Eric Flint's Blog, page 281

Spell Blind – Snippet 29

This book should be available now, so this is the last snippet.

Spell Blind – Snippet 29

“No,” he said again. “I do not think so. Not now. I sense much anger in you. Restlessness. This is not a good time for you to conjure.”

It only helped a little that I’d known he would say something like this. “Yeah, all right,” I said. “I’m sorry I called for you.”

He inclined his head and began to vanish.

“Tell me about my father,” I said, on impulse.

Namid grew more substantial again. “What do you want to know?”

“Anything.”

“You know much about him already.”

“Maybe. Sometimes I feel like I don’t know him at all.”

“You are much like him. The good and the bad.”

“Will I end up like him?”

“That has yet to be scried.”

“But I’m headed in that direction. Isn’t that right?”

The runemyste seemed to weigh this. Then he sat down on the floor right where he’d been standing. I sat as well.

“Magic exacts a price. You know this. And still you have chosen to conjure rather than block your power with Abri.”

“Right. Like Dad did. And now he’s nuts.”

“He made his choice. He lives with the consequences of that.”

“You make it sound so . . . simple,” I said, anger creeping into my voice. “This is my sanity we’re talking about, Namid. It’s my life. I don’t want to wind up like my dad.”

The runemyste gazed back at me, still glasslike. “Then take the Abri. Block your magic, and you will be free of the moon’s pull. You will not have to worry about going . . . nuts.” The word sounded strange coming from him.

“You know I can’t do that.”

He widened his eyes. “You cannot? Why is this?”

I started to answer, then stopped myself and chuckled. “All right,” I said. “I get it. I’ve made my choice. That’s what you’re telling me. So I should stop complaining, right?”

“You have made your choice for today, Ohanko. As you did yesterday. You can change your mind whenever you wish. The Abri will always be there, waiting for you.”

“I’m not sure I could give up being a sorcerer.”

“That is your decision to make.”

“I almost died today,” I told him. “I was face to face with this weremyste we’re after. He killed a woman with some kind of spell, and then used his magic to make me put my weapon in my mouth. He would have made me pull the trigger.”

The runemyste’s appearance clouded, his waters becoming turbulent. “He made you do this,” he repeated. “What do you mean?”

I shrugged. “Just what I said. He made me. He didn’t say anything that I could hear, but suddenly I had no control over my body. I wanted to run. I wanted to shoot him. But I couldn’t do anything at all. None of my wardings worked against him.”

Namid was scowling. “He controlled you.”

“Yes.”

“How is it you are still alive?”

I grinned. “I defended myself, like you told me to. I couldn’t attack him, so I cracked the sidewalk beneath his feet. It wasn’t enough to hurt him, but it broke his hold on me.”

The runemyste nodded. “That is good. You will be a runecrafter yet.” He eyed me again. “What else can you tell me about this man?”

“He can change his appearance. He’s bald and clean-shaven, and then he has long hair and a beard. His eyes are pale though. Almost white. And I have a feeling that they don’t change at all.” I thought for a moment. “He speaks with an accent. I’m not sure what kind. European, I think. Maybe French? And I heard the woman call him Cower.”

“Cower,” Namid said, with an intensity I’d never heard from him before. “Could it have been Cahors? A French name?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Do you know him?”

“There is much I need to learn,” he said. “I must go.” He began to fade.

“Namid, wait!”

He solidified once more, though I sensed his reluctance. “Do you still think I can protect myself from this guy?”

“I think you have no choice.”

I exhaled. “Right.”

“I must go now.”

“Of course,” I said. “Thank you.”

He frowned. “For what?”

“Being honest with me.”

“You expected less?”

I smiled at that. “Not really, no.” I stood. “I’m sorry I called for you that way. I won’t do it again.”

“Be well, Ohanko.” He faded from view.

I stared for a moment at where he’d been and then considered the pile of papers and unopened envelopes on my desk; most of them were unpaid bills. They could wait. As Namid might have said, I had a big date tonight, and I had enough time to get home, eat a little dinner, and change before I had to start back toward Tempe to pick up Billie. I started toward the door, but before I reached it the phone rang.

I strode back to the desk and picked up the receiver. “Fearsson.”

Silence.

“Hello?” I said.

“Yeah, this is um . . . this is ‘Toine Mirdoux.”

He kind of mumbled it, and at first I had no idea what he’d said.

“Who?”

“Antoine? Remember, dog? You blew up the door to my house?”

“Right,” I said. “How’s it going, Antoine? You calling for that chat you were going on about?”

“What?” he said. Then he allowed himself a half-hearted laugh. “Oh, yeah. That’s right. I wanna chat.”

Something was bothering him. I found myself wondering if whatever business he’d had with the red sorcerer had gone sour. There was a good deal of noise in the background and I had the feeling he was calling from a cell or maybe even a pay phone, if you could still find one in this city. Wherever he was, he definitely wasn’t home.

“Great,” I said. “Let’s chat.”

“Not on the phone, man. I need . . . I need some help. I’m in some trouble here.”

“What kind of trouble, Antoine?”

“Not on the phone.”

I checked my watch again. I didn’t have time enough to get to the Mountain View precinct and back, and still make it to Tempe by eight, not if my talk with the kid was going to take any time at all.

“I can’t now, Antoine. How about later tonight?”

“How much later?”

God, he sounded scared, like a little boy left alone in a dark house.

“Tonight. Eleven, at your place.”

“My place?”

“You still have it warded, right?”

There was a long silence, and after a while I started wondering if the connection had gone bad.

“Antoine?”

“Yeah, man. All right. My place. Eleven.”

“Keep your head down until then, all right?”

“No shit, man.”

The line went dead. I returned the phone to its cradle and shook my head. Mountain View’s seven thirty-three at eleven p.m. Not even close to the way I had hoped to end my evening. But it seemed that now I had two dates. One with Billie, and the other with ‘Toine Mirdoux.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 06

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 06

Chapter 6.

“You’re sure about this, Kyri?” Tobimar said, glancing involuntarily downward. The base of the mountain already seemed a very long way away.

“As sure as I can be about anything which has not yet been proven,” the blue-haired Justiciar answered with a smile. With the helm off and the Raiment mostly cloaked, she looked less like the Phoenix Justiciar, deadly avenger of Myrionar, and more like the young woman he’d come to know in the past few weeks. “And even if this doesn’t work out, I am sure we can get some of the best advice on Zarathan here.”

He nodded, following her lead up the mountain. He suspected that he could climb at least as well as she could, though she wasn’t bad, but she’d been up the mountain before, and he hadn’t, so he let her keep the lead. “I can’t argue that. Though I don’t want to infringe on your honor against these false Justiciars.”

She paused as they reached a small ledge and looked over at him, those amazing gray eyes serious. “Tobimar, I guess… I would have been worried about that before Thornfalcon. But if I believe in Myrionar at all – and I do now, with all the faith my heart can hold – then I must believe that It arranged for you, Poplock, and Xavier to be there, either Itself or through Its allies, Terian, Chromaias, the Dragon Gods, even,” she flashed another smile at his shoulder, “Blackwart the Great or the Three Beards. And however it was arranged, it is a sign. You came seeking justice and vengeance, and with wisdom you saw past Thornfalcon’s lies just in time, and saved me from – oh, very literally – a fate worse than any ordinary death. You are a part of this, and – by the commands of justice – I am now bound to your mission as well. So nothing you gain here can infringe on my honor; it is my honor.”

He blinked. “Kyri, my quest might be a never-ending one, a fool’s mission. I may never find the answers, the homeland we left, the Stars or the Sun. There have been dozens of such seekers exiled from my homeland. I would not have you bound to something that may take you from your clear and urgent duty.”

She shook her head. “Justice requires balance. Nor can either of us ignore the fact that too many things appear to be happening at the same time. The power behind these false Justiciars may be the same one – or related to the one – that has set all these other plans in motion. And your ‘Khoros’ already links us. I think, if I’m going to resolve the mystery of the False Justiciars, I will in one way or another have to enter the heart of your mystery, as well.” She gazed upward, judging the angles. “And as Sasha determined, that gateway under Thornfalcon’s mansion went somewhere into Moonshade Hollow, which you believe – I think rightly – is what’s left of your homeland.”

“She’s right,” Poplock said, moving to his other shoulder as they continued the climb. “We’d already come to that conclusion, and it makes more sense the longer I think about it.”

Tobimar shrugged. “I can’t argue that. But… Kyri, while I respect Myrionar – now that I’ve met you and seen Its power in you, and heard Its tenets, I respect It very much – I’m dedicated to Terian Himself, as are all my family. I can’t be one of your Justiciars, so…”

“Don’t say can’t,” she said with a smile thrown over her shoulder. “I’ve been thinking about that, and do you know, I can’t find a single word in the Teachings that says all the Justiciars have to be dedicated solely to Myrionar. The power of the Justiciars is from Myrionar, yes, and obviously you have to conduct yourself in a manner that the Balanced Sword would agree with, but a follower of the Infinite, the Light in Darkness, would hardly do anything that would disappoint a Justiciar.”

I hadn’t exactly thought of it that way. “You mean a Justiciar could be a follower of another god?”

“I mean I don’t see anything that says he or she couldn’t be such a follower. But don’t worry, I’m not trying to force you into that decision.”

“But then what…”

“… do I think we can gain from this?” she finished. “The Spiritsmith is one of, if not the, greatest armorers who has ever lived. He’s also normally very jealous of his privacy and his knowledge, so much so that he made things work the way I described – such that many who sought him must have died in the attempt. But he did not extract from me any promise to keep his secrets, or place on me any of the requirements or commands he did on the nearby villages. If you aren’t going to become a Justiciar, I don’t know if I can convince him to help you… but I’m very sure he’ll at least have some good advice, a name or three of those who can help us.”

She paused to catch her breath, and so did Tobimar, grateful for the respite. Where does her family get their stamina? Her strength, her speed, her toughness… they’re just stunning. Without Khoros’ training, I couldn’t keep up at all.

Once they reached the chimney she had described, Tobimar realized they were now only a short distance from the top… and minutes from a legend. The Spiritsmith.

He emerged from the narrow vertical tunnel, breathing hard, and heaved himself upright.

