Eric Flint's Blog, page 268

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 17

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 17

The myste was as roiled as I’d ever seen him, as roiled as he was when Cahors attacked me in my home.

“Does all of that mean something to you, Namid?”

“I do not know,” he said. “Perhaps. There are old powers in the world, nearly as old as my kind. Scrying their purpose can be difficult.”

“You mean someone might actually be doing these things to him? He’s not just delusional?”

“The moontimes were not kind to him. You know this. All that he said to you may well be the product of his moon sickness. But it is also possible that there is a kernel of truth beneath the layers of delusion. I must go, Ohanko.”

“I’m not going to keep away from him,” I said before the runemyste could leave. “Even if it’s all true, and these bastards who are hurting him might come after me, too.”

“I would expect no less. Tread like the fox.”

I nodded and watched him fade from view.

I stretched again, crossed to my desk, and fired up the computer. It was so old it might as well have been steam-powered, but it still worked, and within a few minutes I was wading through the junk in my email inbox, looking for the message from Kona with the passenger manifest attachment. I opened the file and printed it, preferring to work with a paper copy. It was two pages long, and several of the names had only a first initial. But I had no trouble finding Mando Vargas and James Howell. Howell was a party of one, but Mando had five travel companions — aides, no doubt. If Howell had managed to blow up the plane and kill all of them, it would have been front page news across the country, which was probably what he and his fellow skinheads were counting on.

He was going to be front page news all right, but not the way he and his buddies expected.

I read through the list a second time, and stumbled on a familiar name. At least it might have been familiar. “P. Hesslan-Fine.”

Pausing over it, I felt my stomach tightening with long-buried emotions. Rage, humiliation, and ultimately, deepest grief. Something cold crept through me, chilling me to the marrow, making my breath catch in my chest. I remembered this feeling; I would have been glad to go the rest of my life without experiencing it again. But here it was, as raw as ever. It might as well have been days instead of years.

I was all of thirteen when my mother died in a scandal that, for the worst fifteen minutes any fame-seeker could imagine, consumed all of Phoenix and splashed the Fearsson family name across the headlines of every newspaper in the state. She was found dead beside the body of her lover, a man named Elliott Hesslan. Some claimed it was a double murder and tried to pin the blame on my father. Others called it a double suicide, and still others were certain that it was a murder-suicide, though they couldn’t decide which of the pair had killed the other.

All I knew was that my Dad went on a bender that lasted months, and I had to go to school each day and try to ignore the stares and whispers of classmates and teachers alike. The people who could have understood what I was going through were the very ones I wanted no part of. Elliott’s widow, Mary, and their children, Michael and Patricia. Michael, I knew, killed himself a few years later — that made it into the papers, too. I had long since lost track of Patricia.

There weren’t that many Hesslans in Phoenix, and with the name hyphenated, I assumed that this passenger was a woman. Could that have been Patty Hesslan?

I forced myself to read on, but I saw no other names that rang a bell, and I kept going back to that single line. “P. Hesslan-Fine, party of one.”

There wasn’t always a lot of overlap between the attributes I associated with being a cop and those that were rooted in my being a weremyste. But one big one was a healthy scepticism about coincidence. My father was suffering, Namid was worried, a guy who tried to blow up a plane was killed by magic, and the daughter of my mother’s boyfriend was on the plane in question. That was a lot to dismiss as happenstance.

I sat down at the computer again and punched “Patricia Hesslan” into a search engine. I didn’t get a lot of relevant hits: a few old news stories that related back to the deaths of her father and my mother, a site that listed her as a licensed real estate agent for Sonoran Winds Realty, and a wedding announcement with the headline, “Hesslan weds Fine.”

The accompanying photo was grainy, but I recognized her as soon as I saw it. We’d met one time — an unfortunate chance meeting at the funeral home mere days after the bodies were found — but hers wasn’t a face I was likely to forget. She and Gerald Fine were married several years ago. He was a partner at a law firm here in town. A search of his name didn’t dredge up much else. It seemed they both kept low profiles.

I typed in “Dara Fearsson,” to see what a search of my mother’s name would produce, but wisely deleted it rather than hit ‘enter.’ The sense of dread that had returned when I read Patty’s name hadn’t left me; if anything it had gotten worse the deeper I’d delved into her life. But for months after my mother’s death, I had been both repulsed and fascinated by every new newspaper article about her and Elliott. I couldn’t get enough of them, and yet each time I read one I wound up nauseous and in tears. Twenty years later, I wasn’t as overwrought–not by a long shot. But that perverse fascination remained.

I forced myself to switch off the computer. Then I left the office, intending to go back to my house, change out of my sweaty clothes, and track down a few of my weremyste friends to find out what they knew about new sorcerers in the Phoenix area.

My office wasn’t far from my home, and I was able to take back streets, thus avoiding the worst of the late afternoon traffic. As I pulled into the driveway, I noticed a strange car parked across the street from my house. Strange as in unfamiliar, but also strange as in out of place in my quiet neighborhood. It was a black vintage Chevy Impala lowrider, probably from around the mid-1960s. It was in great shape: a gleaming new paint job, white-wall tires, polished chrome. There was something familiar about it, but I couldn’t place it right away.

I retrieved the mail, walked to my door, and let myself in, my attention on the bills I’d pulled from the mailbox. Which was why I about jumped out of my skin when a voice said, “Fearsson.”

I dropped the envelopes, reached for my shoulder holster.

“I wouldn’t do that,” the same voice warned.

I froze.

 

IN DEFENSE OF THE SAD PUPPIES

I’ve been traveling a lot for the past few weeks, so my ability to respond to comments made here is intermittent. One of the comments that was put up on my web site while I was gone lately was a long one by Brad Torgersen. Because of Brad’s prominence in the debate over the Hugo Awards, I think it’s incumbent on me to respond to him.

Before I can do that, however, something else has to be dealt with first. One of the main points I’ve been trying to make, partly in the hope that I can persuade the Sad Puppies to change their minds, is that while scurrilous attacks have been made on them those attacks have come from people who have no real power or influence in the science fiction and fantasy community.

Unfortunately, there’s a reliable old quip, variously attributed to Voltaire and Maréchal Villars: Lord, protect me from my friends; I can take care of my enemies. With the modification that I don’t consider the Sad Puppies to be “enemies” but simply opponents in the current wrangle over the Hugos, the quip has found a home again.

While I was attending SFWA’s Nebula Awards weekend, the following statement was made on her Facebook page by Irene Gallo in response to a question. (The question was “what are the Sad Puppies”?)

“There are two extreme right-wing to neo-nazi groups, called the Sad Puppies and the Rabid Puppies respectively, that are calling for the end of social justice in science fiction and fantasy. They are unrepentantly racist, sexist and homophobic. A noisy few but they’ve been able to gather some Gamergate folks around them and elect a slate of bad-to-reprehensible works on this year’s Hugo ballot.”

When it comes to sheer, breath-taking dishonesty and just plain silliness, this statement is far worse than any of the ones cited by James May which I dealt with in previous essay. (Most of which were either perfectly fine or, at worst, one-sided.) But what makes the statement noteworthy is that Irene Gallo is not simply a loudmouth on the internet with a tenuous grasp of political logic and apparently no grasp at all of common decency. She is also the Art Director for Tor/Forge Books, which is by far the largest publisher in F&SF. In short, someone who has a genuinely important and influential position in the field.

Before I address the comment itself, I need to make one thing absolutely clear. Whatever her position at Tor, Irene Gallo has the same right to free speech that any American citizen has (as well as the citizens of many other countries, of course). Still, rights are one thing—good judgment is something else again. And it’s her judgment that’s at issue here.

Let me start with the opening half of her first sentence:

“There are two extreme right-wing to neo-nazi groups, called the Sad Puppies and the Rabid Puppies respectively…”

Words matter—something you’d expect any professional in publishing to understand, even if their specialty is art work. Calling someone “extreme right-wing” when you immediately tie that to “neo-nazi” is disingenuous at best. The transparently obvious purpose is to blend “extreme right-wing” with “neo-nazi” in the minds of the readers. The problem is that terms like “extreme” and “right-wing” are inherently vague and the one term in the sentence that is not vague—“neo-nazi”—is wildly inappropriate.

It’s not even appropriate applied to the Rabid Puppies. The two most prominent figures in that group are Theodore Beale (“Vox Day”) and the author John C. Wright. I have been severely critical of Wright and will continue to be, but I have seen no evidence that he either belongs to, is affiliated with, or even has any significant relations with any member of a neo-Nazi organization. The situation with Beale is perhaps murkier, because some of his statements certainly resonate with those made by neo-Nazis. But I have seen no concrete evidence in his case either that would support the charge of being a “neo-nazi.”

