Eric Flint's Blog, page 282

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 25

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 25

“That’s odd. I don’t remember him,” Allenson said.

“Well you wouldn’t. Unfortunately he was taken ill when the regiment mustered and had to delegate command to his deputy.”

Allenson merely raised an eyebrow and Stainman’s face reddened. He would not be in charge of the Trinity Delegation if he was an unsophisticated man so he took the unspoken point. The Heilbron colonies had been pitched into outright combat with professional forces from the Homeworld by a military commander with zero combat experience.

“So the Heilbron Worlds are already at war with Brasilia. You must be concerned that the other colonies will let you swing in the wind through inaction?”

From the look on the faces of the Heilbronite delegates they were not so much concerned as bloody terrified. They looked like small boys who have suddenly discovered that manly actions like plotting insurrection against the headmaster can have awful bloody consequences.

“What do you think of Colonel Buller?” Stainman asked, abruptly switching subjects.

The Heilbronites looked at Allenson sharply. It appeared that much depended on his answer. Allenson broke a piece of bread, wiped spices from his plate, and chewed slowly to give him time to consider his answer.

“Colonel Buller’s an intelligent student of war and has considerable practical experience of command.”

The Heilbronites appeared to be expecting more but Allenson kept his council until he understood the context more fully.

“But what of his political opinions?” Tobold eventually blurted out, unable to contain himself.

Allenson kept his attention on Stainman.

“In what sense do you ask the question?”

“He’s a Brasilian senior military officer, a class that don’t notably hold egalitarian views. Do you think he’s genuine?” Stainman asked, motioning for Tobold to be quiet.

“I have no reason to doubt Colonel Buller’s sincerity or to think that he’s merely reacting to the failure of his own hopes of preferment through what he considers to be political interest,” Allenson said carefully.

“It appears that his love of democracy doesn’t extend to the military,” Tobold remarked sourly.

Allenson recharged his glass, mostly with water.

“You know my opinion on the matter, gentlemen. Colonel Buller’s essentially right even if he’s perhaps a little harsh in his tone. Everyone in an army down to the lowliest soldier is deserving of fair and just treatment but I’m not going to pretend to believe that everyone is equally talented simply for political reasons.”

A sudden clatter from the kitchen made the Heilbronites jump. They really were keyed up.

“Just a cook dropping a pan,” Allenson said gently.

He gave them a moment before he continued.

“An army must obey the legitimate orders of the command structure. Otherwise it descends into an armed mob more dangerous to the community than the enemy. It can’t be a debating society, not and win wars anyway.”

“So if you were captain-general would you demand obedience from all?” asked Tobold.

“If I were in such a position – which I have not sought.”

Allenson tapped the table for emphasis.

“I’d be the servant of every citizen of the Cutter Stream. I’d serve my masters to the best of my ability as I have always tried to do and I’d expect the same from those who served under me.”

He poured himself another café.

“Why’re we here, gentlemen? What is it you want from me?”

“You’re quite right, Colonel Allenson,” Stainman said. “Events’ve overtaken us in the Heilbron Worlds. The precipitous action of a handful of fools has landed us in a shooting war that we can’t win alone.”

He rubbed his face with both hands, suddenly looking very old and stretched.

“We need the support of the rest of the colonies. We need a commander who not only has experience of leading armies but who will unify the colonies. That means a captain general from the Lower Stream, someone reputable from their own class to reassure their delegates concerned about radical political views.”

“Which in practice means a captain general from Manzanita as it is the only Lower Stream colony with the necessary sophistication,” said Allenson.

“Yes, Colonel Buller seemed like the ideal choice…” Stainman’s voice faded out.

“But?” Allenson asked.

“The problem is that he’s a braggart and a slovenly oaf,” said an elderly Ascetic who had not yet spoken. “Oh his radical politics could play well in the Heilbron Worlds but their opinions no longer matter as they’re committed by events whether they like it or not. It’s the lower Stream’s opinion we have to court.”

“The colony worlds may want independence but I doubt many of the Lower ‘Stream demesne owners or Nortanian businessmen want to see their wealth divided up amongst their servants,” Allenson said, drily.

He stood up and gave a small bow.

“Gentlemen, it’s getting late and we have a full day tomorrow. I thank you for a most excellent meal and such a useful exchange of views.”

Allenson fished out his wallet.

“In return you must allow me to pick up the tab. No, I insist,” he said, holding up a hand, although none of the Heilbronites had made any but a token protest.

