Wardragon by Paul Collins

some more ale. ‘A month, maybe longer. It happened so slowly I was scarcely aware of it … They’re all saying the same.’ He gestured at the crowd of mages and magicians around them. ‘Bunch of market charmvendors, most of them, but there’s a canny head or two amongst them. Mark my words, it’s the same all over. A weakening in the magic.’
    ‘Is that why we should go home tonight?’ Zimak pressed.
    Acredin’s eyebrows bristled. ‘No. It’s because what can’t be seen can’t be avoided.’
    ‘Then what are you doing here?’ Zimak insisted.
    ‘Finishing my ale.’ The mage drank the last drop and slammed the tankard down. ‘And getting along home as fast as my bowlegs will take me there. And you’ll do the same if you’ve any sense. Good night to you both.’ He eyed them speculatively. ‘That will be one argent.’
    Zimak’s mouth dropped. Daretor almost choked on his ale.
    ‘Just joking, lads.’ Acredin hurried out and disappeared into the night.
    Daretor and Zimak shifted uncomfortably. ‘We’ve been seen now. Perhaps we should take his advice,’ said Zimak.
    ‘They aren’t.’ Daretor indicated the crowd of mages.
    ‘They’re drunk,’ Zimak pointed out. ‘Besides, most of them are charlatans anyway.’
    Daretor stood. ‘Nonetheless, Acredin left in a hurry. If the basis of magic truly is being attacked, it seems an easy guess that loitering here amid a taproom full of mage-types isn’t in our best interests.’
    Zimak did not need further persuading.
    Daretor and Zimak made their way home without much attempt at concealment, assuming their enemies would be rather too preoccupied to follow.
    They were no sooner inside than Daretor set about activating the various wards and charms that Jelindel had long ago provided for the protection of their home, and which anyone – even non-mage – could use. While Zimak accused him of unnecessarily fussing – ‘Nobody who saw us there could have gotten out alive!’ – Daretor mixed up an ancient herbal concoction, daubed it about the house, and muttered minor spells as he did so, feeling odd pangs of disquiet. His old dislike of magic hadn’t vanished; it had simply gone underground.
    ‘Happy now?’ asked Zimak, when he had finished.
    ‘Aren’t you the one telling me they own half the city? You think they won’t work out it’s us? They’re using cold science. That means they’ll have farsights, like they did on Farvane. Cold science devices that send pictures over great distances.’
    Zimak hadn’t thought of that. He glanced nervously at the windows and doors. ‘Shouldn’t we use stronger spells?’ he asked.
    ‘I think we have sufficient,’ Daretor said. He returned to his stool with their medicinal pouch. After pulping a poultice of herbs and powders, he applied it to his wounds, grimacing as the soggy mulch stung on the raw flesh.
    Zimak swabbed his arm with a herbal oil. As Daretor shared out some bread, goat’s cheese, and cold chicken, Zimak poured a generous measure of syrupy Arcadian ale into two large pewter tankards.
    ‘This has magical medicinal properties,’ said Zimak with satisfaction after a deep swallow.
    ‘Aye, it grows a man’s belly so that he seems to be with child. Why do you drink so much of it?’
    ‘Gah, Daretor. A man needs some pleasure in life. There’s little else of it on offer.’ Zimak held up a finger. ‘It makes you stout – in fact, that’s not a bad name for it. Why do you think people say, “Your health” when they drink?’
    ‘To remind each other that it’s bad for their health?’
    A knock on the door made Zimak jump and his eyes go wide. ‘Is that them?’ he asked nervously.
    ‘Well,’ said Daretor, wearily, ‘I did think it would take them longer. I’d hoped to eat first. But why would they knock?’
    ‘Your door could withstand a charging bull,’ Zimak pointed out. Nonetheless he eyed the door warily, as though at any moment it would open of its own accord, but he