And applying the term to the Sad Puppies is simply slander, pure and simple. I have no objection to calling either Brad Torgersen or Larry Correia “right wing,” because they are—and say as much themselves. If you want to add the term “extreme” because it makes you feel better, so be it. For whatever it’s worth, coming from someone who has seen extreme right-wingers a lot more up-close and personally than I suspect Irene Gallo ever has, I think applying the adjective to either Brad Torgersen or Larry Correia is not accurate. If we can descend into the real world, for a moment, what both men are is political conservatives with a libertarian slant who are also devout Mormons. (I mention their religion simply because, as with most religious people, it does influence their political views at least to some degree.)

But leaving aside the issue of “extreme,” suggesting that either of them is a “neo-nazi” or anything remotely close is just disgusting. And don’t anyone bother protesting that Gallo didn’t actually make that charge directly since she did, after all, distinguish between “extreme right wing” and “neo-nazi.”

Yes, I know she did—with the clear intent of smearing the two together. This is the sort of rhetorical device that Theodore Beale loves to use also, when he insists he doesn’t “advocate” shooting girls in the head for wanting to get an education, he just points out that, empirically and scientifically speaking, it’s “rational” for the Taliban to do so.

I’m not guessing at Gallo’s intent, either, as will become blindingly obvious when we move on to her second sentence. But before I do so it’s necessary to address the last part of her first sentence, which is either as dishonest as the first part or is just silly, I’m not sure which:

“…that are calling for the end of social justice in science fiction and fantasy.”

Huh? The last time I looked, nobody except possibly Theodore Beale (and even with him you’d really have to squint) is calling for the end of social justice in F&SF. In one way or another, at least half of the stories written in our field—including ones by Brad Torgersen and Larry Correia—are stories in which the fight for social justice figures prominently. To be sure, people can disagree over what social justice really is and isn’t and the best way to achieve it. But who in hell is actually calling for social justice to end?

Once again, Gallo is employing sleazy rhetoric. The charge which can accurately be laid at the feet of the Sad Puppies is that they are calling for an end (or at least amelioration) of what they believe to be the dominating influence of what they call “social justice warriors” over who gets nominated for and wins the Hugo Award. But translating that into the statement that they are “calling for the end of social justice in science fiction and fantasy” is ridiculous. You could just as easily charge me with “calling for the end of straight white males” because I do in fact believe that straight white males have an undue amount of power and influence in our society.

Okay, enough on that. Now let’s move to the second sentence, which is the heart of her statement:

“They are unrepentantly racist, sexist and homophobic.”

This statement is not even true applied to the Rabid Puppies, although it certainly comes close, especially on the issues of sexism and homophobia. The problem is with the term “unrepentantly” which gives Theodore Beale more credit than he deserves. It would be more accurate to say “the Rabid Puppies are racist, sexist and homophobic even though they try to worm their way out of being blatant about it, especially when it comes to race.” (Where Beale likes to use William Buckley’s old tactic of insisting the problem isn’t an “inherent” defect in black people but simply the fact they haven’t been civilized long enough to have a culture equal to that of white people.)

But, never mind. This is a technicality. It is a simple fact that Beale and his supporters are vicious bigots and that’s as far as I’ll go in defending them.

The real issue is that, once again—and this time without any phony attempt to distinguish between the two—Irene Gallo has slandered the Sad Puppies by trying to make them identical with the Rabid Puppies.

In what sense can Brad Torgersen or Larry Correia or any person identified with the Sad Puppies be called racist, sexist and homophobic, much less “unrepentantly” so?

Words matter, damn it. If Irene Gallo has any citations that would substantiate her charges, let her make them public. And if she can’t—and I’ll make a prediction here: she can’t—then she needs to publicly retract the accusation and apologize to the people against whom she made it.

Period. There is nothing to discuss here. Put up or shut up.

And before Gallo or anyone else tries to get around this by arguing that what’s involved isn’t any blatant statement but the “inescapable and inherent logic” of the positions advanced by the Sad Puppies, I will remind you that you are dealing with a hard-bitten and very experienced old socialist who has had that same filthy tactic used against him for decades. I have been slandered as a “commie” since I was a teenager. (Even during years when I was actually a conservative in my political views on most subjects outside of civil rights.) And whenever I would challenge someone to back up their charges, they would always fall back on the same rhetorical tricks being used by Irene Gallo:

Guilt by association. Guilt by suggesting some “inner logic”—and never mind that the “inner logic” was directly contradicted by statements I made or actions I took. Blah blah blah. Trust me, I know every trick in this particular book. Call it the “Manual for Red-Baiting”—and the fact that this time around the same crap is being applied to people on the right doesn’t change its inherently squalid nature one damn bit.

Finally, there’s this last sentence:

“A noisy few but they’ve been able to gather some Gamergate folks around them and elect a slate of bad-to-reprehensible works on this year’s Hugo ballot.”

I’ll leave aside the issue of whether Gallo can substantiate her claim that “Gamergate folks” are even involved in this debate, much less that they were “gathered” by people actively participating. I suspect she’s just shooting from the hip but at this point it’s a trivial issue. The really important business comes at the end:

“…a slate of bad-to-reprehensible works on this year’s Hugo ballot.”

Again… huh? In what sense can any of the nominees for Best Novel be characterized as “bad-to-reprehensible”?

To remind everyone, the nominees are:

Ancillary Sword, Ann Leckie (Orbit US/Orbit UK)
The Dark Between the Stars, Kevin J. Anderson (Tor Books)
The Goblin Emperor, Katherine Addison (Sarah Monette) (Tor Books)
Skin Game, Jim Butcher (Orbit UK/Roc Books)
The Three Body Problem, Cixin Liu, Ken Liu translator (Tor Books)

I’ve read Skin Game and saw nothing “bad-to-reprehensible” in the book. In fact, I enjoyed it a lot, as I have the entire Dresden Files series. I haven’t yet read Ancillary Sword but I did read Ancillary Justice and I find it hard to believe there’s anything “bad-to-reprehensible” there either. I haven’t read this specific novel by Kevin Anderson but he’s a friend of mine and I’ve not only read quite a few of his novels but he and I just got a contract from Baen Books for a new fantasy series and if there was anything “bad-to-reprehensible” in either our (very long and detailed) proposal or any novel of his I’ve ever read, it passed me by entirely.

I haven’t read Goblin Emperor but it’s the next book I’m about to start reading, in part because it came highly recommended by a couple of friends neither of whom saw fit to mention anything “bad-to-reprehensible” in it. And if the charge is to be leveled against The Three Body Problem is it actually the book itself which is “bad-to-reprehensible” or just the translation?

It’s perfectly obvious that Irene Gallo is just shooting from the hip again. The nominees she’s really aiming at are presumably the stories published by Castalia House, except she’s not bothering to aim at all. She’s just blasting away in the same indiscriminate and irresponsible manner that infuses her entire statement.

I will add, by the way, that I have read one of the Castalia stories: “The Parliament of Beasts and Birds” by John C. Wright, which is one of the nominees for Best Short Story. I didn’t much care for the story, for reasons I’ll explain in a later post. But I saw nothing “bad-to-reprehensible” about it other than Wright’s penchant for fustian prose.

Once again, we see silliness melded with smearing. That is to say, the same sort of red-baiting-turned-backward tactic that Gallo has applied throughout.

Okay, enough. In later posts, I will go back to addressing the real issues involved in this debate. For now, I will end by speaking directly to Irene Gallo, if she’s reading this.

 

You screwed up. (It doesn’t matter what the reason was. I’m not a mind reader and neither is anyone else.) Retract the statement publicly and issue a simple and straightforward apology.

That’s it. If you do that, it’s over. If anyone tries to keep this issue going after that—yes, I know someone will, there are always assholes baying for someone else’s blood—then I will defend you just as vigorously as I’m now criticizing you.

Words matter. That includes retractions and apologies.

 

If anyone doesn’t understand why that’s true, I will do my best to explain it to you even though it ought to be obvious.

First of all, if you refuse to accept someone’s retraction and apology when they screw up, then you remove any incentive for anyone to ever do so. When faced with the alternatives of being damned if they do and damned if they don’t, almost everyone will keep doing it.