The massive form of an Ancient Sauran loomed over him, scarcely ten feet away and standing over eight feet high, taller than Toron himself, his scales having a patina of depth and iridescence that Tobimar guessed indicated his age far more clearly than any wrinkles could have.

“So you have returned, Phoenix Kyri, and with true blood of false Justiciars upon your sword. It is well. It is very well indeed. Yet you also bring another…” he paused, narrowing his gaze, and then smiling, “two others, with you.”

“Good eyes,” murmured Poplock. Tobimar nodded, impressed; most others didn’t even notice the Toad, let alone realize Poplock’s significance.

“So, Phoenix,” the Spiritsmith continued, “Is this boy – or this toad – to be the next of your Justiciars?”

Even Kyri, serious though she was, could not keep a straight face as Poplock leapt onto Tobimar’s head and struck a grandiose pose. “Indeed, behold the next of the true Justiciars of Myrionar, and my trusty steed!”

The explosive snort of laughter from the Spiritsmith almost blew the little toad off Tobimar’s head. “I see, I see indeed; yet such as yourself are already so mighty that one such as I can do little for you.”

“In seriousness, sir,” Tobimar began, not without some lingering smile on his face, “I do not intend to become a Justiciar – at least not at this time,” he amended. Why cut off the possibility? Many things may yet happen. “But various events have made it clear that my path and Kyri’s are joined, and thus I may face her enemies, and she mine; and,” he drew his blades and presented them, “I have far too clear evidence that my weapons are inadequate to the challenge.”

The Spiritsmith looked very interested in his swords – more so than Tobimar had expected. “The twin curved swords… interesting.” His gaze traced the blades carefully, visibly pausing when reaching one of the dents or minor cuts on the blade. He then gestured for Tobimar to sheath the swords. “I see indeed your reason for travelling here. And you have done well to have wielded your blades with such skill and power that they sustained such slight damage, overall.”

“He helped me slay Thornfalcon,” Kyri said simply.

The huge Sauran studied him for several moments, then turned and strode slowly, thoughtfully, across the plateau. Tobimar could see that to the West, other peaks rose, but there seemed to be one clear path – which, if it was truly clear, might actually provide a narrow, straight glimpse at the land called Hell itself. The Spiritsmith was not, however, looking in that direction, but rather pacing with slow, measured strokes towards the rocks that surrounded the entryway to his underground forge, his massive tail swinging in time to the steps.

“The intersection of heroes at a battle is not unusual,” he said finally. “What other events or circumstances link your two causes?”

Tobimar glanced at Poplock and Kyri, trying to figure out how to go over all of it in the shortest amount of time. It was the little Toad who finally said, “Well… have you ever heard of an old wizard named Khoros?”

The pacing stopped as though the Spiritsmith had run into a stone wall. For a long moment he stood silently, staring seemingly at nothing except a distant peak to the south. At last, he said, “Konstantin Khoros taught me much of my craft, in the days when the world was younger, when Elbon had only the Fifteen and none of the T’Teranahm had betrayed their hearts and souls. And after all had fallen into darkness, he came again, no longer a man of mirth and gentle humor, but grim and fell, and taught me other ways of guiding the powers I was still just beginning to understand. I have forged for him many times, and his designs have guided others; indeed,” he nodded to Kyri, “it was he who spoke to me of the designs which became the Raiment of the Justiciars, as well as others. You mean to say, then, that Khoros himself has brought you together?”

Tobimar stared at him, trying to answer while his mind tried to grapple with the implications. Khoros taught the Spiritsmith… in the days before the Fall? But that’s… He could see the same stunned incredulity on Kyri’s face, and realized once more how deeply laid were the plans of his old teacher. “I’m not quite sure we can say that exactly… but Khoros taught me to wield these swords – instructed our people in how to forge them, in fact — and he helped Kyri to reach this place originally at a much greater speed than she could have managed otherwise, and even Poplock ran into him once. And there were some others we met who were connected to him.”

The huge reptilian creature gave a sigh that sounded almost like a snarl. “Then truly there is a connection. I must think on this. He would have expected you to come here, I believe, and in that he would expect and require that I assist you in some other manner.”

“You don’t have to –”

“hGrrrk’HA!” The Draconic obscenity cut Kyri’s protest off instantly. “There is nothing to be said against it, Phoenix Kyri. I owe Khoros much. Two worlds owe him much. He, too, owes the worlds, but his debt is not yet due, while mine is, and has been for many millennia past. Come,” he gestured, turning back to his caverns, “Let us go inside, and you may rest and be refreshed while I consider what I may do.”

Tobimar did not object to that thought at all. For three days they had been climbing and – training or no – he could use a real sit-down meal, rest, maybe even a bath or shower. A cleansing spell was all well and good, but it simply wasn’t the same.

Kyri had mentioned that the Spiritsmith’s delvings were extensive, but even so, Tobimar was startled by the size and number of caverns and tunnels. Of course, if he’s been here since the Fall… or a little after, since these mountains were created around then! … he could have dug only a foot a year and still have honeycombed half the mountain.

With that much space, it was perhaps not so surprising that he not only offered them guest quarters, but quarters of great size, decoration, and luxury. Even the air, normally thin at over three miles above the lower plains, was heavier and richer here. Tobimar took advantage of the time for a truly marvelous bath; an hour later he emerged, toweling his hair off, to find all his clothes on the bed and Poplock cleaning them off with mutters, gestures, and a bit of bouncing that invoked a mixed-elemental cleaning enchantment.

“Thank you very much, Poplock.”

“Well, didn’t have that much to do while I waited, and I can use the practice. I’m still learning a lot about magic, and after all the Summoning practice I need to keep up on the elementalist side. So you’re welcome.”

He watched as a swirl of airy water wove in and out through one of his travel cloaks, a flickering thread of fire somehow encased within. “You may still be learning, but that’s pretty impressive. Three-elemental cleaning is a pretty fancy trick, instead of just doing the usual selective displacement.”

“Elemental’s a lot easier for us Toads, usually, and I figured fire for heating the water, water for the cleaning, air for drying. You already had enough earth in there.”

“Ha! Indeed.” He picked up one of the finished outfits. “Looks like it worked pretty well to me.” He sniffed. “Smells like there might be food waiting outside somewhere, too.”

“Then get dressed and let’s go!” The little Toad, of course, didn’t really have to dress, and even his miniature pack and items tended to conceal themselves magically. You had to look carefully to notice he was carrying anything.

A few minutes later they found their way to a small dining hall; Kyri was just sitting down, her hair and a change of clothing showing that she, too, had taken advantage of their host’s amenities. The blue hair cascaded over her brown shoulders in sky-colored waves, with the white flash over her forehead like a cloud drifting in the vault of heaven. She is gorgeous, Tobimar thought. Beautiful and strong as …

At that point it suddenly dawned on him – really dawned on him – where his thoughts were leading. Sand and dust… that could be a complication. I don’t know what her thoughts are on the matter, but we don’t have time to follow the path of Learning the Other. Don’t know what her people’s traditions are, either.

He shook himself mentally. This certainly isn’t the time. She can’t be bothered by my attentions when perhaps the whole world is at risk. Focus! Pay attention to what is now. Dismissing the distraction – as much as he could, which was far less than he wished he could manage – he returned his attention to the dinner.

The Spiritsmith was at the far end of the table – as was common with Ancient Saurans and Dragons and their kin, his eating area was well separated from the rest, as their diet and manner of eating was often… unsettling to others. Tobimar sat down and, after examining the several dishes available, selected a blaze-and-honey style mixed flashfry, one of his favorite types of food. He didn’t recognize all the vegetables in this particular recipe, but the meat smelled like hopclaw… and there was some sort of seafood in it too. He seems to live here alone. Must have some very interesting food preparations charms and devices, or he’s a very good cook.

“Sir… Can you tell me something?”

The Spiritsmith looked up from his platter, and swallowed the ten-pound chunk of meat his teeth had just torn from the boar’s leg. “Perhaps. What is it you wish to know?”

He wasn’t quite sure how to phrase it. “Well… As I said, Khoros taught me – not just how to fight, but how to use this… internal power of mine. And a lot of other little things, ranging from philosophy and logic to theory of magic. I always rather liked him, even if he could be pretty maddening in the way he preferred to answer a question with another question and force you to figure it out yourself.

“But… everyone else who’s known him seems almost, I don’t know, afraid of him. They talk about him manipulating people, using them, and then they seem really careful about telling us anything at all. What do you know about him? Is he… well, not on our side somehow?”

The Ancient Sauran gave another of the snarling sighs and took another bite from the raw meat. Finally he raised his head again. “It is… not that simple a question, and thus the answer you seek is not simple either.

“How much evil must a man do in the name of good before he is, himself, no longer a good man?”

Kyri looked troubled. “You can’t do evil deliberately and remain good.”

“You are a child of direct faith.” The draconic Spiritsmith smiled – in a manner that was probably meant to be tolerant, perhaps even fond, but the sharp teeth covered with fresh blood made it disquieting. “Then how much good must evil achieve before it is no longer evil? Is there no repentance, no salvation for a soul once lost?”

“Well, you can repent… but you can’t keep doing evil and actually be good! You have to actually repent of your evil, and try to make amends for it, and stop doing bad things!” A slight flush touched her cheeks as she seemed to realize how naïve those words made her sound, but she didn’t retract them.

“And you, Prince of Skysand? How would you answer this riddle?”

Poplock spoke first. “We all do little evils to achieve good, I think. You killed that boar so you could live. Trees get chopped down to build houses.”

Tobimar nodded. “We killed Thornfalcon – and killing people is pretty much one of the absolute wrongs. But by doing that we prevented him from killing who knows how many people, and avenged those who had been killed before.” Tobimar shook his head. “But that’s a long way from the kind of thing people imply Khoros does.”

“Then, Tobimar Silverun, I can say only this: that Konstantin Khoros is, I believe, on ‘our side’, as you put it, but that he will manipulate both sides to achieve his goals. It would not be beyond him, for example, to have realized what would happen to the Artan in the months past, and to have not only allowed it to happen but even have guided the method of its happening, if that apparent victory of darkness would, in the long run, lead to a greater victory of the forces of light.”

