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actual top-to-bottom palace tour. He had no idea where the bastard put his head down at night… and he didn’t have time to waste searching this antiquated rabbit-warren. There had to be a faster way of finding that
Lexicon
.

    Frustrated, uncertain, Gerald banged a fist hard against the corridor wall beside him. That small pain woke lightly sleeping memories of his recent, harsher sufferings—and he abruptly straightened. Really? Was it possible? It should be. Shugat had tasted Lional in his blood. And if Shugat could, then surely so could he. And
if
he could then that meant…

    Closing his eyes, he sank himself deep within. Sent his
potentia
questing. When it found Lional’s lingering, filthy fingerprints he shuddered. So. He was marked for life, then. The foul incants Lional breathed into his mouth were become a part of him, part of his matrix, flesh, blood and bone. The notion was horrifying. Almost as horrifying as what he contemplated doing now.

    Maybe Reg was right. Maybe there was another way to—

    Stop it, Dunwoody. Stop trying to wriggle out of this. You know you have to. There’s no other way.

    So. He’d found Lional’s mark. Now to use the mad king’s foulness to track down his private suite in the palace.

    Shuddering anew, Gerald wrapped a thread of
potentia
around Lional’s hideous echo. Then he turned the rest of his magical self outwards and sought for the echo’s counterpart—memories of Lional—contained within the confines of the palace.

    No, not there. That’s the dining room. Not there either, that’s the Large Audience Chamber. And that’s the Small one. Come on, come on. I want his bolt hole. I want his lair.

    He was being tugged to the easiest places, the public places, where he’d already been. And why was that? Because, Tavistock or not, the glorious dragon or not, he was still at heart a Third Grade wizard with a Third Grade wizard’s grasp of magic? Or was it Lional being crafty? Even in his own kingdom was he protecting himself?

    Of course he is. Lional’s mad and dangerous but he’s not an idiot. With a succession of First Grade wizards on the loose of course he’d protect himself.

    So. Don’t look for Lional’s echo. Look for his fingerprints, on carpet and brick.

    Straight away, because it was close, he stumbled across the incant Lional had used to keep Melissande locked behind her own doors. Very nasty. Brilliant, but nasty. It was nothing short of a miracle that Monk had been able to break it. Briefly he felt a burst of pride in his friend. Crazy Monk Markham, the metaphysical genius. On the heels of pride, sorrow.

    He’s going to be so angry when he finds out what I’ve done.

    With a grunt he wrenched himself away from thatprofitless line of thinking. It didn’t matter how Monk felt, or Reg, or Melissande. Or at least he couldn’t let it matter. He let himself he let hisink more deeply into that dark place Lional had hollowed out inside him.

    Sentiment is weakness.

    Eyes still closed, leaning against the corridor wall now, his body shaking, he pushed further and harder. Stirred up in his blood, the remains of Lional’s curses started screaming. Or were they his own screams? Either way, it didn’t matter. The only important thing now was finding the
Lexicon
.

    A tug on his
potentia
. A sharp rebound. A sudden burning conviction.
That way.
On a deep breath he opened his eyes, pushed off the wall and started walking. Instinct dragged him along, dragged him almost to jogging, down corridor after corridor, up staircase after staircase, heading for the palace’s highest floor. The closer he got to Lional’s domain the harder his
potentia
tugged at him, so tuned now was it to Lional’s caustic thaumic signature.

    He didn’t encounter another soul. Every last servant had fled, every single government lackey had deserted his or her post. With their sleepy little kingdom turned on its head, with a dragon raining acid and fire from the sky and their