Secondly, you will introduce a strain of venom and rancor into the argument that you will regret sooner or later because it will almost certainly come back to bite you. As a rule, the only people who win debates fought with knives are undertakers.

 

I’m taking the time to deal with this for two reasons. The first and simplest is that people I know have been unfairly and unjustly accused and I will therefore defend them.

My other reason is more pragmatic. The debate/argument/brawl—call it whatever you will—that we are now having over the Hugo Awards is one that I would like to end. I’ve been mostly arguing against the Sad Puppies not out of animosity—several of them are friends of mine and none of them are people I dislike—but because I am trying to persuade them that their analysis of the situation is faulty and the course of action they’ve adopted is futile at best.

I will continue that debate. But I can’t possibly succeed in my goal, or even make any significant progress, if the people I’m arguing with are not only convinced that they’re being slandered but actually are being slandered. Under those circumstances, people stop listening to anyone except those already supporting them.

So do I. So do you. So does everyone.

So it needs to stop. On all sides.

(for the other posts on the Hugo controversy, visit the Hugo Controversy category.)

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 37

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 37

“I have neither orders nor plans, My Lord.”

“I believe I can make use of your talents,” the comte said. “In the meanwhile, you are a welcome guest. You have ridden far, and you must have time to think.”

****

Servien had never been given much to reflection on his future. The present had kept him busy in his role as intendant. He knew, and his cousin Abel had frequently reminded him, that there would certainly come a time when his patron would no longer be there to employ him, but this fact was pushed out of his mind in his day-to-day interactions with the cardinal. While Richelieu was alive and in power, he refused to give it a second thought.

Now that he was gone, Servien found himself in the uncomfortable position of considering what up-timers called “Plan B.”

Over the next few days he was comfortably accommodated as the guest of the comte de Brassac within the Château de Pau. He was given the freedom of the place, to walk where he would, without restriction. The comte neither demanded nor required anything of him. He suspected that Brassac was sensitive to his own restlessness, his desire to take some action — but there was nothing for Servien to do, from Pau, right now.

It didn’t make waiting any easier. But it was unclear to him just what the comte was waiting for.

Three nights after his arrival at Pau, Servien found himself in an upper hall of the Château at vespers, admiring a particularly impressive tapestry depicting the famous Field of the Cloth of Gold, a great knightly contest and tournament from the previous century. It took him far away from the conflicts of the present day; it was a restful pause in the quiet of the early evening.

As he stood there trying to identify some of the more famous participants in that long-ago ceremony, he became aware of a murmuring sound not far away. It was almost too soft to hear; but he made it out — a man’s voice, speaking a Latin prayer in a steady, regular cadence. He considered leaving, but curiosity overcame him; he walked slowly and quietly along the hall until he came to a slightly-open door. Light spilled into the hallway from the room beyond.

He was hesitant to interrupt; he moved the door very slightly to see what was within and saw before him a small chapel. Below the crucified Savior was an ornately carved prie-dieu and a small table; something — he could not see just what — was laid upon the table, and the comte de Brassac was kneeling on the hassock, his back to the door, softly praying. At the soft creak of the door he stopped and turned, and noted Servien.

After a moment’s pause he continued the prayer — an Ave — to its conclusion, then picked up the object from the table and tucked it within his vest. Standing and genuflecting, he turned to face his guest.

“You find me at my devotions, Monsieur.”

“I apologize for interrupting.”

“It is nothing. I . . . merely had need of counsel.”

“I hope you found what you needed.” Servien glanced from Brassac to the now-empty table, and then back to the comte.

Brassac looked ready to move on, then seemed to reconsider. “Please close the door, if you would. I thought I had done so, that I might not disturb others. But perhaps it is fortuitous that you came upon me.”

Servien did as he was instructed. He walked into the room, crossing himself as he faced the prie-dieu.

“I have not explained to you why Père Joseph . . . the cardinal de Tremblay . . . directed you to come here in case of emergency. I have been trying to decide what I might share with you, but I have concluded that in fairness, it is appropriate that I explain.”

Servien did not answer, waiting for Brassac to continue.

“Cardinal de Tremblay and I, and others whose names you would know, share a common interest in the defense of the realm and the crown. We belong to a . . . society for the maintenance and protection of our beloved country. Its name is the Compagnie du Saint-Sacrament — the Company of the Blessed Sacrament.”

“I cannot say that I have ever heard of that society, My Lord.”

“It is a secret society,” Brassac said. “And your master was aware of it, but we do not count him among our members.”

“Ah.”

“The Company is devoted to the Crown of France,” the comte continued. “We have known for some time that the queen was with child, and that there were . . . forces looking to intercept the succession.”

“And kill His Majesty the king?”

“Every monarch has enemies, Servien. King Louis was no exception. But if your question is whether we expected this attack — the answer is definitively no. Gaston was always a threat, but has been exiled for many years. As for Vendôme . . . there is no question that he is capable of regicide, but his greatest enemy was your master, not his brother the king.”

“I think you underestimate his desire for revenge, Monsieur le Comte. You and your — Company — seem to have overlooked an obvious alliance.”

“We are not the only group seeking to protect crown and kingdom. And we cannot be everywhere.”

Servien bit off an angry reply: he was without his patron, in the presence of a member of the noblesse d’épee. He wanted to give vent to his frustration and bitterness, his resentment that the world had been turned upside down.

Brassac was telling him of a society that pledged to protect the crown and defend the kingdom . . . but they were not in the Forest of Rambouillet, at Yvelines, when Vendôme and his men rode out of the dark and struck down King and Cardinal.

“Kill them all . . . leave none alive,” he heard in his mind.

“You seem dubious, Monsieur Servien.”

“I do not intend to convey that sentiment, My Lord.”

“Then . . .”

“I entreat you to continue, Monsieur le Comte.”

“Our worst fears have not been brought about,” Brassac said. “If what you say is true, the infant King and the queen Mother still live, but are in peril. We will do everything we can to protect them.”

“May I ask a question?”

“By all means.”

“What position do you hold within this Company?”

“I am its Superior.”

“And Cardinal de Tremblay?”

“He is a member of our society. An important one.”

“I am gratified to hear that he is so highly regarded,” Servien said. “And now that you have revealed the existence of this secret company to me . . . what happens next?”

“You mean,” Brassac said, “do I swear you to secrecy with a blood oath? No. Nothing of the kind. It would be my preference that you keep its existence secret; I know that you are familiar with the business of keeping secrets, and thus I have no doubt of your ability in that regard. But I will not foolishly compel you. Do whatever you like with the information.”

“Just that. ‘Do whatever you like.'”

“Just that.” Brassac reached within his vest and drew out the object he had concealed there: a cloth scapular on a woven string. It bore a painted image of the Blessed Virgin with a crimson heart surrounded by a golden halo. He touched it to his lips and then handed it to Servien. “This is our emblem: the Sacred Heart. It is one of our methods of recognition.

“When you entered, I was praying to our Holy Mother that others in our Company were executing their instructions, making efforts for the defense of France in the face of these events. I shall return to Paris after word of the king’s death officially reaches us; until then, I must leave matters in the hands of others.”

“Including the cardinal de Tremblay, I assume.”

“Yes. Most especially including the cardinal de Tremblay. And in the meanwhile we watch, and wait.”

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 16

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 16

He stared at me, his face as still as ice, not allowing me the satisfaction of drawing even the hint of a smile. “Clearing is a technique for the most inexperienced of runecrafters,” he said after a weighty pause. “When you can cast at will, with the immediacy of thought, without having to pause to clear, then you will have mastered what you call magic. Right now, when it comes to runecrafting, you are little more than a child.”

That stung.

“Defend yourself.”

The assailing spell crashed down on me, its weight palpable. I felt as though I had been encased in glass. I couldn’t move. Not to cry out, or to fight free of the invisible prison he had conjured. Not even to breathe. Panic rose in me like a tide, though even as it did, I had time to think, in a distant corner of my mind, that he must have been saving this one for a time when he was really ticked at me.

I couldn’t use either of the two most common and rudimentary warding spells — reflection or deflection — nor could I rely on the sheathing spell I had cast. Those were my stand-bys, the spells I went to whenever possible. Namid knew this of course. He wanted to push me away from the magic with which I was most comfortable, and for good reason. The most comfortable spells were also the easiest, and the most readily defeated by other weremystes.

My lungs were starting to burn, and my panic was about to tip over into desperation.

An idea came to me. It was ridiculous to the point of foolishness. But magic didn’t always make sense, and I had no other ideas.