Kyri shuddered. “How could anyone live with such choices, if they understood what they chose?”

The Spiritsmith looked at her gravely. “I do not think he intends to live with such choices; he simply postpones his death until all such choices are finished, and – I hope and believe – so that never again will any need to make such choices.” He stood. “But he will tell you nothing unless it fits his plans. You will meet him again – of this I am certain. But you will not find him, he will find you. This guides my own decision, you see.”

Tobimar looked up. “You have made a decision, then?”

“I have.” The Ancient Sauran gazed at each of the three in turn. “You have need of new weapons, yes. And those, I believe, I can supply, for I see the design Khoros used, and understand what purpose lay behind that design; so, in his way, he has arranged that I do this, by sending his designs in your own equipment – echoes of work done so long ago that the world was a different place, then.

“But more, you must begin to oppose the entirety of this plan that has undermined the power of the Balanced Sword, which has beseiged Artania, thrown Aegeia into chaos, and soaked the Forest Sea in blood, and that means preparing to face them in all their guises and in those places where their evil is most ancient and strong, where they began the work of felling the powers of light.”

Tobimar looked at Kyri; for a moment both exchanged puzzled gazes, but Kyri’s eyes suddenly widened. “You mean –”

“Khoros’ commands to you, Tobimar, were clear enough; you simply had not the knowledge to understand them. But the same forces are moving now, and you have met them, and in the end you must face them down, drive them from the lands of your forefathers.”

Now he understood, and saw the Phoenix’ face pale. “So it’s true?”

“I know little of it; Chaoswars have passed, and even this memory was faded from my mind until your presence and urgency made it clear. But there is no doubt; why else do you find the threads lead here? What importance is there in Evanwyl, what importance was there ever in that small country, save for two and only two things: the first the presence of Myrionar, the highest holding of the Balanced Sword, and the second being that singular gap, the only passage through the Khalal range, through which once flowed riches and heroes, and now is a place of terror and death, Rivendream Pass and, on the other side, Moonshade Hollow, what is left of the lands of the Lords of the Sky, whose name echoed your own, Tobimar Silverun.”

As the Spiritsmith spoke these words, so heavy with ancient legend and fear, Tobimar felt as though the cavern swayed with the import.

Then he realized that the cavern had swayed. The hanging lights were swinging, and both he and Kyri were suddenly on their feet. “What…”

The earth shuddered again, and this time a wave of nausea and foreboding washed over him, pressing on his spirit. As he fought it off, he saw Kyri stagger and lean against the table. Poplock shivered.

The Spiritsmith looked even sicker; he stumbled, fell to the floor, took long minutes to rise. But he lunged back to his feet and charged for the exit. “Come. Quickly!”

The three raced after the Ancient Sauran, as yet another shockwave of force and wrongness passed through the mountain. “What’s happening?” Kyri asked, nameless dread in her voice.

The Spiritsmith did not answer. Poplock was muttering something that Tobimar couldn’t catch.

They burst out of the entranceway onto the plateau. At that moment a final concussion of earthshock and evil knocked them from their feet, and the sky overhead flickered, as though the sun itself had been momentarily stunned.

Tobimar picked himself up slowly, reaching out and helping Kyri, who seemed even more affected. He became aware that the Spiritsmith was staring off to the West, walking almost as though in a dream towards the far side of the plateau. The massive draconian form slowed, then – shockingly – collapsed to its knees, still staring in numb disbelief.

Tobimar followed the Spiritsmith’s gaze. Through the narrow gap in the mountains, a thin sliver of land was visible, cracked and seamed plain interrupted by virulent green tangle of growth, jagged tumble of stone shards hundreds of feet high, steaming pools of water and mud, flat and empty desert – an impossible and repellent patchwork of terrain that could not possibly exist together… yet did.

But it was not this which the huge creature stared at in mute horror. Beyond the abominable landscape, far away, at the very horizon or even beyond, was … darkness. Tobimar blinked. The bright sky dimmed there, dimmed and went to complete blackness, a darkness that rose up in the center to a knife-thin line that seemed to stretch upwards to the roof of heaven, draining the very light from everything around it and turning it to ebon shadow. And despite being so far away, something about the sight pressed in on the Skysand Prince’s senses, as though merely to look upon it was enough to weaken life and break hope. The land shuddered again, this time with the groaning motion of an earthquake, and pebbles and rock cascaded down. “What is it? What’s happening, Spiritsmith?”

The question, spoken so urgently, managed to penetrate the creature’s shock; he turned his head slightly, and the deep-set eyes were wide, with a fear that nothing so ancient and powerful should be able to feel. “T’Ameris Kerveria,” the Spiritsmith said quietly. And then he translated, and Tobimar understood the true meaning of horror. “The Black City. The Fortress of Kerlamion Blackstar.

“The Gateway and Nexus of all Hells is come once more to Zarathan, and Kerlamion its King sits in his throne and gazes out upon our living world.”

 

Spell Blind – Snippet 28

Spell Blind – Snippet 28

“And the pistol in the mouth thing?”

I shook my head again. “Don’t ask.” Taking a long breath, I said, “He killed her, Kona. I saw him do it, although I can’t tell you how it happened. She said his name — Cower, I think it was. She knew he was there. She felt him. And then she was dead.”

“She was a weremyste, too?”

I nodded. “I saw her at the Moon Market this morning. She had on a necklace that was glowing with his magic. That’s how I knew to follow her.” I followed a passing car with my gaze, my mouth twitching. “I guess I got her killed.”

“We’re going to need a statement,” she said. “You know that.”

“You’ll have to take it. This guy’s magic is unlike anything we’ve gone up against before. No one else will believe me.”

“Who says I do?” She smiled to soften it.

“You’re going to get a description from the neighbor,” I told her, as we started to walk back toward the house. “It’ll be nothing at all like what I told you yesterday.”

“He was disguised?”

“I think he’s a chameleon. He can look like anything and anyone he wants.”

“I’m starting not to like this guy, Justis.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Tell me about it.”

Between waiting for Kona to finish her work at the Bettancourt house, and going back to Six-Twenty to give her my statement, most of my afternoon was gone. The only thing that could have made my day worse would have been running into Cole Hibbard before I managed to get out of the building.

So, of course, that was exactly what happened.

When old Cole found out I’d been at the scene of a murder, he practically wet himself. When Kona told him that I’d only been a witness, he started trying to find ways to charge me with the killing anyway. I left as soon as I could, and was seething the whole way home, not only for myself, but also for my father.

Hibbard and my dad had been close. In fact, for a while Hibbard and his wife had been my parents’ closest friends. I still remembered them coming over to the house and staying up late playing Spades, smoking cigarettes, and drinking daiquiris. I was supposed to be sleeping, of course, but I’d spy on them from the stairway, mostly because I thought Hibbard’s wife, whose name I’ve forgotten, was the prettiest woman I’d ever seen.

Eventually the phasings started taking their toll on my father, and though Hibbard was his friend, I gather that Dad wasn’t able to confide in him about the magic, and Namid, and all the rest. Or maybe that’s an excuse that both he and I have used too often. I did confide in Kona, and in the end it changed nothing.

After a while, Hibbard turned on him. I suppose he had cause. My mother turned on him, too, in her own way. Hell, so did I. To Hibbard, it must have seemed that his friend had lost it, had burned out right before his eyes. When my mother and her lover died, Hibbard was one of those who believed my father had killed them both. And when my father went all the way over the edge, leaving me without a family or a home, Hibbard and his wife were among the few couples who refused to help me out. I guess that’s understandable, too. The Hibbards had lost their two closest friends in a tragic, ugly sequence of events. The last thing they would have wanted was a living reminder of both Dara and Leander Fearsson haunting their home.

But try telling that to a fifteen year-old kid who’d lost his parents. That’s when I started hating Cole Hibbard. One of the reasons I so wanted to be a cop, and not just a cop, but a homicide detective, was to show Hibbard and all the others who had turned their backs on my father and me that we deserved better. I had a lot to prove, and I’m sure that I came into the force with an attitude to match. It’s not surprising that Hibbard had it in for me from the start; I had it in for him, too.

In the end, the only thing he had done to me that I couldn’t forgive was to refuse to accept that maybe I could be a decent cop and wouldn’t necessarily become my father.

Of course, I understood all this in my calmer moments, when I could reflect on all that happened back then. At other times, though, I couldn’t get past the fact that Hibbard was such a jerk.

By the time I reached my office, I’d worked myself into quite a state. I’d watched a woman die, nearly been killed myself, and had been shown, in no uncertain terms, that whatever magic I wielded was nothing next to the power of the Blind Angel killer.

The Republic was still running stories about Claudia’s death above the fold. It had a picture of Gann on the front page, too, beneath a caption that read, “Is This the Blind Angel Murderer?” I wondered if Torres and Marra believed what I’d told them about Shari’s killer being the one who’d killed Claudia Deegan. Maybe that was the one good thing that would come out of this day.

I dropped the paper in the trash and rubbed my eyes. After a moment I stood again and started to pace.

Where was Namid when I needed him? I was eager to train, to work some magic and get the day out of my system. The runemyste would have told me that this wasn’t a proper use of magic, that the purpose of clearing prior to conjuring was to keep emotions and frustrations from intruding on the spells. Whatever. I wanted to break something. Failing that, I wanted to use my magic against someone, even if it was Namid and I couldn’t hope to do any real damage. In fact, better that it be him, for that reason.

“Namid!” I called.

After a few moments, he materialized, as smooth and clear as a mountain lake in early morning.

“I am not your servant, Ohanko. I am not to be summoned like one.”

“I know that,” I said. “But I need to train, and I . . . I thought maybe we could work on some more wardings.” I winced at what I heard in my voice. I sounded like some willful spoiled kid ordering around a playmate. “If you’d be willing to help me, I mean,” I added, knowing it was too little too late.

He considered me, his face as placid as a mountain lake. Then he shook his head. “No. You are clouded.”

“I can clear myself.”

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 28

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 28

“Again,” he said to the barman, resting his empty glass on the counter.

The man filled it with another measure.

“I’m looking for a man called Bishop.”

Silence, complete silence, instantly cloaked the room.

