The rough-hewn chamber was apparently empty, save for a massive table in the very centre, itself carved out of the rock. One end of this hulking piece of furniture was crowded with several dozen green glass bottles, of differing shapes and sizes, and next to these bottles was a pyramid made of an equivalent number of silver stoppers, a coil of thick gold wire on a decaying wooden drum, a rusted pair of pliers and several other lumps of rust that had once been tools.

At the other end of the table, standing alone, there was the familiar silver bottle wreathed in gold wire that held Aziminil.

Clariel walked towards the table, the door shutting behind her. She reached out for the silver bottle, almost in a trance, but stopped short of it as a cloud of spray hit her in the face. She blinked, and stepped back. Mogget sneezed and stayed behind her heels in an effort to avoid any drop of moisture.

Beyond the table, she saw a jagged, narrow peninsula of stone that thrust out into the waterfall. Barely three paces wide, it was at least twenty paces long, the far end invisible under the onrush of water from above. From a few paces out and then as far as she could see into the waterfall, this strange promontory was wrapped in dozens and dozens of tarnished silver chains, big chains with links the thickness of Clariel’s finger, chains that were doubled over this stone outcrop and then stretched down into the maelstrom below.

‘What are the chains for?’ bellowed Clariel. She had to bend down to hear Mogget’s repeated answer, the noise of the waterfall drowning the cat’s first reply.

‘Prisoners,’ shouted Mogget. ‘Free Magic creatures suspended in the waterfall, in bottles of green glass.’

‘Why green glass?’ shouted Clariel.

‘Can’t question them through silver. They can be heard through glass; silver is only for transport. But there’s no time for questions now! Hurry up! There’s the bottle! You can do it!’

‘Not so fast!’ Clariel shouted back. ‘Where are the garments to protect me from Free Magic?’

‘I don’t know,’ spat Mogget. ‘You don’t need them. Hurry!’

Clariel ignored him, and quickly walked around the table, taking stock. The whole cavern had an air of decay and disuse. There was moss growing up almost to the tabletop, and there were more faded or dead Charter marks in the ceiling above than live ones. There was a chest under the table, with a pile of silver chains next to it, and a long stick with a hook on the end, like a fisherman’s gaff.

Not without some trepidation, Clariel opened the chest. Judging from the tarnish on the chains, the moss everywhere and the general feel of the place, she expected whatever had been in the chest was probably a disgusting pile of mould.