found his legs taking him to the monstrous pair.13

Somehow by the time he reached the two, Lord Hearn had joined them as well. “Ah, Furslee – Meet our new friend – Thiefthsss.” 14

Lord Hearn’s voice seemed to slide off into a sea of sibilance and as Mandragora glance around he realised that it was not Lord Hearn at all but a massive serpent that had reared up beside him.15

A moment’s dire panic and then he had awoken… even in the replay it seemed unbearably vivid and Mandragora’s nerves were jangling again – the serpent and the woman had been nerve racking but it was somehow the vast dark image of Laz’s shadow lurking behind him, that sent his frazzled nerves screaming for cover.16

He couldn’t confide in any of his staff, the details of his dream had too many parallels with real events, especially having been hired by the family Coulter. He did mention he’d had a terrifying nightmare to his cook of many years. She had snorted at him and as if she was his mother instead of his servant and berated him for eating pickles so late at night.17