“I understand he drinks here,” Hawthorn said, unperturbed by the shock he had inflicted on the locals.

The barman gave him a look of utter contempt and turned away, busying himself with something behind the bar.

“We don’t like people asking questions. Maybe you’d better piss off before you get hurt.”

Hawthorn turned around to locate the speaker.

One of the players had left his seat.

Hawthorn leaned back, both elbows on the bar. The speaker glared at Hawthorn truculently, waving a fist that looked as if it could be used for hammering in nails. The bully had a broken nose and a cauliflower ear suggesting boxing was not entirely foreign to his nature.

Hawthorn sighed. He considered going through the preliminary ritual of exchanging insults but, you know, he just couldn’t be arsed. He came off the bar astonishingly quickly for such a heavy-set man and threw his Tonk into the bully’s eyes.

Whatever they cut Tonk with in this bar clearly stung because the bully screamed and raised both hands to his face. This left his midriff invitingly exposed. Hawthorn was not the man to look a gift horse in the mouth. He dropped his right shoulder and punched his fist a good six centimeters into the bully’s relaxed stomach muscles.

The creep folded, releasing a woomph of air like a large ruminant passing wind. In doing so he stuck his chin out at waist height. Sometimes all your birthdays come out once reflected Hawthorn, drawing back his fist.

“Good night, arsehole,” he said, and struck.

He put his full one hundred and twenty kilos behind the punch. The bully’s head rocked, not fast enough to stop his jaw deforming and breaking with a sharp crack. He flew across the room into a sitting customer and the two cartwheeled in a crash of breaking wood.

Hawthorn clenched and unclenched his fist to restore the blood flow. He was, he thought, getting too old for this. He sauntered over to where the gamers sat and took the vacated chair. After all, the previous owner had no further use for it.

“Who feckin’ said you could sit down?” a youngish thug on his right said.

Hawthorn ignored him. He carefully observed the small man sitting opposite him. Dark hair flopped down over one eye. A small forked goatee beard without moustache lent the man a satanic appearance.  Without taking his eyes off the small man Hawthorn inclined his head to indicate the thug.

“I didn’t see your hands move. Are you working that dummy with your foot?” Hawthorn asked.

The thug stood up. His hand hovered in what he no doubt took to be a menacing manner over the hilt of a knife worn in a sheaf fastened ostentatiously to a strap across his chest. The knife would no doubt serve to intimidate mild mannered shopkeepers and bespectacled clerks. Hawthorn worried more about weapons that he couldn’t see.

The knife-bearer sat down when none of the rest of the party stood up to back him.

“What’re you playing,” Hawthorn asked, examining the hand of the man he had replaced.

The counters were stood up on one end so the other players couldn’t see the symbols on them.

“Thrones and palaces, no limit, winner takes all,” the small man replied.

Hawthorn nodded. He swept the previous player’s coins onto the floor, replacing them with a handful of his own.

“You’re familiar with Nortanian Rules?” the small man asked.

“I’ll pick them up as we go along,” Hawthorn replied.

Thrones and palaces was played in a series of rounds. Each player took it in turns to match or raise the bet of the preceding player so he could select a counter from his hand and place it face up on the table. Players tried to create combinations of tablets superior to all others by the end of round five. Rules governed what counter could be played depending on what was already displayed and what the previous player had elected to do. Nortanian rules turned out to be much the same as other versions.

The barman came round and refilled glasses including Hawthorn’s. Hawthorn played cautiously while he got the feel of the other players. Anyone who thinks a competitive gambling game is a question of luck is doomed to be fleeced. He won and lost by small amounts but generally was slightly down.

When Hawthorn judged the time right he made his strike. His hand of counters at the time was no better than others he had received in earlier rounds and worse than some.

He jacked up the bet sharply and placed a counter. A couple of players dropped out rather than match. On the next round he doubled the pot and only the small man and the young thug on his right stayed in. So far there was little advantage in the counters displayed by any of the players. It would come down to the last play.

Hawthorn doubled once again on the final round and the small man threw in his counters. He sat back, sharp eyes watching. Hawthorn and the thug placing their last counters on the table, covering them by hands palm down while they made final bets.

Convention decreed that the challenger reveal his counter first. Hawthorn turned his hand over to reveal a diplomacy counter. The thug laughed and slowly and slid his hand back still palm down to display an assassination counter. Assassination nullified diplomacy giving the thug the game.

Nobody saw Hawthorn move until the thug screamed. He seized the thug’s wrist with his right hand. With his left he ripped the thug’s own knife from its holster and stabbed down hard. The sharp blade point thrust through flesh into the wooden table: that was when the screaming started. The thug struggled but Hawthorn kept his hand pinned like a beetle to a board.

The small man scratched the side of his nose.

“I take it that you’re not just a bad loser?” he asked Hawthorn,

“I’m not a loser at all,” Hawthorn replied.

He worked the knife free of the table and used it to hold the sobbing thug’s hand out revealing a raid counter pinned to the underside of the palm by the blade.

“He’d two playing pieces concealed in his hand,” Hawthorn said. “I take it cheats are disqualified even under Nortanian rules?”

Without waiting for an answer he scooped up the pot and put it in his pocket. The small man sighed.

“Zitter, now you’ve embarrassed me. If you’re going to cheat at my table then at least try not to get caught. That palm slide trick wouldn’t fool my old mum.”

The small man waved the injured thug away.

“Get out of my sight. We’ll discuss this later.”

The color drained from Zitter’s face. Perhaps it was just a shock reaction to loss of blood but Hawthorn doubted it. The small man didn’t raise his voice or threaten but the menace in his tone glittered like the sun on jagged glass.

Zitter stumbled away clutching his wounded hand in the other.

“I take it you are Bishop.” Hawthorn said flatly. It was a statement not a question.

“You talk like a toff but you behave like a man who knows his way around. What do you want?”

“Business,” Hawthorn replied. “I have some business for you.”

“I suppose I’d better hear you out while I still have some men left. Not that they’re much bloody use.”

Bishop looked at his remaining “soldiers” with mild distaste. They dropped their eyes rather than meet his.

“You can’t get the staff these days,” Hawthorn said, with a cruel smile.

“You have my attention,” Bishop said.

“War is coming.”

“So?” Bishop asked, shrugging.

What has war got to do with me or my business the shrug said. Wars came and went but the underworld prospered either way. Business was business and customers were customers. Who cared about the cut of their uniforms?

Hawthorn took a sip of tonk before replying.

“My principal will be taking an active participation. He will require information about his enemies’ intentions which I believe you through your business contacts will be admirably placed to provide.”

“And why should I do that?” asked Bishop.

“I can think of two good reasons,” Hawthorn replied. “First because I will pay well for accurate, timely intelligence and secondly…”

Hawthorn paused and gave a humorless grin.

“You will have made a friend with a long memory who intends to be on the winning side. I always pay people back, one way or another.”

Bishop looked down at the blood-stained gash in his table.

“So I see.”

 

Polychrome – Chapter 29

Polychrome – Chapter 29

Chapter 29.

“Ha! You’ll need to be faster than that, Erik!”

Yeah, no kidding. Zenga was dodging most of the blows I sent at her, and I couldn’t do nearly so well dodging hers. My armor did make up some of the difference, though.

This was worthwhile practice, I had to admit. My workouts in the Rainbow Kingdom had been against Sky Fairies, and mostly near-pure blood, which meant that my True Mortal advantage was tremendously pronounced against them. Zenga, on the other hand, was more human than Faerie, and in sparring with her I almost had to invert what I’d learned in the Rainbow Kingdom. She was quicker than me, but only in a human sense; she had the reflexes of a 17 or 18 year old girl, while mine were those of a late 40s man. On the other hand, since I’d spent a year working out under the Master At Arms of the entire Kingdom, I was now in superlative shape for a late-40s former geek, which meant that even though Zenga was young and in top shape, I was undoubtedly much stronger than she was.

Still, it was basically an even match, and she’d hit me hard. I still did have a little edge with my Mortal nature, but nothing like I was used to.

We were sparring mostly hand-to-hand, since I was missing my sword – there being no point in trying to replace it with the ordinary weapons available, as those Gilgad could offer were either so mundane that they’d never survive conflict with major magic, or magical enough that I’d shatter them the first time I swung. Also, sparring with edged steel in the wilderness just didn’t strike me as a good idea anyway.

As I parried a flurry of attacks, I noted that I didn’t have any advantage in range, either. She was just about exactly my height, maybe an inch or so taller, and with long arms and legs she probably had a slight edge on me in that area.

I ducked and covered, then bulled my way forward, taking a clip on my jaw that sent pain rocketing through my ear, but didn’t stop me from barreling into her with a crude but pretty much unblockable body-check. She cushioned the blow and tried to roll off, but I caught her arm, went with her attempt to throw me and grabbed the long braid that ran down her back, pulling her off-balance and slamming her to the ground. Without armor to cushion the impact, I could hear the breath whoosh out of her, and I rolled and came up, arm drawn back, hand in blade formation. “Yield.”

She laughed. “Yield!” she agreed, bounding upright. “That’s one fall each, Erik; best of three?”

I smiled back, breathing hard, then held up my hand. “Give me a few moments first.” I pulled out my inhaler and took a couple of puffs a minute apart. The building tightness slowly retreated.

Zenga regarded me curiously. “What is that?”

“One of my Achilles’ heels,” I answered. “My own body has it in for me if I expend too much effort too fast.”

She stared. “In truth? You run or fight for too long –”

“– and I stop being able to breathe, yes. Been that way all my life.”

We started the next match, but she seemed more tentative until I kicked her in the shin. “Don’t you dare baby me, Zenga! None of our enemies will!”

With a yelp of pain, she stared at me, at first angrily and then with a devilish smile.

She won that match, too, managing to get my arm twisted up behind my back and me pinned in a way that didn’t allow me the leverage to get her off me without giving her the chance to break it. “Yield!”

“Ouch! I yield!” I smiled at her as I got up. “That’s more like it. Now let’s get some dinner; that sure worked up an appetite.”