#

Buller hijacked the morning meeting of the assembly. He turned up in the same shirt that he wore the day before, judging by the dinner stains on the collar. He demanded that the Assembly declare independence and appoint a captain general immediately. He also wanted to talk about the remuneration that would be required to attract those with the right military skills. This latter point clearly came as something off a shock to delegates. They were used to thinking in terms of militia who were at best semi-professional and whose officers had other sources of income.

A Trent delegate derailed the vote for independence by proposing a counter motion calling for Brasilia to accept subsidiarity in its relations with the colonies especially in the economic sphere. Trent was the primary jumping off point for ships returning along the trans-Bight chasm to the Homeworlds. The delegate pointed out that Trent enjoyed a thriving import-export business. He expressed doubts about the impact of full independence upon same. It became clear he also worried about the social and economic revolution that might accompany radical political change.

Allenson surreptitiously checked the dictionary on his datapad for the exact meaning of the word subsidiarity. He noted with relief that many other delegates did likewise. It transpired subsidiarity meant pushing decision making down to the lowest relevant level of administration to avoid unnecessary centralization. This seemed an eminently sensible strategy but no doubt it generated considerable hostility from all right thinking bureaucrats on religious grounds.

The chairman called for a vote on which motion to adopt. Unsurprisingly the delegates opted by a sizable margin for compromise. At this stage it was probably the best that could be achieved.

Buller then resubmitted his motion to appoint a captain-general of all the colonial militias. Before a vote could be taken, Stainman added a codicil making Allenson the favored candidate. A Wagner delegate seconded the motion so promptly that Allenson suspected collusion. The Lower Stream and Heilbron colonies, who made half the delegation, expressed their support in turn confirming Allenson’s suspicion.

Evansence said, “As Colonel Buller rightly suggested we need to discuss financial terms before the appointment.”

Stainman turned to Allenson.

“What remuneration would you require as captain-general, colonel?”

“I don’t need paying to serve my countrymen,” Allenson replied, “although I would be grateful to have my expenses defrayed.”

At that the Trent, Nortanian and other non-aligned colonies fell into line so in the end the Chairman declared a formal vote unnecessary. Allenson was appointed unopposed.

He glanced over at Buller. The man glared at him with something close to hatred.

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 04

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 04

Chapter 4.

Tobimar hadn’t recognized the tall Artan, but he knew the name that Kyri gasped as the warrior nearly fell face-first to the polished stone floor. He taught her entire family, including her parents, her brother, and her sister.

Kyri reached the Artan warrior, whose deep-violet hair pooled slightly on the floor before him as he sat on all fours, arms and knees supporting him so he looked like a man broken. “Lythos… Sho-Ka-Taida, are you all right?”

The head lifted then, and Tobimar could see a tiny smile, a glint of amusement in the eyes that matched the hair. “More exhausted and worn than I have been in many generations, but my injuries are minor. I have… perhaps driven myself too far, too fast, and have so failed to take my own advice, eh, Kyri Vantage?”

“You… you…” To Tobimar’s astonishment, Kyri suddenly burst into tears and threw her arms around Lythos; by the Artan‘s expression, it was at least as great a surprise to him. “Lythos, I thought you might be dead! Thank the Balance!”

A great sadness descended upon Lythos, clouding the long, aristocratic features and dimming the smile. “Ah, of course you would have. Nearly I was, as well. It has been a trying time – but no less for you, I think.”

Leaning slightly on Kyri’s arm, Lythos stood. “If you will allow me to sit at table with you, I can refresh myself some and speak with you a while, before I must rest. But now that I acknowledge my body’s warnings, hold them no longer at bay, I will admit that rest must come soon.”

Kyri helped him sit. “You said you were injured, Lythos.” She said the word as though she found the concept impossible to grasp. Then she shook herself and straightened. “I’m sorry, I’m babbling. I sound like I’m fourteen again.”

Her hands rested on Lythos’ shoulders, and the gold-fire glow of the power of Myrionar shone out, the power that Kyri Vantage could wield because she was the one, the true, and only Justiciar of Myrionar. Even though this was far from the first time he had seen that power, the sight still sent a tingle of awe through Tobimar. His own god, Terian, rarely granted such powers to warriors who walked the world, nor did He often intervene directly.

Lythos’ head came up, and in his eyes Tobimar saw an echo of the same awe, and, at the same time, something else: vindication. “So it is true, Kyri Victoria Vantage. You are now the Phoenix Justiciar, the one to reclaim the honor that was lost and cleanse the stain from Myrionar’s name. So I heard rumor as I approached.” His voice was stronger, though still exhausted, and the lines that had hinted at pain and injury were gone.