I’d envisioned Namid’s attack spell as a prison of glass. So why not three elements: me, the glass, and a giant hammer?

Power surged through me as if I’d stuck my finger in an electrical outlet. My body jerked, and an instant later I could breathe again.

Namid canted his head to the side, surprise and — dare I think it? — a touch of pride on his crystal clear features. “That was well done, Ohanko. What spell did you cast?”

“What spell did you cast?”

“It was a binding, a crafting intended to paralyze you.”

I shook my head. “Then my spell shouldn’t have worked. It felt like you had encased me in glass — that was the first image that came to mind. And so I imagined a hammer shattering it, and somehow that worked.”

“And why should it not?”

“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging. “Your spell had nothing to do with glass.”

“That matters not. I have told you many times before that runecrafting is an act of will. The images or words you use do not matter.”

“I know that. But . . .”

“You know it, but you have not understood it until now. Not really.”

He was right. He was always right. But this once it didn’t bother me so much. Because even as I had told myself again and again that the words of a spell didn’t matter, I always assumed that my wardings needed to be matched in some way to the intent of the assailing spells they were meant to block. I was starting to understand that they didn’t. They needed to match my perception of those attacks, which was totally different, and much easier.

I said as much to Namid, and he nodded, the smile lingering. “It has taken longer than I would have liked, but you are learning. Defend yourself.”

He threw attack after attack at me, some of them torturous, others merely terrifying. But the last one was the worst. He managed to mess with my mind so that with no warning I found myself in the middle of what felt like a phasing. Disorientation, paranoia, delusion. All I could think was that it was too early, that the sun couldn’t possibly be down yet. And so with the last shred of rational thought I could muster, I grasped at three elements: me, the phasing, and sunlight.

When my thoughts cleared and I remembered where I was, I sat up — somehow I had collapsed onto my back. Namid was watching me, in a way that made me vaguely uncomfortable.

“What?”

“You have come far,” he said. “Today alone, I sense the progress you have made. It may be that we are ready for a new kind of training.”

“I’m not sure I like the sound of that.”

“We will not begin today. You have cast enough. But soon.” He nodded, more to himself than to me. “Yes, I think soon.”

I stood, stretched my back. My shirt was soaked with sweat, the way it would be after a workout at the gym. But I felt good; I could tell that I was getting stronger, quicker with my spells.

“When was the last time you saw Leander Fearsson?”

I turned. Namid was standing as well, his eyes gleaming in the late afternoon light.

“Today. Why?”

“How is he?”

I stared at the myste.

“Ohanko?”

“Did you really just ask me how my father is doing?”

“Do your friends not do this? Does not Kona Shaw, and the woman, Billie?”

“Well, yeah, of course they do, but they’re . . . ? What is this about, Namid? You’ve never asked about him before.”

“If it makes you uncomfortable I will not do it again.”

“It’s not that– I’m not uncomfortable. But you don’t ask questions casually. So why don’t you tell me what this is about.”

“I am sorry if I have disturbed you, Ohanko. I will leave you now.”

He started to dissipate.

“No!” I said.

His form solidified once more.

“I don’t want you to go. I was . . . You surprised me with the question. The truth is, he’s not doing well at all. He’s more incoherent than usual. He’s not taking care of himself. And worst of all, he seems to be in pain, though I can’t tell if what he’s feeling is imagined or real.”

Namid’s waters roughened, like the surface of a lake under a gust of wind. “What kind of pain?”

“He talks about burning, and about somebody testing him, prodding him. I don’t understand half of it, but as delusions go, it strikes me as worse than usual.”

“I am sorry to hear this.”

Something in the way Namid spoke the words caught my attention. “Does any of that mean something to you?”

“Tell me more of what he said.”

I frowned, thinking back on the conversation I’d had with my Dad that morning — if I could even call it that. “He said they were burning him, and something about brands. He thought he was being marked, like whoever was doing this owned him. I tried to get him to tell me who had hurt him, but he wouldn’t.”

As enigmatic as Namid could be, it was pretty easy to tell when he was troubled. Moments before he had been as clear as mountain water. Now his face and body were turbid, muddied, like the waters of a churning river. “What else?”

“That was all–” I stopped, the memory washing over me. “No, there was one other thing. He said that they think he matters, but he doesn’t. And then he told me that I did matter — he was pretty emphatic about it — and he said that if I spent too much time with him, they’d find me and they’d hurt me, too.”

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 36

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 36

Chapter 21

Pau

If Servien had been given to lyrical prose, he might have been moved to write about the sweeping vista visible from the plateau upon which the capital of Béarn was built. Beyond the town he could see the Pyrenees, verdant and sculptured against the backdrop of a late spring sky, like the frame of a grand tapestry that held the fortified castle and settlement that surrounded it. The beauty of the place — serene and quiet, far from the bustle and grime of Paris — might have been enough, had he the temperament for it, to forget the seriousness of his mission.

As Servien paused on horseback with the scene before him, he allowed himself a grim smile. Of all the things he was, a lyrical craftsman of prose was not one of them and the mission was not far from his mind. The Pyrenees, beautiful as they were in the sunny afternoon, merely marked the boundary between his native land and its greatest potential enemy, the kingdom of Spain.

He wondered for just a moment how much Spain might be involved in this: whether Monsieur Gaston had enlisted France’s rival in order to gain the throne – and what price the Spanish would exact for their assistance.

Then he shrugged off the thought and concentrated again on the mission, following the road that led steeply down toward the river and the town for which he was bound.

****

When he reached the drawbridge to the Castle of Pau, which was lowered to give access to the town, he was approached by a soldier in Brassac livery. Servien had already dismounted from his horse; the soldier looked bored and disdainful, as if dealing with petty civilians from Paris was not part of his brief.

“I have business with Monsieur le Comte,” Servien said. “I would be obliged if you would direct me to him.”

The soldier smiled, showing what few teeth he had. “Business with the comte, is it? Well, then, Monsieur. You must realize that His Lordship is an extremely busy man.”

“He will receive me.”

“Perhaps yes, perhaps no. Perhaps today, perhaps next week –”

“Yes,” Servien interrupted. “And today. You may tell him that I come at the behest of Cardinal de Tremblay.”

“I do not know that name.”

“That His Lordship does not confide in you is not my concern. You may take my message to him and be rewarded; or you may be difficult and recalcitrant, and afterward be punished.”

He looked dubious, possibly weighing the possibilities of reward in view of the lack of dignity at being an errand-boy.

“Despite your stubbornness, I shall reward you as well. Now, if you please, I should like to enter.”

At last the soldier determined that it was above his pay grade to interfere, and looked over his shoulder, making a gesture to some unknown person on the nearby battlement. Then he turned and began to walk across the drawbridge, beckoning Servien to follow.

Tremblay’s name carried a particular cachet. Within a few minutes a groom had emerged to attend to Servien’s horse, and Servien himself was escorted by a gentleman — who gave the soldier a disdainful glance, but only after Servien had made sure to provide him with coin — into the castle.

It was a beautiful place, more palace than the fortification it had been centuries earlier. He was led along a wide, airy corridor covered by a paneled vault and crowned by an exquisite chandelier; on the wall he passed a large tapestry showing a royal hunting-party that his gentleman guide identified as being Francis I, king a century past. At last they came to a grand staircase and into a wide salon, which held a great table made of a slab of highly polished stone, and a set of plush armchairs drawn up before an elaborately-sculpted fireplace decorated with the quartered arms of Béarn and Brassac. Despite the sun outside it was still chilly, and a banked fire was burning, helping to cast off the chill. The gentleman bowed and left him there.

He was alone only for a few moments before a middle-aged nobleman entered from another doorway. Servien offered a gracious leg and waited to be addressed.

“I am Louis de Galard de Béarn, Sieur de Semoussac, the comte de Brassac et de Béarn,” the man said. “You have invoked a powerful name in order to be admitted to my presence, Monsieur. I am sure that you are ready to explain yourself. To whom do I speak?”

Servien looked up at the comte. He was in his mid-fifties, fit and strong but gone a trifle to overweight. He wore his clothes well, and was clearly attentive to his toilet. His glance was not hostile, but it was unwavering. Servien had not been told what Tremblay’s relationship was to this nobleman, but it was sufficiently cordial to allow Servien to be admitted to his presence.

“My name is Étienne Servien. I come at the instruction of Cardinal de Tremblay, My Lord,” Servien said. “But I serve as intendant for my Master, the cardinal de Richelieu.” He reached into his wallet and withdrew Richelieu’s signet, and walked across the salon to present it to Brassac.

