Three days of drinking liani and worrying brought Jhegan no nearer a solution to his dilemmas. When the chime sounded again he wearily thought that again he would watch as the tower repelled assault. He made his way to the mirrors, examined the surrounding terrain and found no threat. He twiddled the mirrors this way and that but saw nothing to alarm on the ground. He was about to turn away when a tilt gave him a view of the sky, blue but for a moving speck. Jhegan cautiously adjusted the view until the speck enlarged into a man speeding unsupported through the air, legs slightly bent at the knee, body leaning forward. The face was weather-beaten, the moustache streaked with grey. Was this one of his grandfather’s cronies? Would he transport Jhegan back to Dtlag?

When he poked his head out the trapdoor the man was hovering in mid-air level with the platform, within easy hailing distance. Jhegan waved and the man frowned, then called out.

“Is your master at home? Please inform him that Ternise has come to call.”

Jhegan was mildly affronted, and his natural reaction was to explain the situation. Recent experiences had made him more cautious.

“He is not receiving at the moment. Can I ask your errand?”

“It is for his ears – a matter for magicians, and of some urgency.”

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Jhegan was still hesitant. The man’s manner was abrupt and demanding, and there was an unseemly note of desire, a flavour of greed, in his attitude. As an accountant Jhegan knew greed very well.

“As I said, he is not receiving,” he repeated.

The man scowled, then re-composed his face. “May I at least land and refresh myself? I have come far, and still have far to go.”

“I regret that I cannot give you permission. I wish you safe travel,” replied Jhegan firmly.

The man lost his temper. “Enough of this mummery. I well know the old fool is dead. Let me in and you might live.”

Jhegan ducked down lest a bolt of arcane force turn his head into shrimp paste. A bright purple flash seared his eyes, then came prolonged rumbles of thunder and a string of curses, receding. He risked a quick bob up, to see the magician fleeing, pursued by a dozen small thunderstorms. Once again he thanked his grandfather’s expertise. As he watched the man turned to shake his fist, then dove for the trees. A bolt of lightning had set fire to one boot.

The encounter did not improve Jhegan’s mood. It seemed that he faced not only starvation but repeated assault. He moodily wandered the building, wondering if he dared try any of the Items. One might carry him away. Or it might blast a hole in the wall, allowing the spider-ape to burst in and eat his face. His hand approached a crystalline model of a beehive, then drew back. Ten thousand magic bees would not improve his lot. So much for a rich inheritance! He drifted into the study, opened drawers and closed them again, browsed the shelves. Books, a bag of nuts, magic devices he dared not try. Nothing new. Wait! There were things he could use. He had been trying to think like a magician or a brave Wild-runner. He was neither. He was an accountant. He would use what he knew. He opened the drawer again, then found paper and pen.