Kyri bowed. “Because you taught me, and I learned, I suppose, enough.”

“Enough, yes.” He smiled again, and that simple expression made Kyri smile back at him. For a moment Tobimar found himself wondering if there was something else in that smile, then kicked himself, mentally. If there is, it is no business of mine. Besides, he is Artan and ancient; he wouldn’t think of … and there I go again! It’s not my business! Stop thinking about it! WHY am I thinking about it?

Vanstell himself laid a plate with carefully prepared delicacies before Lythos. “Welcome home, Sho-Ka-Taida,” he said. “You have been greatly missed.”

“Many thanks, Vanstell.” Lythos took several bites, sipped at water, and seemed to finally begin to relax. “Milady Kyri Vantage, I bring to you a message from your aunt, your middle namesake Victoria.”

Formality; it is an important message, then.

Kyri had clearly caught that implication as well. “May I have the message, then?”

From within a case bound to his armor, Lythos withdrew a gem and placed it in Kyri’s hand. Tobimar saw Poplock rise up in startlement. Gem of Speaking; haven’t seen one of those since I saw one conveyed by linkstone to Toron himself. They’re expensive and used only for carrying messages of great import.

Kyri took the gem and held it tightly. “I am Kyri Vantage. Show me the message,” she said.

Tobimar had only seen Victoria Vantage once, from a distance, in front of the Palace of the Dragon, but from that glimpse and the portraits around the house he could instantly recognize the older woman – hair streaked with silver, proud and sculpted features not terribly different from those of Kyri herself – who suddenly appeared in the air before them. She wore a brown and green travel outfit, with a pack perched on her shoulders and a staff in her hand.

“Kyri,” Victoria Vantage said, “As you have this message, you already know that – by great good fortune – Lythos has returned to us. I hope this message finds you well and … successful in your quest.

“I had hoped,” and her voice was wry, “to return to Vantage Fortress relatively soon; I hardly intended to leave you with no support, even if the Dragon King could not aid you, and I was certain I could find someone to watch over Urelle while I returned to assist you.

“However… Urelle took things into her own hands, and has run away.”

Kyri gasped in shock. “Run away? Oh, Myrionar, no!”

Victoria Vantage shook her head. “Now, don’t panic. At least, not terribly much.” The apparently apropos comment reminded Tobimar strongly of the message he’d received from Khoros, where every comment he thought to make had already been anticipated and answered by the ancient mage.

“She didn’t run away from despair, nor to try and catch up with you,” Victoria continued, and Tobimar saw Kyri relax the tiniest bit. She doesn’t want to have that responsibility, of her sister’s safety, added to her problems. “Unfortunately, it is, in a way, your fault. And mine, I admit.”

The tension was back, as the recorded message went on. “You of course recall young Ingram and Quester, who helped escort us here to Zarathanton. I also have little doubt that you noticed that Urelle seemed … rather taken with the young man. Which I cannot entirely blame her for, he is formidable, polite, and rather pretty. But a few weeks after you had left… well, obviously I had to inform your sister of what had happened. Keeping such secrets from her would be an insult to one of our family, and she had to know why you had left, and what it meant.

“In any case, she was as you might guess more than a bit annoyed – one might even say quite put out – that we chose to keep her out of the adventure to avenge Rion and the rest. I believe she actually went out one night and tried to get Myrionar to call her as well!”

Nervous as she obviously was, Kyri laughed at that. “Oh, she would. And I’m half-surprised Myrionar didn’t.”

“Well, a few weeks after that, Ingram received a courier message from home – from Aegeia itself, one that had been spelled to find him – and it apparently contained dire news of his homeland. I of course gave him leave to return home – we had found a decent household by then – but when he did –”

Kyri finished the line along with her distant Aunt, “– Urelle had gone with him.”

“Without warning,” her aunt added. “I don’t believe this was a romantic action – or not entirely. Urelle’s a bit more dramatic in that area than you, Kyri, but she’s not witless. I believe that she got details out of Ingram of what had happened back home, and decided that if she couldn’t help her sister, that she’d help Ingram who’d defended us and guided us. How she convinced him to let her come… I have no idea.”

Victoria Vantage sighed. “So, Kyri, you understand that I cannot come home now. As you can see, I am leaving – the moment this message is finished – to try to catch up to her. Urelle’s not helpless, but you have seen what is happening to the world. I am afraid – I am very much afraid – that what is happening in Aegeia is a part of that. I cannot let my youngest niece and that half-grown boy face it alone, or even solely with Quester’s help.”