The comte took the ring and examined it, paying particular attention to the inscription within and the stone without.

“This would not leave Cardinal Richelieu’s finger except in dire emergency,” he said at last, handing back the signet to Servien, who put it away at once.

“My master instructed me to take it as a surety to others that I speak on his behalf,” Servien said. “He lies in peril, having barely survived an ambush while riding. His Majesty the king was traveling with him.”

“The king?”

“The . . . late king,” Servien said, looking down at the polished floor and crossing himself. “His Majesty was killed.”

“Who could have committed such a heinous deed?”

“His murderer was his half-brother, César de Vendôme. I witnessed it with my own eyes, My Lord. But Cardinal Richelieu believes he acted on behalf of another. I am inclined to believe it as well.”

The comte de Brassac walked slowly to the great table and ran his index finger along it, following the whorls and patterns almost absently.

“The cardinal de Tremblay was wise to send you to me, Monsieur. The duc d’Orleans has some unsavory alliances and could make some injudicious choices now that the kingship is his.”

“It is his by possession, My Lord, not by right.”

“What do you mean?”

“The rightful king of France is his nephew, the son of King Louis and Queen Anne. He was born a few hours before his father was murdered.”

“How can you be sure?”

“I am sure, My Lord. It is indisputably true.”

“Does Gaston know this?”

“I do not think that he does, My Lord, and even if he did I cannot expect that his course would change.”

“And where is Monsieur now?”

“It is my understanding that he wintered with his lady mother in Tuscany, and has most recently visited his sister in Turin. If word of the king’s death has reached him — or if he has already been informed of the deed — he is most likely en route to Paris.”

“And the queen and . . . the young king?”

“They have departed the place where Her Majesty was in seclusion. I do not know their present whereabouts.”

Brassac thought for several moments, then looked directly at Servien. “Some provision will have been made. I shall have to return to the capital in due time. What are your orders, Monsieur Servien? Or your plans?”

It was Servien’s turn to think. The answer did not immediately present itself: he had followed Tremblay’s — and Richelieu’s — instructions to come to Pau and inform the comte de Brassac of the terrible events in the forest of Yvelines; he had not even had time to think past that.

His king had been murdered; his patron was dead, or near death. When he returned to Paris — if that did not prove unwise — he could contact his cousin Abel, the Marquis de Sablé . . . but for the moment he had no place to go: his duties had been discharged.

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 15

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 15

Chapter 6

I left Kona there, and ran the gauntlet of police, FBI, and TSA check points until I was out of the terminal and back in my car. The drive out of the airport loop proved to be a good deal easier and quicker than the drive in. Afternoon traffic on the interstates, however, was hideous.

I sat in my car, idling alongside about ten thousand of my best friends, the Z-ster’s air conditioner working overtime and the sun glaring off the cars in front of me, and I thought about James Howell. To be more precise, I thought about the final minutes of his life, and possible reasons for his murder.

It was too easy to assume that he was killed because he tried to blow up the plane. How would a weremyste know that, and if somehow his killer was aware of the bomb, why would he or she resort to murder rather than simply alert the police or the FBI? And if this sorcerer knew about the bomb, why would he or she bother with grounding the plane first? That made no sense. The bomb was in Howell’s luggage; it wasn’t in the plane’s cabin or cockpit or cargo area. Disabling the plane wasn’t going to save any lives. That was why Howell was antsy, but not panicked. If Howell hadn’t been murdered, the passengers and their luggage would have been moved to a different aircraft, and that plane would have been destroyed.

The more I pondered this, the less sense it made.

I don’t usually use my phone when I drive, and I’m intolerant to the point of abusiveness of drivers who do. But we weren’t going anywhere, and it occurred to me that I needed more information. I pulled out my phone and punched in Kona’s number.

“Miss me already, huh?” she said upon answering.

“Can you get me the passenger list for flight 595?”

“Sure. I’ll email it to you. Why?”

“I know a good number of the sorcerers here in Phoenix, and I’d like to see if any of them were on board.”

“I’ll send it right away.”

“Thanks, Kona.”

I switched off the phone and tossed it on my jacket. A few seconds later, the cars around me started to inch forward.

I drove the rest of the way to my office in a fog. I knew I was missing something, a logical, or at least magical, explanation for the sequence of events that ended in Howell’s death. But I couldn’t see it. I kept coming back to the same conclusion: That whoever had killed the man had made his crime more complicated than it needed to be.

It wasn’t that I thought criminals always behaved rationally. Far from it. I’d been a cop for too long to think anything of the sort. But this was . . . odd. That was the best word for it.

What did a dead skinhead, a Latino political leader, and a disabled 757 have in common? Well, for one thing, they were all messing with my head.

Because my day hadn’t had enough surprises already, when I got to my office, Namid was already there. Waiting for me. That had never happened before.

From the way he greeted me you would have thought it was the most natural thing in the world, like I was getting home from work, and he was waiting for me in the kitchen, fixing dinner.

“What are you doing here?” I asked, tossing my car keys and bomber jacket on my desk.

“You need to train. We have not worked on your craft in some time.”

“It’s been two days.”

“And that is long enough.”

I no longer resisted Namid’s attempts to help me hone my craft. I still feared the powers I possessed, knowing where they would lead me. And if ever I forgot, all I needed to do was spend a few minutes with my Dad. But I also understood that as my runecrafting skills improved, so would my ability to hold off the worst symptoms of the phasings, thus slowing their cumulative effect on my mind.

On an already weird day, though, his presence in my office was too weird for me to let pass.

“You’ve been waiting here so that we can train? That’s it? That’s what you want me to believe?”

“Have I ever lied to you, Ohanko?”

That brought me up short. “No,” I said without hesitation.

“Then why would you doubt me now?”

It didn’t take long for my thoughts to catch up with the conversation. “You haven’t lied to me,” I said, ignoring the second question. “But when you’re concerned about my safety, you start behaving strangely. You show up at odd times. And you avoid direct questions by asking questions of your own. So why don’t you tell me what you’re doing here?”

“First we train. Then you may ask your questions.”

It was like arguing with a kid. A seven hundred year-old, watery, magic-wielding kid.

He lowered himself to the floor, gazing up at me with those endlessly patient glowing eyes. I heaved a sigh and sat as well.

“Clear yourself,” he said, with a low rumble, like a river in flood.

I closed my eyes and summoned an image from my youth: a Golden Eagle circling over the desert floor in the Superstition Wilderness, its enormous wings held perfectly still, its tail twisting as it turned. I’d been no more than nine years old when I saw it; my parents and I were on one of our many camping trips, and it was one of the happiest and most memorable moments from my childhood.

Clearing was something runecrafters did to empty their minds of distractions so that they could cast spells more efficiently and effectively. Long ago, when Namid first began to teach me the rudiments of crafting spells, he led me to this memory — there’s really no other way to put it — and told me to focus on it whenever I needed to clear myself for a spell. At first, clearing took me several minutes. Now, years later, I could do it in seconds.

I opened my eyes again, indicated to the runemyste with a curt nod that I was ready.

“Defend yourself,” he said.

We had started these sessions when I was pursuing Cahors, and ever since then, Namid had found new and excruciating ways to test my magical defences. Today he started me off with a spell that made me feel as though he had driven a spike through my forehead. I gasped at the pain, resisting an urge to cradle my head in my hands.

Three elements: me, the pain, and a sheath of power surrounding me. I had to repeat them to myself several times — the agony clouded my thoughts. But at last it vanished, leaving me breathless, my face damp with sweat.

“Your spell was too slow,” Namid said. “In the time it took you to cast, an enemy would have killed you.”

The problem with having a teacher who was just this side of all-powerful and all-knowing was that I couldn’t argue with him.

“I know,” I said. “It hurt. It was hard to concentrate.”

“That is why you clear yourself, Ohanko. If you do so properly, you should be able to cast despite the pain.”

“You understand that I can’t walk down the street clearing myself all the time, right? Sometimes I have to do other stuff, like drive and interact with people.”

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 35

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 35

Chapter 20

Southern France

Étienne Servien made all possible speed away from Beville-le-Comte. Richelieu had been clinging to life when they had parted; God only knew whether he was still alive. His young Guard companion had not accompanied him to the queen’s place of retirement, but at Servien’s direction had been sent on his way back to Paris to seek out Tremblay and inform him of the events at Yvelines.

