But it was what lay on top of the sarcophagus that most attracted Clariel’s attention. There was a sword, ostensibly a plain weapon with a blackened steel hilt, the grip wrapped in wire, and an ugly roundel of bronze for a pommel. But it too had the shifting, ugly symbols in its metal, again the legacy of some entity that had been deconstructed and forced into the blade.

Next to the sword there was a bandolier, a broad strap of leather to wear across the chest, with seven leather pouches holding seven bells, their ebony handles projecting out.

Seven bells of increasing size, the smallest able to be cupped in Clariel’s hand, the largest bigger than two hands clasped.

‘A necromancer’s bells,’ said Mogget.

‘Like the Abhorsens use?’ asked Clariel. As with The Book of the Dead, she felt attracted to the bells, felt her fingers yearn to touch the ebony handles, unclasp their cases, hear their voices …

‘Like and unlike,’ said Mogget.

‘You may need more servants, Mistress,’ said Baazalanan. ‘And the Dead are many.’

‘I don’t know how to use the bells,’ said Clariel. She kept staring at them. Was it her imagination, or could she hear the instruments faintly humming in their leather shrouds? Calling to her? ‘I know no necromancy. I haven’t read The Book of the Dead.’

‘You need nothing but your will and the instinct in your blood,’ said Mogget. ‘These bells are Free Magic things, not wound about with Charter Magic. Take them up, speak to them. They will answer to you, teach you their use, their strengths and foibles.’

‘I could go into Death?’ asked Clariel.

‘Anyone can go into Death,’ said Mogget, with a smirk. ‘Coming back again is the difficult part.’

‘There are always many Dead who wish to return to Life,’ whispered Baazalanan. ‘An army of the Dead awaits you, Mistress. Take up the bells.’

‘Take up the sword,’ echoed Aziminil, her voice sweet and cajoling. ‘Take up the bells.’

Clariel took a step forward, and then another. She almost felt like she was out of her body, watching herself walk forward. The sword and the bells called out to her. It was inevitable that she should pick them up, and wield them. She should raise an army of the Dead and lead it against Kilp and Aronzo. She would take Belisaere by storm and put everyone there to the sword, to make more deaths, to raise more Dead, to build an army such as the world had never seen, an army to go forth and conquer till there were none who could gainsay her.

Clariel the Great, deathless and all-powerful, free to make her own path –

‘No!’ screamed Clariel. She snatched her hand away, inches from the bells, shocked to find that she had already taken the gauntlet off, that she would have touched these Free Magic things with her bare fingers. ‘No!’