The sun was now down past the mountains and the light starting to fade. We returned to the little fire we’d built before starting our sparring match, and I got out a round-bottomed pan something like a wok and the bottle of oil. Quick-frying or roasting was pretty much the rule on the road, unless you just ate jerky or waybread or something like that. We were carrying enough stuff to live on for a while, and if we ducked in and out of Gilgad territory we could probably catch some game or maybe buy something from farmers or woodcutters along the way.

Zenga watched with approval as I stir-fried a mix of vegetables, some dried, some reasonably fresh, some dried meat, and a couple of sliced potatoes, then added just enough water to let it cook for a bit, moistening the meat and dried veggies. I’d also made sure to bring along a few packets of dried spices; I like flavor in my food. “I’d heard that many countries consider cooking to be women’s work,” she said finally.

“Used to be the case where I came from. That actually mostly changed in my lifetime. But I’ve been cooking for most of my life; my parents always said that if I didn’t like was for dinner, I’d better cook it myself.”

I served up the stir-fry, which hadn’t turned out badly at all given the improvisation I’d had to try with the mix of ingredients, and we ate in silence for a few minutes.

This was the first night we were truly in the wilderness; up until now we’d always been able to find a family, a cabin, somewhere to stay for the night. Without anyone else to distract me, I found myself looking at Zenga more. Which made me distinctly uncomfortable, since there was no denying she was very much worth looking at, but she was also as far as my gut said considerably less than half my age, which was definitely putting me into dirty old man territory. Yeah, Polychrome didn’t look much if any older, but after spending a year around her I knew that it would be entirely wrong to look at her as being anything like an ordinary girl her apparent age. Zenga, on the other hand, did still strike me as a teenager, or at best a very, very young woman, albeit with some considerable hardheaded common sense and discipline.

“So now we are undoubtedly alone, Lord Erik,” Zenga said, breaking me out of this uncomfortable reverie, hopefully not because I’d been staring at her too hard. “Can you tell me anything new? About this key, or about the advantages you’ve talked about having in this enterprise?”

Ah, a reasonably safe topic of conversation. “I can certainly tell you some things. As your father mentioned, I am a True Mortal – not even just a distant descendant, as you are or as were those other outsiders who came to Oz and surrounding lands over the years, but someone with, as far as any can ascertain, not a single drop of Faerie blood in him.”

I summarized the advantages this gave me, with Zenga asking a few questions that showed she actually grasped the ideas quite well. When I was done, she was looking at me with new respect – and an almost appraising look that brought back that uncomfortable feeling. “Now I do indeed understand why a single man can be so important, Erik.” She moved slightly over around the fire, closer to where I sat. A part of me had the impulse to scoot around and keep my distance, but I rejected that as just plain stupid. “What does this Prophecy say about what you are to do, though? For you have – I think quite rightly – kept much of that to yourself, but if I am to travel with you to the end, as I intend to, I would think I should know what to expect.”

She has a definite point. Well, I don’t have to tell her everything, but I can summarize that, too. I tried to soft-pedal my own potential downfall, but I couldn’t avoid the concept entirely. I’m generally a terrible liar.

She looked at me with wide eyes. “But… how can you possibly hope to win, sir? Ugu and Amanita have spent centuries mastering their powers, and you – as a True Mortal – can’t even try to use magic until… that one crucial moment. At least if I understand you correctly.”

“You’re correct,” I said, smiling slightly.

“Then… I don’t understand. Any warrior knows that sufficient skill can overcome even a vast disadvantage in strength, and even if you claim the power of Ozma herself and her connection to Faerie, still will they have great powers of their own, and hundreds of years of skill to pit against you.”

I grinned. “Imagination is the key, Princess Zenga. And of all the things I have brought from my world – of all the knowledge and skills I have ever had – that one is the greatest I have.” I remembered having a similar conversation with Poly, months ago, and for a moment I felt a terrible pang of loneliness despite Zenga being so nearby. I wanted nothing more than to see spun-gold hair and violet blue eyes laughing, talking to me, even for a moment, even though I would never dare tell her the truth. “The Prophecy promises that I have a chance to win, and so the essence of it comes down to my being able to envision ways of using that power that is given to me. You’re perfectly right; if I just try a sledgehammer without any control against them, it’s almost certain that they’ll have more than enough finesse to beat me. But… where I come from, leisure time has gone far beyond anything you know. It’s become an artform, many artforms, all devoted to entertainment. Some of these… involve a lot of imagination. And I was and always have been darn good at imaginative games. Plus…” I patted my pocket where my inhaler sat. “That kept me pretty much housebound as a child. I did very little other than read, and I read a lot of books of imagination, including of course the books of my world that dealt with Oz. So I not only have my own imagination; I have the accumulated imagination of a thousand others, and more.” I looked up into the sky, seeing the patterns watched by a hundred cultures; the might of the Zodiac as seen through a dozen sets of eyes. “And that is a weapon that none of them have ever seen.”

Zenga seemed to be trying to understand. “But how can that work? That is, surely we are not all unimaginative here.”

“Not at all,” I assured her, “but you’ve never codified it, so to speak, to the point that it was as valuable a commodity as food or weapons; it damn near is, where I come from. And when… it happens, I won’t be learning to do magic, I will become magic. Magic held in a burning case of mortal essence, but basically pure magic to be directed by thought and will. That’s the only answer that really makes sense of the Prophecy, you see.”

Her eyes lit up. “Oh! That does make sense.” I noticed that somehow she seemed to have moved a bit closer without my noticing. “And what exactly are we doing here? Where is the ‘key’?”

I looked at the mountains, which were now just pure black silhouettes against the dark sky. “Somewhere out there. We need to find him.”

She blinked, something I could see clearly because she was quite nearby. “Him? Your key is a person?”

“Yes.” I looked back out into the darkness, and it struck me suddenly how isolated we were. If we’re attacked here, it’ll be just me and Zenga, and I don’t have much experience protecting anyone else. Part of me very much wished I could have left her behind. Sure, the Prophecy had led me to believe I’d find a companion there, but it didn’t state that outright. Maybe I should have considered asking someone else – say Huru, he’d have been overjoyed – to accompany me and sent Zenga back.

I glanced back at Zenga, who was waiting to see if I’d say anything else. The fact she was leaning slightly forward did not help me stay focused on the matter at hand. Why the hell did Inga send her out with me, when –

And then I remembered Polychrome, and her story of Cirrus, and Inkarbleu’s laugh, and it suddenly all made a terribly comedic sort of sense. “Oh, Jesus H. Particular Christ on a pogo stick. He did NOT do that.”

“I … beg your pardon, Erik?”

Whoops. Mr. Evil Overlord, Sir, you’re monologuing out loud again! I shook my head. “I … have suddenly had a rather disconcerting thought as to why your father and mother might have allowed you to come with me on this mission, when it could easily get you killed.” I looked up, and suddenly she was quite close. Very close.

“Disconcerting?”

“Um…” Dammit, I am not very good with words in this kind of thing, not that this kind of thing has ever really happened to me, but I know what I mean! “That, well, you’re a Princess, and if I manage to keep from dying in this mission, I’d be… well, a most eligible bachelor, so to speak.”

“And that’s disconcerting?”

I took a deep breath, which might have been a mistake, because it brought her scent to me – some sweat, but mixed with a coconut sweetness and something warmer, spicier. “Dammit. It’s disconcerting that a girl might be sent out to basically possibly get married to me because it would be a political advantage!”

She pulled back slightly. “Lord Erik, do you have an objection to women?”

“No, no, not at all.” Far from it. “But I think they should be entirely able to choose who they marry, or even just who they want to spend time with, not be ordered into it.”

She leaned back towards me. “Lord… Erik, you are correct that my mother and father partially agreed to this because of careful consideration of what our position could be if the Usurpers are defeated. But I am not a child, no matter what you may think, and the decision is entirely mine to make. And in the few weeks we have travelled, I have decided that there are many far worse choices I might make.”

She was very very close now, and her eyes were firelit pools of ebony, like the hair that tumbled over smooth chocolate shoulders and trailed down towards shadowed curves…

 

Spell Blind – Snippet 27

Spell Blind – Snippet 27

“He’s all right!” the neighbor called, running up the street toward the house. “He didn’t do anything! It was the other guy.”

“Who are you?” the Latino cop asked, his weapon still aimed at me. The badge he wore identified him as Roberto Torres.

“My name’s Jay Fearsson,” I said, my voice even. “I’m a PI. I used to be on the force.”

“The Glock’s yours?”

I nodded. “I fired it once at the man who killed Shari Bettancourt. I hit that street sign over there.” I pointed with my chin, keeping my hands as they were.

“You hit a street sign?” the other cop asked.

I wasn’t about to explain that the guy I’d been aiming at used a deflection spell to steer my bullet away. I nodded, and tried to ignore their shared grins and raised eyebrows. But while they both had me pegged as a lousy shot, they also seemed convinced that I wasn’t a threat. Both men holstered their pistols.

Torres stepped past me to the doorway.

The white cop — Allen Marra, according to his badge — said, “I’ll need to see your license, Mister . . .”

“Fearsson.” I pulled out my wallet and handed it to him.

I heard his partner rattling the door.

“This is chained,” he said. “How’d he kill her?”

“I don’t know. You need to call Kona Shaw in homicide. She knows me, and she knows what I’m working on.”

“Do you know the guy’s name?” Torres asked, ignoring what I’d said.

“I heard her call him Cower, or something like that.”

“And why are you here? Did you have a relationship with the victim?”

“No.” I said. “I met her this morning at a . . . a farmer’s market. I talked to her for a while there, and then followed her back here to ask her a few more questions. While I was talking to her, the other guy showed up.”

“And he killed her.”

“Yes.”

“Is that what you saw?” Torres asked, speaking past me to Shari’s neighbor.

“I didn’t see any of that,” the man said. “I saw this guy and the other one. This guy was chasing him, and then he stopped. They both did. And then this guy puts his gun in his mouth, and then pulls it out again, and that’s when I yelled at them. The other guy ran away.” He hesitated. Then, “Is Shari really dead?”

Marra still held my wallet, and now he frowned at the man. “Fearsson put his weapon in the other guy’s mouth?”

“No. He put it in his own mouth.”

Marra grimaced. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“It’s hard to explain,” I said, sighing the words.

Torres descended the steps and planted himself right in front of me. “Give it a try,” he said.