D’Aubisson had the advantage of youth and skill — he was a professional soldier — but at least in principle Servien had the signet of the most powerful man in France. It would not protect him as well as a good sword or helmet or hauberk, but it would have to do. No one needed to know that Richelieu hovered close to death — or that he had already passed on. Not even Servien himself knew.

It was on a need to know basis: and Servien did not apparently need to know. He had specific orders, issued long ago and reinforced in his last conversation with Richelieu.

You know what you must do. Go.

He was to make for Pau, the fortified capital of the province of Béarn, and present himself to the comte de Brassac et de Béarn. Neither Tremblay nor Richelieu had ever told him why: Servien, for his part, was not inclined to pursue the matter further — it was not in the repertoire of an intendant to ask questions, particularly on serious matters.

Pau was near the Spanish border; Béarn was nominally a part of the kingdom of Navarre, but it had come into the realm of France along with its most famous scion, King Henry IV of revered memory, who had been born in the Fortress of Pau.

It explained nothing about his own mission: why Béarn, what the comte might do for him, what — if anything — could be done about the duc de Vendôme or his likely employer, the duc d’Orleans. Word of the death of the king would reach Paris soon if it had not already done so. Rumors about the death of Richelieu would certainly follow. It was critically important that doubt in the matter persist as long as possible.

As for his own fate, Servien was pragmatic. There was nothing he could do — nothing, truly, that he should do, other than ride toward Pau, following Richelieu’s orders to the last.

To the last, he thought. Apt.

You know what you must do.

Go.

Paris

Long before Maillé-Brézé returned in state with the body of the murdered king, long before rumors of the ambush on the road began to circulate — long before it became apparent to most of those intimate to the circles of power in the capital that something had happened and something was wrong, Père Joseph, the cardinal de Tremblay took action.

Cardinal Richelieu had arranged with Tremblay that he would send a message by radio upon their arrival at the Château Baronville. The slightly-premature birth of the heir, if God had chosen to grant the kingdom a son, would work to their advantage: the prince, if prince he was, had not been expected for almost a month, and there were matters to attend to before the king’s (and therefore the cardinal’s) enemies were able to counter them. The radio was a marvelous up-time blessing, Tremblay knew; some in the clergy were dubious about whether it was somehow a tool of the Devil, but many of those learned men had the same feeling about all of the up-timers.

Theological debate was one thing. Pragmatic state politics was another.

When the message did not come in the evening, Tremblay was willing to ascribe it to the lateness of their probable arrival, or a malfunction of the radio, or uncertainty about the result — perhaps the queen was still in her labors, or there was as yet nothing to report. When the message did not come on the following morning he was more troubled.

A day later, when a few whispers began to traverse the Louvre and make their first ventures into Les Halles and elsewhere, Tremblay began to make provision for what the world might be like if Cardinal Richelieu was not in it.

****

Jean D’Aubisson had turned nineteen years old two days after Lady Day; he had been the youngest and least experienced of the cadre of Cardinal’s Guards in Richelieu’s escort on the journey to Beville-le-Comte. The others had joked with him, telling him that he certainly couldn’t expect to be a personal man-at-arms to the robe rouge until he could at least grow a proper beard. It had led to a few shoves and more than a little ill-feeling: however much the other Guardsmen professed their desire for simple, innocent fun at his expense, it came across more angry and resentful. He was the youngest, but he was also the most agile, the fastest blade, the best dancer . . . truly the best looking, with no comparison among the weary and scarred veterans that wore the red-on-white tabard and maroon cape of the Guard.

What he never expected was to be the only survivor.

It took a night and part of a day for him to reach the outskirts of Paris. He had left his maroon cape and most of the other accoutrements of his uniform at Clairefontaine. The passing of a few coins had obtained him nondescript traveling clothes; a little creative tailoring dispensed with insignia of rank and any identification of his family’s personal heraldry. He could have chosen an entirely different identity — but it would have meant giving up his fine mount and his weapons to sustain it: and he wasn’t about to surrender either.

He would be a simple, anonymous gentleman at arms, a provincial, perhaps in service to one of the lords who were even now streaming into the city at the rumor of the king’s death. He was scarcely noticed as he entered at the Porte St.-Antoine, riding close enough to be mistaken for a member of some troop attending one of the noblesse de robe who even now returned to their townhouses in Paris, riding far enough away that no bailiff or serjeant might decide to put him to work.

To go directly to the Palais-Cardinal would certainly have drawn attention, and possibly unwanted recognition. Instead, D’Aubisson went to the parish church of Saint-Étienne-des-Grès just off the Rue Saint-Victor, and hired a messenger to send a particular message to Cardinal Tremblay — a coded signal of distress, long rehearsed and memorized among the Guard.

It took only a few hours for Tremblay himself to appear: not in pectoral and full regalia as a Cardinal of the Church, but in his more accustomed attire as a Capuchin monk — gray hooded robe and sandals, coming into Saint-Étienne-des-Grès as a simple penitent. D’Aubisson was waiting for him in the alcove that held a black-painted limestone statue of the virgin, Notre Dame de Bonne Délivrance, the black Madonna of Paris.

“An interesting choice.”

D’Aubisson prided himself on his observational skill, but he jumped when Tremblay spoke from just a few feet away.

If he were bent on taking my life, D’Aubisson thought, I would be dead on the floor.

“Why do you say that?” he asked, recovering his composure.

Tremblay — in the more familiar habit and persona of a simple monk, came up to stand beside him, looking up at the statue. It was almost life-size, and set up on a plinth; the Blessed Mother smiled beatifically down at them, at once familiar and other-worldly, her expression impossible to read.

“This is where De Sales made his confession almost fifteen years ago. The Black Madonna . . . an object of veneration. Rather public, don’t you think?”

“It is easiest to be hidden in plain sight.”

“Pithy. An up-timer expression.”

“And quite accurate in your case, wouldn’t you say . . . Brother?”

“I assume that you have no intention to offend, nor intent to antagonize. But do not try me, boy. Walk with me.”

They left the alcove and began to walk slowly along the ambulatory, gazing up at the woodwork and stained glass as if they were awestruck penitents. At Tremblay’s direction, he provided a short, succinct description of the events in a low voice.

“We might be under observation,” Tremblay said to him. “But they shouldn’t be close enough to hear. Still, there is a chance that someone may have followed me here, or be spying on us now. But there is nothing to be done.

“Where is my good friend and our patron’s servant Étienne, then? Is he still with him now?”

“He was to ride out after I did.”

“And not accompany the . . . dignitaries.”

“No. He said that he was going to Pau, of all places. You do trust him,” D’Aubisson added.

“Of course,” Tremblay answered. “Well, at least as much as I trust anyone. Yourself included.”

“I feel as if I should be insulted.”

“Don’t trouble yourself,” Tremblay answered. “We must assume the worst — and we must also assume that the longer his enemies lack certainty about his situation and whereabouts, the better our lives will be.”

“What do you intend?”

“I have a mission for you to undertake, my fine young friend,” Tremblay said. D’Aubisson could scarcely make out the priest’s face within the hood; the day was overcast, with lowering clouds that made the gloom in the church nave shadowy and ponderous.

But he did hear a very soft and cynical laugh.

“I am eager to serve.”

“Good. You will take a message to a person I designate in a place I will reveal. The destination of that message will be the place to which the party will first travel.”

“How do you know that?”

“Her Majesty will be invited to consider this possibility,” Tremblay answered. “Indeed, she will choose it.”

“How can you be sure?”

“It is very simple,” Tremblay said. “One of her closest companions works directly for me.”

D’Aubisson didn’t seem surprised.

Tremblay reached into his sleeve and withdrew a small cloth scapular on a woven string. It bore a painted image of the Blessed Virgin with a crimson heart surrounded by a golden halo. He touched it to his lips and held it out to D’Aubisson.

“Wear this under your clothing, young man. Go — as soon as you can — to the Auberge Écossaise in Evreux. Present yourself to my . . . colleague, Brother Gérard. Tell him that he should shortly expect a very important visitor, who will need to be protected. He will know what to do.”

The young guardsman nodded. He took the scapular, kissed it, and put it around his neck, tucking it below his blouse.

“And then?”

“Return here. We have much to do.”

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 14

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 14

We went back to the terminal and made our way to the restroom once more. By now, there were several cops with the body, as well as a photographer from the ME’s office. This wasn’t a casting I could do in front of others without drawing attention to myself, which meant another camouflage spell. I retreated to the gate area, cast the spell so that it would work in the restroom — why couldn’t the guy have been murdered in a bar, or one of those lounges designed for wealthy business travelers? — and went back in.