She looked momentarily sad and worried. “I pray to the Balanced Sword that you are well, and that you understand, and that – please, Myrionar – you do not need my help now. I know that Lythos will help you in any way he can. May the Balance guide you and support you. I love you, Kyri – and I am as proud of you as I would be of my own daughter. Be well, be safe…” and her smile suddenly returned, “and be victorious.”

The image faded and Kyri stood there for a moment, unmoving. Then she looked down to Lythos, who had continued eating during the message. “So you –”

“– had arrived only a short time after she had discovered Urelle’s departure, yes. She begged me to carry this message to you, if you could be found, and I agreed.” A shadow passed again over his face. “There is… nothing left for me in the Forest Sea, now.”

“My sympathies, Artan,” Tobimar said.

“Thank you. And I forget my manners as well; I am Lythos-Hei-Mandalar, called Lythos by those whom I call friend or ally. As you sit here as a guest, I take you to be at least the latter, if not the former.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Lythos!” Kyri looked mortified. “I should have at least done that much before grabbing Auntie’s letter. Lythos, this is Tobimar Silverun of Skysand, Seventh of Seven, and one of three reasons I’m still alive after facing false Justiciar Thornfalcon. That little toad poking around through the fruit is Poplock Duckweed of Pondsparkle, the second reason.” Poplock waved but said nothing; given that his mouth was bulging, Tobimar suspected he couldn’t say anything right now.

“It is an honor to meet you both,” Lythos said, and rose to give them the wide-armed bow of the Artan. “And I suppose that Myrionar’s favor is the third reason?”

Kyri’s blue eyes twinkled. “Well, okay, four reasons. The third I can’t introduce to you because he’s not here, but his name is Xavier Ross of Zahralandar itself.”

The lavender eyebrow quirked upward. “You have indeed found some most interesting allies, Kyri.” He leaned back, and his weariness was clear in the way that he sagged slightly in the chair. “You also obviously know what has passed in the Forest Sea and elsewhere, so I will not insist on telling you that dark tale, not now; I have passed through it and survived, and I do not wish to dwell upon it any more.” He nodded to her. “There are some things I must speak of with you alone, even though these are obviously boon companions and Adventurers of much worth. But before that, I will say this: if leave you must, I will take the stewardship of Vantage Fortress, maintaining its name and strength for you. If this will meet with your approval, that is.”

“Meet my approval? Lythos – this is more than I could possibly have hoped. Everyone in Evanwyl knows you, you’ve been with our family for generations, and even the false Justiciars won’t dare go after you casually.”

That’s for sure, Tobimar mused. A Sho-Ka-Taida of the Artan, someone who trained two Justiciars and their parents… and theirs… Doesn’t matter if he’s not favored by a God, he’d still be open gates of Hells to fight.

“Then it shall be done… as long as you have a clear destination in mind? For I will not approve of just a random wandering to find your answers in this world.”

Kyri’s smile was now brilliant, a flash of white against skin nearly as brown as Tobimar’s own. “Oh, I do have a destination, Lythos.” She looked to Tobimar and Poplock. “Sorry, but if you…?”

“Of course.” Tobimar reached out and plucked Poplock from the table – the little Toad giving him an offended look but hanging onto a small cluster of Pixies’ Apples as Tobimar placed Poplock on his shoulder. He bowed to Lythos; Poplock was good at clinging, so he didn’t fall off. “We will speak later, then.”

“Just as well,” Poplock said finally as they exited the room. “I’ve got something for you. Well, something I think will work and I want to test before I gave it to you.”

“Something you weren’t going to show to Kyri?”

“Well…” The little toad scrunched his face comically. “It’s something only one of you can use, and honestly, she’s got a lot more going for her right now. If it works, it’ll be a useful secret that we have as a little backup.”

“Okay, what is it?” he asked. They emerged into one of the small side courtyards of Vantage Fortress. “Small” was of course relative; while Vantage Fortress wasn’t the size of his home castle, and utterly dwarfed by T’Teranahm Chendoron, the Dragon’s Palace, it was still a big building and the side courtyards were large enough to fit a good-sized house into. This particular courtyard was a sparring and exercise area, one that Tobimar had used a lot for practice of late.

“Here,” Poplock said. From inside the little pack on his back, the toad produced a carved crystal; it was about two inches wide and looked like frosted glass.

“Oh, a summoning crystal? What’s it for?”