“The other guy made me do it. I couldn’t help myself.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“Please, call Kona Shaw. She’ll know what I’m talking about.”

“First you explain this.”

“The guy’s a myste. A sorcerer. He used some kind of mojo on me.”

Torres raised an eyebrow, drawing a roll of the eyes from his partner. I figured I was about thirty seconds away from an all-expenses-paid trip to the psych ward.

“Please call Kona,” I said. “You have a dead woman in there. I’ve told you that I didn’t kill her, and that’s been corroborated by another witness. The rest I’ll explain to the homicide detectives.”

“We can run you in anyway,” Torres said.

“Yeah, you can. But you’d be wasting your time.” I took a breath. “I’m working on behalf of the Deegan family, and so my investigation is connected to the Blind Angel killings. I worked the case when I was still on the job, and now I’m working it again. Kona was my partner. The guy I was after — the guy who killed this woman — I’m pretty sure he’s the Blind Angel killer.”

“The Blind Angel killer is already in custody.”

“Gann’s not your man,” I said.

“Holy shit,” the neighbor said in a hushed voice. “That was the Blind Angel?”

“I swear to God, Fearsson,” Torres said, wagging his finger in my face. “If you’re bullshitting me, I’m going to make your life a living hell.”

“I’m not. Call Kona.”

Torres considered me, the muscles in his jaw bunching. After a moment he nodded to Marra, who hurried to the squad car.

“Holy shit,” I heard the neighbor whisper again.

#

It took Kona and Kevin, her partner, some time to get there, and then they spent several minutes speaking in low voices with Torres and Marra. The forensic team had arrived in the interim and after cutting through Shari’s chain lock, had entered the house. I moved off the stairs to a shady corner of her yard. Kona and Kevin joined me there now, both of them grim-faced.

Kevin was younger than Kona and me, and had only been on the force for three or four years. He’d shaved his head since the last time I saw him; it looked good on him. He was a handsome African-American man, with dark eyes, a lean build, and an easy smile. I’d tried to be as nice to him as I could since meeting him about a year ago, but both of us remained wary of each other. I think he felt that I was critiquing him all the time, measuring his performance as a cop against my own. I wasn’t. I just found it hard to think of Kona working with anyone other than me.

“You all right?” Kona asked me.

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure this was our guy?”

My eyes flicked toward Kevin. He didn’t know I was a weremyste.

“Pretty sure,” I said.

“There isn’t a mark on the woman,” Kevin said. “No sign that anyone broke in. Is it possible she died of . . . of something natural?”

“I don’t think so,” I told him.

“Kevin,” Kona said, “why don’t you go see what they’re doing in there. Make sure they’re not messing with my crime scene. I’ll be in soon.”

Kevin eyed us both. It wasn’t the first time one of us had contrived to speak in private with the other while he was around. “Yeah, all right,” he said, his voice flat. “Catch you later, Jay.”

“See you, Kevin.”

Kona and I watched him walk away.

“You’re going to have to tell him eventually,” I said.

“I keep hoping you two will become friends so that you can tell him yourself.” Her eyes raked over me. “You look like hell.”

“I thought I was dead. This guy’s stronger than any weremyste I’ve ever seen. He made me . . .” I broke off shaking my head.

“So it is our guy.”

I managed a smile, but it was fleeting. “It better be. If there are two sorcerers walking around with this kind of power, we’re in trouble.”

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 27

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 27

The Brasilian Military constructed The Great North Road at the end of the Terran wars to link the First Tier colony worlds and provide a jump off into Terran controlled worlds. It pacified the Continuum so the ride was reasonably smooth even for such a wallowing transport.

Allenson helped build a road into the Hinterland as part of Chernokovsky’s ill-fated expedition. A chain of solar powered satellites in real space created the calmed path through the Continuum. This eased travel, extending the speed and range of frames. More roads like this could open up the Hinterlands to colonization and industrialization. Unfortunately, Brasilia had lost interest once Terra had been driven back across the Bight. Indeed, they weren’t even maintaining this route properly. The barge had already crossed a bumpy section probably caused by a malfunctioning satellite drifting out of phase. Another couple of decades and the road would fall into disrepair triggering something of a recession in the colonies.

The large trans-Bight ships were too big to use roads so there was no particular pressure from the large Brasilian merchant gens to expend taxes on its upkeep. It was only the local ‘Stream traffic that would suffer.

Boswell stood in the driver’s pulpit, steering the barge into energy eddies along the road that ran in the direction they were travelling. Dull work but a human pilot could drive the barge so much more efficiently than automatics. They passed a container truck steered by an automatic pilot that smacked the bow into every stray wave of turbulence. Allenson was so glad that he had hired Boswell for the trip. Smooth sailing was less wearing on the barge’s mechanics. More importantly it stopped Allenson from having to swallow motion sickness suppressants or throw up every hour or so.

“Everything okay, Boswell?” he asked, moving to stand beside him.

“She’s a real honey, general,” Boswell said, waving his left hand to encompass their vehicle.

“Good, good, how long to Samson’s World?”

Samson’s World had a market town serving the local community so possessed facilities to recharge the barge.

Boswell ran a finger across the control panel, flicking through pages of data.”

“Not more’n two hours, sar. But we have plenty of power remaining. We could press on to Forty-Three. There’s a station there where we could stop.”

“Forty-Three?”

“The world’s navigation almanac number.”

“What’s it called?”

“Don’t rightly think it’s got an official name, general. On Nortania it’s just called Icecube. Never been there so I don’t know why.”

Allenson considered. It would be useful to press on while they could but Samson’s World was a known quantity. He checked the navigation almanac on his datapad. Forty-Three was listed as a way station not a town or farming community. Oddly enough it was the latter that tipped the balance in his mind. They had already made one stop at a farming community of small villages on a world called Arcadia.

Word of his arrival spread like wildfire and by evening local time throngs of villagers in dance clothes arrived to throw flowers. They insisted on escorting him to the best, indeed the only restaurant, in the village. He was not sure whether the good people of Arcadia were ardent separatists or simply desperate for any excuse for a party.

Whatever, it was possibly the most excruciatingly embarrassing moment of his life. Certainly up there with the time a girl with whom he was currently besotted persuaded him to sing and play the ukulele in an amateur dramatic performance. Todd, his brother not his nephew, had declared his performance the funniest thing he had seen since someone tried to teach a fleek to ride a bicycle. If Icecube was simply an industrial center, he doubted anyone would have the time or inclination to acknowledge his presence let alone throw flowers.

“I thought I might get some exercise,” Todd said, edging past Allenson on his way to a pedaling bay.

“There’s really no need, sar,” Boswell said. “We have more than enough power in the cells.”

“Nonetheless, that’s my intention,” Todd said, in a tone that brooked no opposition.

“That bad,” Allenson said, sympathetically, to Todd.

“Buller’s now explaining how he brilliantly ambushed the Syracusan armor at Kesserine Pass using prunes to represent tanks. I don’t think I can take any more.”

“He’s certainly talented as a commander,” Allenson said.

“And doesn’t he know it,” Todd replied. “Do you intend to go back and avail yourself of more of his wisdom?”

Allenson looked over his shoulder. Buller was on his feet waving both arms and gesturing.

“You know, I believe I could also do with some exercise.”

#

Wherever you have civilization you have a bar like The Leaping Frog. It may be in an inn, a public house, a hotel or even a temple but behind the façade it is always the same: the same barman, large, taciturn, seeing and hearing nothing, the same smell of stale booze and staler breath. The original had probably been located in a stone-age cave with bad drainage. Hawthorn possessed a talent for sniffing out such places. Why he went to them and what he did there was not something he felt moved to share with his friends.

The Leaping Frog squatted in a narrow alley between two warehouses. A dirty flickering neon sign in the form of a two-legged lizard advertised its location. Steel shutters perched on pegs above grimy windows that permitted little inspection of the interior. No doubt the pegs could be withdrawn from the inside, dropping the shutters to seal off the building. The closed door was surfaced with peeling layers of plywood painted blotchy green. Hawthorn suspected it was far more substantial than it looked, probably incorporating mechanisms that could bar it against anything short of a battering ram. The Leaping Frog was not an inviting hostelry but then it probably neither wanted nor expected passing trade.

Hawthorn unceremoniously kicked the door with a toecap reinforced with crystallized silicon carbide. When nothing happened he kicked a bit harder. A hatch at head height opened and a face peered out. It was not the sort of face that would give comfort to small children or swooning maidens. Too many scars and contusions for that but the Frog was not a nursery and any maiden who swooned within its interior was unlikely to retain her maidenhood for long.

“Whaddaya want,” Pug-Ugly asked.

Hawthorn gave a name that was not his own to gain entry. How he acquired the name would require too long a digression to be discussed here but suffice it to say the acquisition involved an exchange of Brasilian Crowns and a busted kneecap. The door opened. He walked into the dimly lit interior, ignoring the door keeper’s hopefully outstretched hand. The bubble of sound in the bar died away.

He stopped in the entrance way and removed a cigarette case from an inside pocket. Selecting one of the contents, he placed it in his mouth, swapping the case for a small disposable lighter with which he ignited the fag. The pause gave him time to take in the bar’s clientele although he did not seem to take an interest. They also studied him with equal phony nonchalance.

What would they have seen? A stranger, a tall man, heavily built without much sign of fat, dressed in casual, functional but expensive well-tailored clothes that failed to tally with the scar on his head. They would have noticed that the battered cigarette case was made of a ceramic inlaid with precious minerals. Some might have wondered how such a desirable item might be transferred into their own possession.

A glance at his eyes would dissuade such ruminations. Piercing blue and as cold as church charity, they lacked any trace of gullibility or fear. These eyes would not gaze sympathetically on men with treasure maps, sick aunts or knives held out at threatening angles.

Hawthorn took a deep drag and exhaled, adding his own small contribution to the murky atmosphere formed by people smoking herbal concoctions more potent than the imported tobacco he favored.  He quite deliberately swept his eyes around the room. Most of the incumbents developed a renewed interest in minding their own business. A group of men sat around a table in one corner stood out in that they ignored him, carrying on with some game that involved slamming wooden counters down in front of stacks of coins. Hawthorn ignored them in return and headed for the bar.