As on the plane, no one noticed that I was there, not even Kona, since she was in the restroom when I cast the spell. I took up a position near the entrance, pulled out the sock and stone again, and cast the seeing spell.

Once more, I saw in the stone what Howell had seen. He walked into the men’s room, took a piss, and then went to the sink to wash his hands. Several other men were in here already. They gave Howell a wide berth. I assumed they had taken note of his appearance: the tattoos, the t-shirt, the shaved head. No one spoke to him or even dared make eye contact.

He braced his hands on the sink and closed eyes his, taking a long, rattling breath. Then he bent over and splashed water on his face. Seeing hand blowers but no paper towel dispensers, he muttered a curse and pulled up his shirt hem to dry his face. Leaning on the sink again he stared at himself in the mirror. A man crossed behind him and appeared to leave the restroom.

At this point, Howell gave no indication that he had noticed anything unusual. But viewing the scene through his eyes, knowing to watch for it, I did.

No one had entered the men’s room since Howell’s entrance, and now it seemed that those who walked in with him, and those who had already been here, were gone. Howell was alone, or at least alone with his eventual killer. I don’t know how the sorcerer managed this, but I didn’t doubt for an instant that he had.

Howell straightened, then swiveled his head left and right, his brow creasing. He checked the stalls, all of which were empty, before starting toward the restroom door. After two steps, he halted.

Anyone in here? he said.

His voice echoed off the tiles, but no one answered him.

He took another step, stopped again. Without warning, he whirled, an audible gasp torn from his chest.

What the f–? Who’s there?

He sounded more scared than angry, though I could tell he was trying for the latter.

Again, his question was met with silence. He was edging toward the door now, his back to the sinks. This was where he was going to die, and I didn’t see anyone. Not a soul.

He spun a second time, practically jumping out of his skin, swiping at something on his shoulder, something I couldn’t see. His killer seemed to be toying with him now. Was he camouflaged? Had he found some other spell to make himself invisible to Howell, and thus to me?

By this time, Howell was terrified; I could tell from his labored breathing, the tremor in his hands. He took a single purposeful stride toward the door and bounded off of something unseen, the way he would if he had walked into a wall.

Fucking hell! he said, the words choked, like a sob.

A blinding flash of green light made me squint and turn away, even as I heard Howell’s truncated scream in my head. When I peered at the stone again, it was nothing more than sea-green agate.

“Damn it,” I muttered, forgetting that I was camouflaged myself. My oath drew a frown from an older gentleman who was walking past me. He kept going, though, and I ground my teeth together, vowing to keep silent from now on.

I left the men’s room and positioned myself in a corner of the gate area. There I cast the seeing spell again, hoping that Howell might have seen something — anything — between the gate and the men’s room that would tell me more about his killer. But he walked straight from the plane to the restroom, interacting with no one, his gaze sweeping over the crowded airport, but settling on nothing in particular. Considering all the trouble I had gone through to cast the seeing spells I had little to show for my effort.

I found a deserted spot where I could remove the camouflage spell and then found Kona again. She was speaking with another detective from the PPD. I hung back until she was finished with him and then approached her.

“What have you got for me?” she asked.

“A sock.” I slipped her the sock, which she stuffed in her blazer pocket.

“Seriously, Justis.”

“Seriously, that’s about all I’ve got.”

“You mean, after all that mojo you were going to do, you didn’t find out anything?”

“Just that our killer casts a mean camouflage spell and can move around a men’s room without making much noise.”

“So you didn’t see him.”

I shook my head. “I saw what Howell saw, which was nothing at all. The guy snuck up on him, toyed with him for a few seconds, and then killed him with a spell.”

“The killer could still be here, then,” she said. “He could be watching everything we do, and we wouldn’t know it.”

“Or she. And yeah, that’s exactly right.”

She scanned the gate area, her expression curdling. “Honestly, I don’t know how you live every day with this magic shit. It would drive me up a wall.”

“Who says it doesn’t do the same to me?” I surveyed the airport as well. “But let me try something.” It wasn’t a spell I had attempted before, but Namid would have been the first to tell me that such things didn’t matter. If I could hold the elements in my head, I could cast it. It seemed easy enough, though I couldn’t figure out how to do it with only three elements; I’d need seven: me, the other sorcerer, his camouflage spell, my eyes, the gate area, his current location, and the removal of his spell. There were a few unknowns in that list, but I hoped I could conjure around those. I repeated the elements six times and released the magic on the seventh.

Nothing happened.

“Are you all right?” Kona asked, watching me, the corners of her mouth drawn down in mild disapproval.

“I was trying a spell. I hoped I might be able to strip away whatever magic our killer is using to hide himself. If he’s still here.”

“I take it the spell didn’t work.”

“Or he’s long gone.”

“Right. Look, Justis–”

“You have work to do,” I said, keenly aware in that moment of the fact that she was still a cop, and I wasn’t. Not that I’d needed the reminder. “I’ll get out of your hair.”

“I appreciate you coming all this way.”

“No problem. I think I can help you with this, if you want me to keep working on it.”

“I do. And with your new-found notoriety, the higher-ups are more willing to have you around.”

“Except Hibbard.”

“Yeah,” she said. “And nobody likes him anyway.”

We both grinned, though for no more than a second or two.

“I’ll ask around a bit,” I said, sobering. “See if any of my kind have heard people talking about a new player in town. Or about why the old players might take a new interest in domestic terrorists.”

 

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 13

His Father’s Eyes – Snippet 13

“Talk to them, distract them. I can’t be seen, but I can be heard.”

“All right,” she said, sounding like she still thought I was crazy.

And maybe I was. We were about to find out.

We climbed the rest of the stairs, and I followed Kona into the plane.

“Hello, gentlemen,” Kona said, flashing those gorgeous pearly whites of hers. “I wanted to see if you all needed anything.”

Three agents were clustered around a bank of seats about two-thirds of the way back; I assumed that was where Howell had been sitting. Two of the men glanced up, but then went back to examining the seats. A third man, tall, with dark hair and a smile as electric as hers made a show of checking her out, head to toe.

“Hey there, beautiful. What are you offering?”

None of the men spared me a glance. Kona did look back at me, but only long enough to shoot me a “you-owe-me-for-this” glare.

While she pretended to flirt with Tall, Dark, and Handsome, I stepped into the cockpit, making sure that I didn’t touch anything.

I spotted the magic right away. It would have been hard to miss, as it covered the instrumentation, though it was concentrated on the screens above the windshield, where the warning signals would have appeared. Whoever had cast the spell wanted to be certain that this plane wasn’t going anywhere.

It was the same magic I had seen on Howell: a deep shimmering green, brilliant but translucent. The skinhead’s murderer had also seen to it that this plane didn’t get off the ground.

I left the cockpit and walked down the aisle toward Kona and the Feds, which, I decided in that moment, was a great name for a band. Kona sent an anxious glance my way, but none of the men reacted to my presence. A few feet short of where Kona stood, I slipped out of the aisle and into a row. I didn’t go so far as to lower myself into a seat; doing so would have made too much noise. Instead, I pulled out that sock I had taken from Howell’s bag and my scrying stone, a slice of sea-green agate, which I always carry with me.

In the weeks since I had been shot, Namid had been teaching me all sorts of seeing spells. I disliked scrying magic; always had. Often scrying spells offered little more than portents, hints at the future that could be interpreted any number of ways. They tended to obscure as much as they revealed. But seeing spells of this sort were a little different; I wasn’t trying to divine the future so much as I was searching for clues about the past. And Namid seemed to think that the more I could discover with magic, the less likely I was to place myself in danger. I wasn’t sure I shared his confidence, but I had to admit that the seeing spell I’d used the previous night had made catching Mark Darby a good deal easier than it otherwise might have been.

The seeing spell I planned to use now was one I had learned a few months ago, and had used to see Etienne de Cahors for the first time. I wanted to see and hear what Howell had seen and heard when he was on this plane, and this casting allowed me to do that. It was specific to place and person. I would only experience what he had experienced on this plane; to see his killer, I would have to go back to the place where he had died. And I could only see the events in question through his eyes.

I folded the sock and held it beneath the scrying stone. This was a powerful spell, and elegant in its simplicity. Three elements: Howell, the plane, and my stone.

