Free Fain the Sorcerer by Steve Aylett

then a hundred miles distant. He stood in dry wasteland at the base of a thousand-foot-high palace. It was a slender white wedge, the sky above it shimmering like silk.
    Entering through a round door, Fain found himself in what seemed to be an abandoned cottage. Murked, unreadable wall portraits tilted at him.
    There were no rooms above the cottage, the palace spike a solid decoy. Knowing the tricks of warlocks, Fain upended the heavy kitchen table and pushed it inward — it was a door leading to a stone flight of spiral stairs. Descending, he emerged into a strange chamber. Fain felt afraid of this room which was decorated from floor to walls to ceiling like a chessboard. On a small round table stood a bowl arranged with black flowers and white berries. The room had the odour of valerian. Fain passed through this, opening a tall triangular door onto a vast hall of meat. The slurry floor gave way beneath him and he fell further into a puzzle palace of trick perspectives and cut diamond masonry which resulted in pain rooms, chambers which gave him a poison headache within moments of entering. Here was useless furniture made of precious stones glued with human blood, and dark bronze statues with irregular panels removed to display innards of rose quartz and iolite. The infinite scintillations of the carpet hooked his eye and made him almost forget his purpose.
    Finally, descending a grand staircase carved from whalebone, Fain reached the centre of the Cathedral of Knots. A throne was set at the bottom of several such staircases like a tiny stage in an amphitheatre. Today, Thorn looked like a giant insect hung with cutlery. A pearlhandled claw glinted in uterine light and Thorn had cast a spell against Fain, which Fain solidified inches before it hit — a flower like an orange boil clattered to the floor.
    When Thorn opened his jaws it drew taut the twelve wires which were strung between them, and these he strummed and plucked with his complicated claws in lieu of speaking normally. ‘ You were not invited, ’ he said.
    ‘ I apologise, ’ Fain told him. ‘ What ’ s the reason for all these boring staircases? ’
    ‘ Invisibility traps. It ’ s incredibly difficult for an invisible intruder to walk down stairs. ’
    ‘ Is that so? ’ said Fain with interest. ‘ I suppose it ’ s because even if they ’ re not blind, they can ’ t see where they ’ re placing their own feet. ’
    ‘ Quite so. ’
    ‘ What ’ s this building made of? Bacon? ’
    ‘ Marble! And it ’ s a palace! ’
    ‘ This underworld of yours appears to have been carved from apricots. And your throne — some sort of sugar fondant? ’
    ‘ Solid rose quartz. ’
    ‘ Ah! ’
    ‘ And now that you are assured my stronghold is inedible, see what trouble your so-called civilisation will give you if I turn your head translucent. ’
    ‘ Do your worst, Thorn. I don ’ t think they ’ ll find more than a brain and hinges up there: all facts. I notice your mouth opens sideways. ’
    ‘ I ’ ve noticed it too. An unfortunate side-effect of m ’ villainy. ’
    ‘ Yes — what ’ s that all about? ’
    ‘ Decomposition has disguised the grandest betrayals these many years. ’
    ‘ So, the king burns on his throne like a torch in its niche. And jade gryphons guarding gold? Sickly taste! ’
    ‘ Your sentences have a hydrochloric structure to ’ em. You assure me they do not conceal some glamour or cantrap? ’
    Fain found himself inside a block of ice, and set about conjuring heat as he observed the blurred entrance of a trapdoor servant, black dumb fire behind its eyes. It was a walking bat monster, its musculature like red cobwebs, such as Thorn would later employ en masse. Thorn had stood, advancing with stretched jaws. ‘ I am a sword polished with ashes. ’
    Fain transported himself into the cottage kitchen and another forty years into the past. Upending the table again and pushing through it, he made his way to the chess room and