Background sound slowly refilled the room.

“Tonk, double,” Hawthorn said, flipping a quarter crown down onto the plasticized surface.

The barman put a glass on the counter and poured him a generous measure from an unlabeled bottle. He collected the quarter and dropped it into a pouch in his apron. He didn’t offer change or utter a word of thanks. The Leaping Frog would not rate highly for service in any tourist guide.

Hawthorn lifted the glass with his left hand. He took a gulp of the Tonk and grimaced. God knows what they cut it with. He threw the rest down his throat in one go so he didn’t have to taste the stuff.

 

Spell Blind – Snippet 26

Spell Blind – Snippet 26

Chapter 14

Shooting at him had been stupid — useless as well as dangerous. On the other hand, it had made the sorcerer run, and might well have saved my life, at least for the moment. The rest was all nuisance. Someone was going to call the police, and I’d have to explain why I’d discharged my weapon, and what role I’d played in Shari’s death. Given the chance I would have called nine-one-one for her, of course, but I would have done so anonymously. No chance of that now.

But those were matters for later. In that instant I was interested only in the blond-haired, bald man who had killed her.

He’s much, much more than you think he is . . .

What had she meant by that?

I knew he was a more powerful weremyste than I was. He might have been the strongest sorcerer I’d ever encountered. And I guessed that he was strong physically, too. He appeared to be at least half a foot taller than me. He had the build of an athlete, and I couldn’t help remembering how far into South Mountain Park he’d carried Claudia. I also couldn’t deny that he was pulling away from me as we ran, much the way Antoine had the other day.

But I had a feeling that Shari had meant more than all of this.

It occurred to me that given the ease with which he’d tested my defenses those three times, chasing after him might not have been the best idea.

Even as I formed the thought, he stopped and turned to face me. I slowed, then halted, too, holding my weapon loosely at my side. I had a feeling that shooting at him again would be pointless, that he would be able to save himself with magic. The same magic he could use to attack me.

Defend yourself!

It was as if Namid was right beside me, shouting warnings. I sheathed myself in a shielding spell, the same protective cocoon I’d used against Namid’s magical fire. At the same time, I raised my pistol again.

The sorcerer laughed.

The touch of his magic was about as light as one of those lead aprons the dentist gives you for x-rays. It draped over my mind, pressing down on me. I couldn’t move my arms or my legs. I stood on the sidewalk, my weapon still aimed at the man, and I couldn’t even bring myself to pull the trigger.

“You should have left it alone,” he said. He didn’t shout or call back to me. He spoke the words, and I heard them as I would if he had been standing beside me, whispering in my ear. He had an accent of some sort, but at that moment I couldn’t place it. “You should have stayed away.”

My shooting hand started to turn. I fought to keep the Glock trained on him, but I might as well have tried to make the sun move west to east. I had no control over my own body. In a tiny corner of my mind I wondered what spell he was using on me; it was beyond any magic I knew. Panicking, I tried everything I could think of to throw him off. I recited wardings in my mind. I threw assailing spells at him. I even attempted my father’s transporting spell. Nothing worked. The weapon was turned toward me now. I opened my mouth and stuck the muzzle in, tasting the tang of metal and the bitter residue of gunpowder. I wanted to gag, but I couldn’t even do that much.

I felt my trigger finger twitch, and I closed my eyes, tears streaming down my face.

I heard Namid’s voice again. Defend yourself!

Yes. I refused to die here, killed by my own pistol. I had thrown every spell I knew at the guy, but maybe that was my mistake.

Three elements: the sidewalk, his feet, and a great big crack in the cement. I knew I couldn’t hurt him, but I didn’t need to. I only needed to knock him off balance for a second.

And I did. I opened my eyes in time to see him stumble, then right himself.

His magic wavered for an instant, long enough that I managed to pull the weapon from my mouth, nearly retching. I pointed the Glock at him again, though my hand was unsteady and my legs felt like they were about to give way.

“Hey! What the hell are you doin’?”

The voice came from the house to the right of me. I glanced that way, but wasn’t willing to take my eyes off the sorcerer for long. I saw anger flash across the killer’s face, and then I saw him laugh again.

He ran, vanishing around a corner. I couldn’t tell if he’d gone past the point where I could see him, or had used a spell to make himself disappear. To be honest, I didn’t care. I sank to my knees, my chest heaving.

“Hey, mister? You all right?”

I looked over at the man who’d saved my life. He was wearing old cutoff jean shorts and a sleeveless undershirt. His hair was black, but he had a grizzled beard.

“You shouldn’t play with your gun like that,” he said, frowning at me. “Scared me half to death.”

“Yeah,” I said, my voice ragged. “Sorry.”

“Who was that guy, anyway?” he asked, standing on tiptoes and craning to peer down the street after the sorcerer. “The one you were talking to.”

“I don’t know.” I forced myself back to my feet, though my legs still felt rubbery. “You need to call nine-one-one,” I told him. “Something’s happened to Ms. Bettancourt.”

“Shari?” the man said, concern in his voice, his brow knitting.

“Yes.”

“Did he do it? That guy?”

“Call nine-one-one. Please.”

He stared at me a moment longer. Then he hurried back inside.

I walked — staggered really — back to Shari’s house, sat down on her front steps and placed my Glock on the top step next to me. If the sorcerer had come back, I’m not sure I would have had the strength even to lift the pistol, but having it near at hand made me feel better.

The first squad car arrived a few minutes later, stopping first in front of the neighbor’s house and then pulling up to Shari’s place. I didn’t move.

Two uniformed guys got out of the car, one Latino, one white, both of them young and burly. The Latino cop spotted my Glock first and reached for his weapon.

“Hands up!” he said, leveling his weapon at me.

I raised my hands and stared back at him as he and his partner — now with his pistol out, too — hurried up the path. The Latino cop kicked the Glock beyond my reach.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 05

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 05

Chapter 5.

“A far finer parting, this, than the last time you left us, Kyri,” said Jeridan Relion, the Watchland of Evanwyl. The ruler of the little country bowed extravagantly low to Kyri, and took her hand in his. Poplock felt the tiniest twitch from Tobimar at that, and wondered how long it would be before his friend talked to Kyri about what he felt. I mean, he can’t be unaware of it… can he?

“That it is, Jeridan,” Kyri said, and her smile held a grateful laugh. There was no sign of the subliminal tension he’d seen in her a couple of times around the Watchland – times that, she admitted, for some reason she found the Watchland to feel more distant, though there was nothing overtly different about his behavior. “I have avenged my brother, we have found the rot at the heart of our country, and have begun the healing. But we can’t stay longer; there are still so many questions left unanswered, and we must seek the answers.”

The Watchland nodded; he had walked, rather than ridden, to bid Kyri and her friends goodbye, and Poplock could see why. While one of his chosen Arms to guard and assist him today was Torokar Heimdalyn, a Child of Odin in massive armor that was obviously styled something like that of the Justiciars (and thus reminded Poplock of Bolthawk), the other was Gantrista-[unpronounceable], a Shellikaki. Usually called Gan, the gigantic land-crab with his carefully-crafted shell was one of only a few that lived in the forests near the river. Gan obviously wasn’t one to ride on any ordinary mount, but was so formidable that accommodating his slowness was generally well worth it.

“So where do you seek?” Gan asked in his sharp, whirring voice. “To the East and the Wanderer? To the North,” his massive claws made a shielding gesture, “and the Hollow?”

“Eventually to Moonshade Hollow, I think, yes,” Kyri answered, “but first to the Spiritsmith.”

“What?” Torokar Heimdalyn spoke up in surprise. “Is your Raiment damaged, then?”

“Oh, it’s not for her,” Tobimar spoke up. “It’s for me.” As per their agreement, Tobimar did not draw attention to Poplock. Thus far, the fact that the little Toad was often overlooked, and even if noted discounted as a familiar or a pet, had worked drastically to their advantage. Even here, Poplock tried to mostly maintain a stolid, dumb-Toadlike façade and be taken as such. Whoever the enemy really is, he, she, or it might still have spies here.

“My equipment isn’t up to the standards of the Justiciars,” Tobimar went on. “So Kyri believes we can get better equipment there.”

“You most certainly shall,” agreed the Watchland, “if, of course, the Spiritsmith will see you.”

“There is that,” admitted Kyri, “but I think he will not refuse. He implied that I might be able to return without having to run his gantlet again.” She turned and gestured. “And I will not be leaving Vantage Fortress unwarded this time.”

The Watchland’s face registered genuine surprise and gratification as Lythos came forward. “By the Balance, I had heard rumors, but it is truly a wonderful thing to see for myself. Sho-Ka-Taida, I could not hope for better hands to hold the Fortress while its masters are gone.”

Good, he’s happy. Or he’s a really good actor. Poplock, honestly, didn’t like having to be suspicious of everyone, and everything, but after what they’d gone through, it just made sense. The Watchland was trusted by everyone in Evanwyl, which to Poplock’s mind made him one of the prime suspects. In theory that was true of Lythos, too, but he and Tobimar had checked the Elf out pretty carefully after his reappearance, and Kyri had no doubts he was who he had been the last time she saw him.

But the Watchland seems to be, well, who he seems to be, too. Poplock studied him carefully through his two front paws, held to guide spell-born mystical sight. General aura’s positive, very positive, not dark at all. No sign of shapeshifting. Some traces of magic, but everyone uses some, and he may have quite a few spells around his armor or home. Don’t see anything else around him that doesn’t belong. That doesn’t prove anything, but it’s a good indication. Neither of his Arms look suspicious, though that shell of Gan’s has got some fairly hefty wards on it!

“I thank you, Watchland,” Lythos was saying, and bowed deeply before Jeridan. “I shall do all in my power to ensure that Phoenix Kyri’s work is not undone.”

“Then we shall have few fears indeed.” Poplock saw Tobimar’s distant expression as the Watchland looked down the road that led to the south, and the little Toad recognized that his friend was exercising the strange not-magic disciplines to sense the way of the world about him. Good, he’s double-checking me.