After a few seconds, the sinuous white and blue lines in the agate appeared to vanish, leaving an image of a seat back, a pair of hands — the skin around the wrists tattooed — and jean-clad legs, one of which bounced incessantly. He was jittery. He toyed with his seat belt, rolling the slack into a tight cylinder, letting it unravel, and then rolling it again.

He glanced up after a few minutes, in time to catch the eye of a flight attendant as she walked by. She checked to see that his belt was buckled. He turned to stare out the window. I could tell that he was in the middle seat, but he took little notice of the passengers sitting on either side of him.

There was no fast-forward button on a scrying stone, but after a few minutes of gazing at the image I had summoned, I realized that I wasn’t going to learn much more of value here on the plane. Howell was trapped in his seat, and with each passing minute he seemed to grow more uneasy. He must have been a wreck after two hours of this, and that would have made it easier for the conjurer to pick him out of the crowd of passengers once they deplaned. Howell never had a chance. It was almost enough to make me feel sorry for him.

I raised my eyes from the scrying stone and found that Kona was watching me, even as the FBI agent continued to chat her up. I was tempted to whisper in his ear that she was gay, just to see the reaction I’d get. But I was good. I nodded once to Kona, eased back into the aisle, and walked with care to the cabin door.

“Well, I’m glad things are going well here,” I heard her say behind me. “I’ll see you boys later.”

“Aw, but you don’t have to go.”

“I’m afraid, I do. But this is going to be a long investigation, and we’ll have a chance to talk again.”

“Good,” he said, in a tone that made me want to smack him.

“Yeah. We can have a beer. You, and me, and my lover, Margarite. You’ll like her, too. Good day, gentlemen.”

There was a brief silence, broken only by the sound of Kona’s footsteps. Then the other two agents burst out laughing. It was all I could do not to join them.

“Now that was fun,” she said in a low voice as we exited the plane. “What did you learn? Something I hope. I’d rather not find out I went through all that for nothing.”

“There was magic all over the cockpit,” I said, my voice low. “The same color and quality as what was on Howell. Whoever killed him also kept the plane from taking off.”

“From the cockpit?” she asked. “Does that mean it was a member of the crew?”

“Or a weremyste who managed to get in there. You’ve seen what a camouflage spell can do.”

“Yeah, nice work, by the way. That would be a handy spell when Hibbard’s around.”

“Why haven’t I ever thought of that?”

“So what now, partner?”

“Now we take Howell’s sock back to the men’s room where he was found and try a seeing spell there.”

“And we couldn’t do this before because . . . ?”

“Because I didn’t want to touch the body and mess up your crime scene.”

“Right. I appreciate that.”

 

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 34

1636: The Cardinal Virtues – Snippet 34

“My Lord of Vendôme,” Gaston said. He seemed eerily calm and composed. “Welcome. Let me be the first to welcome you back to our realm, Brother,” Gaston said. “I trust that you found our safe-passage sufficient to your needs.”

“It was most satisfactory, Your Majesty. I cannot adequately express my gratitude for permitting me to return to France.”

“Ah, César.” Gaston gestured, and César rose to his feet and approached the throne. “It has been too long.” Gaston placed his hands on the man’s shoulders.

“We both know why that is the case.”

“Yes. We do.” César did not look away: he met Gaston, glance for glance, enough so that the king-to-be looked away, dropping his hands to his sides.

There was an extended moment of silence. Finally, without looking up, he said, “My companions, please leave us.”

“Sire — ” the nearest one began, but Gaston looked aside to him with a glance that silenced him.

The four gentlemen-in-waiting bowed and backed away, never taking their eyes off César de Vendôme and his son.

“François,” César said without turning, “you have leave to go as well. His Majesty and I have matters to discuss.”

It was clear that François did not want to leave his father alone; but he also bowed and backed out of the room. When his footsteps began to echo on the stairs, Gaston settled back in his chair.

“This is rather quaint, isn’t it?” he said, spreading his hands out. “The abbot’s chair. Nicely padded — the old man has hemorrhoids, apparently, and it hurts for him to sit overlong. Two monks carried it all the way down here for their king.”

“You don’t have that title yet.”

“Yet.” Gaston smiled, cat-like. “A trifling distinction, one that should only trouble us for a short time.”

“I cannot believe your insolence and arrogance, Gaston. I have half a mind to run you through.”

“Anger ill-becomes you, César. And I know — we both know — that you are not that foolish or self-destructive. I arranged for your safe passage back into France, you and that headstrong son of yours. He certainly wants to run me through.

“And after all the effort to bring you back into France, you would be forced to flee . . . and even if you were able to escape the kingdom you would be condemned as a regicide. Twice over.” Gaston smiled again.

“You knew he would be with the cardinal, didn’t you?”

“Eh?”

“You knew that Louis would be in Richelieu’s entourage. And neither you nor that snake Soissons saw fit to tell me.”

“Would it have made any difference?” As César began to reply, Gaston held up his hand and sat up straight. “No, please, let me answer. Of course it would have made a difference. It would have prevented you from carrying out your mission — from doing your duty.”

“I wouldn’t be too sure of that.”

“I would.” Gaston snickered. “You intrigued against Louis, César. We all did. It made for good sport, even if it was surpassingly easy. But we all loved him in one fashion or another. It was Richelieu we hate. The devil in the robe rouge — he was your target. He was your duty. He might be spared if the king commanded it: and make no mistake, Louis would have commanded it.

“Where is he? He didn’t make the grand funereal entrance into Paris with my lord of Maillé-Brézé. You didn’t leave him out on the road at Saint-Arnoult-en-Yvelines, I assume, to be torn apart by the wolves and feed the maggots? Because they didn’t find a body, César. They didn’t even find the damn robe rouge.”

“You’re remarkably well informed. You tell me.”

Gaston stood up and walked away, turning his back on César. If he had the least concern that he might actually be run through, he showed none of it. He walked slowly along the wall as if he was admiring the frescoes.

“No,” he said without turning. “You tell me, César. Tell me where the red-robed bastard spawn of Satan is. He was not found at the ambush site: not him, not his body, not a fold of his cloak or a lace from his boot. Where the hell is Cardinal Richelieu?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know.” Gaston turned around. He laughed, a cruel, cackling sound. “Magnifique. You don’t know where he is. Were you, or were you not, specifically and categorically directed to kill him?”

“I was. I was not directed to kill our brother the king. You have used me to commit a foul act — and it would not surprise me, Gaston, not a bit, if you arranged for Richelieu to escape.”

“What? Are you — are you accusing me of saving his life?”

“Your schemes are so deep and complex, I should not exclude the possibility. I am a simple soldier, Gaston — ”

“Spare me. You are nothing of the kind.”

“You are no fit judge. What you are, is — ”

“What I am,” Gaston said, “is the next king of France.” His voice was icy calm, where he had been agitated before. “I will soon be your lord and sovereign, César, my lord of Vendôme, and I urge you to make no mistake: if you see fit to oppose me, you will not find yourself dismissed and sent into noble exile — you will meet the same fate as your brother Alexandre. Or worse. Much worse. And much, much sooner.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Of course I am, you idiot. I am giving you my royal promise that I will prosecute you as the true and vile murderer of my older brother Louis, the most puissant sovereign of the kingdom of France. It will be proclaimed at court; it will be announced on every street corner and printed in every newspaper, and it will be broadcast on the up-timers’ radios for everyone in Europe and beyond to hear. Be assured that I will do so, beyond doubt — unless you do, and continue to do, exactly as I direct.”

“You’re in it as deep as I am.”

“There you are mistaken. I am involved, yes: no doubt, for you would accuse me, and it would be inconvenient for you to be prevented from speaking. But no, I am not in as deep. Blood is on your hands, César. Mine — ” he extended his hands, examining the fingers in turn — “only bear the king’s signet.”

César did not answer. There was nothing for him to say; and even if there was, this was not the place to say it. Gaston had brought both of them to the place they now occupied — Gaston, the prospective king; he, the prodigal, returned to his native land.

He had allies and he had resources. This was a trap but it was not yet a prison. Bringing up the name of Alexandre was a deliberate provocation, like poking a caged bear, intended to make him angry and to deprive him of cold reason.

As the moment stretched out he realized that he would be safe from Gaston’s betrayal exactly as long as he remained useful. His half-brother would not dispense with him until that was no longer the case — but would not tolerate him a moment longer.

The clock was ticking but midnight had not yet arrived. It was not clear how much time he had; but he reassured himself that if he passed up this opportunity to end Gaston’s life, that another one would appear.

There were, after all, innumerable ways to kill a man.

“Yes, Sire,” he said. “I understand.”