“You have returned from Zarathanton,” the Watchland said. “How was the journey? Can we expect –”

“No, Watchland,” Lythos said bluntly. “I was myself sorely beset three times on my journey. Evanwyl is cut off, now; be grateful that the great war keeps the larger powers occupied, with no effort to spare for such a small country as ours. The forces behind these disasters are great, and subtle, and wide-ranging indeed. Evanwyl must rely upon itself alone.”

Tobimar moved his shoulder front-and-back – a subtle cue that would just look like a man shrugging or loosening a tight joint, but that they’d agreed meant All clear. Obviously Tobimar didn’t see anything wrong with the Watchland or his entourage either.

The Watchland nodded. “Alas; I had suspected as much, when no messengers I had sent returned, and no travelers but young Tobimar here. So then I must ask, what of Lady Victoria?”

“My aunt,” Kyri said slowly, “has sent, with Lythos, the direction that Vantage Fortress shall pass to me. She does not know when she will return, for she has other duties which have become more pressing.” They had decided not to detail those “other duties”. After all, Poplock thought, whoever the overarching enemy was, it was probably responsible for all the disruptions around the world, including Aegeia. No need for there to be any hints as to the family’s involvement in that mess.

The Watchland looked surprised. “That has a ring of finality about it. Is she well?”

“Last I saw her, excellently well, Jeridan, and so Lythos confirmed, but she can’t return and doesn’t know when she will. From her point of view, since I’ve taken up responsibility for Evanwyl anyway, it’s time for me to inherit everything.” Kyri looked down. “I’m still going to think of it as hers, though.”

Jeridan laughed. “As will every one of us, I am sure. She was mistress of Vantage Fortress in the time of my father, let alone in my time. So still I shall hope for her return.”

“If she does,” Kyri said, “I’ll give this right back to her.”

There was a chuckle around the small group. “I see you have your traveling pack on; you are leaving this very minute?”

“We are, sir,” said Tobimar. “Now that we’re assured of the Fortress’ safety, we have to move quickly. Kyri’s time was well spent here, I think, but we have taken a great deal of time and given our adversaries a chance to recover.”

“Then we shall delay you no longer,” the Watchland said decisively. “May the Balanced Sword guide and protect you all.” He bowed again to Kyri, shook Tobimar’s hand – and flickered the very slightest of winks at Poplock.

Hm. So he does know. Does kind of limit how much I can rely on those results of my vision. Still, hiding significant facts from those spells took a lot of work.

“Farewell, Jeridan! Goodbye, Gan, Torokar! Goodbye, Lythos!”

The small party turned towards the south and walked onward, towards the distant mountains of Hell’s Rim. Poplock, as he often did, watched behind.

And he could see that Jeridan Relion did not move, but kept his eyes on Kyri, until they disappeared into the forest.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 26

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 26

Chapter 8 – The Great North Road

The next morning Allenson held a private meeting with Todd and Hawthorn in his hotel room. First, he checked the suppressor on his datapad was on to guarantee the exclusion of eavesdroppers.

“I need to get to Trinity before the situation blows up in our faces,” Allenson said.

“This Masters chappy,” Hawthorn asked. “Keen I take it?”

“Apparently so,” Allenson replied, “and very, very inexperienced.”

“What do you intend to do about Buller?” Hawthorn asked.

“I will have to give him a senior commission of Lieutenant-General rank. His military skills are too valuable to waste.”

Hawthorn grunted in agreement.

“And it would be better to have him pissing out of the tent instead of in. I suggest you bring him with us as your advisor. He could be useful.”

Hawthorn turned to Todd.

“Take note, kid. Keep your friends close but your enemies closer.”

Poor Todd looked rather shocked. Hawthorn had that effect on people when they were dealing with him for the first time.

“I can’t imagine Buller riding a frame. We’ll have to use a carriage and that means taking the Great North Road to Port Trent before turning off for Trinity,” Allenson said. “We will have to stop three or four times to recharge the batteries all of which will take time.”

“That might be no bad thing,” Todd said, speaking for the first time. It will give a chance for people on the intervening worlds to see you. That could be very politically advantageous.”

Allenson regarded Todd with suspicion.

“You want me to parade through the countryside like a barbarian king conducting a laying on of hands for the peasantry?”

“The kid’s right,” Hawthorn said, ignoring Todd’s flush of anger at his use of the term. “Right now the only pan-Bight institution is the army and the army in practice is you. You have to be visible. I hate to say it but you do look rather impressive in full uniform, quite the military aristocrat. Of course the people glimpsing the splendor won’t know the real you as we do.”

He winked at Todd who didn’t know how to respond so ran through a few facial permutations before settling eventually on a neutral half smile.

There was a hesitant knock at the door.

Allenson nodded and Todd opened it. Boswell stood in the doorway twisting his yellow cap in both hands. Today he wore orange loose fitting pantaloons and a blue and pink striped shirt.

“The replacement carriage you asked me to buy, your honor. I have it outside,” Boswell said.

“Replacement carriage?” Hawthorn raided both hand palm outwards in exaggerated enquiry.

“The power storage on mine is stuffed, something wrong with the charging system,” Allenson replied. “It would never make it up the Great North Road. We could end up marooned on some backwater mudball with no charging facilities. At best it would be a slow trip.”

“So you always intended making a procession through the countryside,” Hawthorn said sarcastically, throwing Allenson’s words back at him.

Allenson smiled.

“I anticipated it might be necessary.”

He turned to Boswell.

“Let’s go and inspect the vehicle.”

“Yes, sar.”

They processed behind to where he’d parked a large flat rectangular box about ten meters long and colored olive green. Scrapes on the hull revealed the livery of many owners during its no doubt long and eventful life.

“Don’t tell me that’s it?” Hawthorn asked.

“Ah, yes sar,” Boswell replied nervously.

Steps with a single hand rail were mounted on the front. Allenson pulled himself up.

A well contained a cycling position on each side and a raised pulpit in the center for the driver. He or she navigated the barge from a standing position so had an excellent view out to all sides. The middle section was filled in but most of the hull was given over to a cargo bay at the rear. Walkways and hand rails ran down the sides.

Boswell used one of the handrails to swing up besides Allenson.

“The tail gate comes down for easy loading, sar. But the real reason I chose her was this.”

He shuffled over to the center section and unclipped a concertina-hinged inspection panel. A series of wired up control modules and three large cells filled the compartment. The registration plate had a series of letters indicating a Terran military source.

“The previous owner wanted something reliable for trading out to the Hinterland colonies so he acquired this power pack from a sort of friend of a friend who was also a cousin of mine.”

Boswell dropped the inspection panel which slammed shut with a sharp click.

“The owner was getting on a bit and needed something reliable. I heard he’d dropped out of the tree so to speak and made his widow an offer. It’s yours if you want it. I know she ain’t pretty but she’ll do the job.”

That she will. This will do nicely, Boswell, very nicely indeed,” Allenson said. “Add ten per cent for yourself as a finder’s fee and charge the Assembly.”

He turned to look down at Hawthorn.

“Might as well start as I mean to go on.”

Boswell jumped down.

“I can get seats put in the back and even a food dispenser. It wouldn’t take much to rig up a canvas cover and foldaway beds in case you need to camp out.”

“Good idea, can you find someone to undertake the task within twenty-four hours?”

“Of course I can, general. I know just the man.”

“A cousin?” Allenson asked.

Boswell grinned.

“Nephew, sar, the brother of the hotel receptionist. I find it pays to keep business in the family. That way I can keep an eye on things. Make sure they’re done right if you follow.”

“I do indeed Boswell.”

“Captain-general?” asked a voice behind Allenson.

He half turned to find a slim man of indeterminate age and swept back oiled hair. The man tilted his head to one side and studied Allenson forensically.

“Carry on Boswell,” Allenson said, turning to face the newcomer squarely. “And you are, sar?”

“Timmon’s Redley, at your service, sar. I practice at the Nortanian Bar.”

Which in plain language meant he was a local lawyer.

“The Nortanian Delegation at the Assembly believed I might be of some use to you as a Special Political Advisor as I have some little experience of the legal and social customs of the Upper Bight colonies.”

Redley wore a sober grey suit of modest cut quite unlike the normal flamboyant Nortanian dress.

“You are not Nortanian born then?” Allenson asked.

“Indeed, no. I went to college in Port Trent. I obtained a masters in law on Brasilia although I spent much of my early life on Trinity.”

Port Trent Law School had only been open for a few decades so Redley must be in his early thirties. Theoretically it conferred degrees recognized by Brasilia but in practice no Brasilian academic institution would accept a colonial certification on terms of equality. There were Brasilian colleges that specialized in “quicky” masters for colonials as a way of sanitizing their qualifications.

Allenson shook Redley’s hand.

“Well, I confess that now I consider the matter an advisor with local knowledge would be helpful but we will be leaving almost immediately for Trent.”

“Yes, general, I know. With your permission I shall come with you.”

“So be it. You will need a military rank to be taken seriously, say, colonel. I have the authority to appoint you but not, I regret, to pay you a salary.”

“I have no need of one, sar.”

“In that case, welcome aboard Colonel Redley. May I introduce you to my aide, Lieutenant Todd Allenson, and Colonel Hawthorn who is my head of SP.”

“I see,” Redley said, looking up at the massive figure of Hawthorn standing hands on hip on the barge.  “SP?”

“Special Projects,” Hawthorn replied.

“Special Projects,” Redley repeated, pursing his lips.

Allenson noted that he ignored Todd’s outstretched hand. Clearly mere lieutenants flew below Redley’s radar horizon even when they shared the same surname as a general.

#

“I heard about that cock-up you made of siting a base at Nengue,” Buller said. “Really Allenson, on a flood plain in the rainy season and overlooked by hills as well.”

Buller chuckled and shook his head.

“Have I ever told you how I took Castle Aikan by storm?”

“No, I never heard that,” Redley said, gazing at Buller in admiration.

“Quite a pretty problem it was. Aikan is sited on two hills with fortified walkways linking half buried bunkers. A river looped around three sides leaving only one possible line of attack. Of course they had that covered by all their heavy weapons.”

Buller arranged bits of the meal he was eating to represent the layout of the battlefield.

“I think I need to check how Boswell is getting on,” Allenson said.

He climbed over the engine compartment of the barge using the hand rail to steady himself and looked around.