“That’s what I want to test.” Poplock bounced off his shoulder and all the way over to the other side of the courtyard, near a notched pell for sword practice. “Okay, now that I’m well away –”

“– are you expecting something dangerous to happen?” Tobimar studied the sphere suspiciously.

“Trust me, Tobimar. Now, all you have to do is say “Come forth!” and throw it down, concentrating on calling something to your aid.”

Despite the Toad’s occasionally low sense of humor, Tobimar knew that Poplock was very much his friend and he would, in fact, trust Poplock Duckweed with his life. “All right,” he said. Envisioning a sudden and powerful need for aid, he gripped the gem. “Come forth!” he shouted, and threw it down.

The crystal sphere shattered with a brilliant flash, and in its place was…

Poplock Duckweed.

Tobimar stared in disbelief, then looked back to where Poplock had been an instant ago. “A teleport sphere?”

“No, a summoning sphere.”

“But… you… It’s summoning you!”

“Yeah, pretty darn neat, isn’t it?”

“What… how do you do that? You can’t summon yourself!” Tobimar stopped, took a breath. “Okay, wrong, obviously you are doing that. But… how?”

Poplock hopped onto a nearby post, his motion somehow conveying smug satisfaction. “Well, you understand how summoning works, right?”

“Sort of, I guess. I know there’s a lot of different types of magic. Summoning… you bargain with a being or a spirit, right?”

Poplock waggled back and forth. “Sometimes. Little minor spirits don’t have much thinking ability so you can’t do much of a bargain, just pull them up, bind them, and let them pop back home when they’ve done the bound service. Bigger ones you can still bind whether they like it or not, but if you do that you’d better be real good at defense, because they’ll be really nasty to you if they get a chance. You would too, if someone just dragged you out of your house and stuck you in a crystal, or forced you to promise to come when signaled – even if you were, like, in a bath at the time or something.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Since he was already here, Tobimar decided to do a little post-dinner exercise. You can never get too much practice.

“But a lot of summoning is more… contacting the target and working out a deal where you can call on them, and in return you give them something. Sometimes you bind them directly into the summon crystal, but usually it’s more a trigger power that just pops open the gate keyed to the target, with their participation helping to draw them to you.” The little Toad bounced up to his shoulder. “So I wondered if I could summon, you know, regular people. Sasha thought that was kind of funny; a lot of summoning students ask that question, I guess, and the answer is yes, you can, if they’re willing, but there’s a catch: the summoning crystal gets really, really big.”

Tobimar burst out laughing. “But that’s because it’s related to the physical size of what you draw through, right?”

Poplock bounced affirmatively. “Quick on the uptake there! Exactly. If you’re summoning a spirit – something that’s not physical – the crystals top out pretty much at a couple inches or so, but if you’re pulling through something solid, mundane, it’s gotta be proportional to what you’re calling, and that means, for a human being-sized summon, a rock about the size of Kyri’s helm.”

“Oof. Even with a neverfull pack that’s not something you’ll carry dozens of.” He shook his head, looking down at the little brown Toad. I think he’s smarter than either me or Kyri. “But for you, it’s just a little crystal.”

“Right. And it’s not hard for me to get in contact with myself and convince myself to agree to work for myself, so the summoning and agreement work out pretty well. Now that we know it works, I’m gonna make another of those, and you get to keep it. Just in case something happens.”

Tobimar could imagine a lot of scenarios where having that little crystal could come in handy; Poplock Duckweed was formidable in a way that even people who recognized that he was, in fact, a full-fledged member of the team often just didn’t grasp. “That’s a drought-damned good idea.” He looked down at the spot where he’d thrown the crystal. “I have to invoke it, trigger it with my own power, link it to me when I use it, right?”

Poplock bounce-nodded in reply. “Right, that’s why you have to say ‘come forth’ and concentrate hard on the calling.”

“What happens if you invoke it yourself?”

The Toad’s face scrunched up, one eye practically pulled into the head, the other staring wider in concentration. “Well, it would… hmm, I’d be invoking the magic, but the connection has to go to… But no, wait, that doesn’t work, because…” He shook his whole body. “Grrrgg! Gives me a headache! I have no idea what would happen, and I am not going to try that. No.”

Tobimar laughed. “Wouldn’t want you to risk it. But it seemed a sort of final conclusion to the whole self-referential idea.”

“True enough.” The little Toad hopped back onto his shoulder as Tobimar began practicing combat movements. “Training again, after dinner?”

“If we’re going to be leaving soon, yes. As we so astutely observed before, we’re completely outclassed as things stand; we’d better practice whenever we can.”

Poplock grunted. “Can’t argue that. So just solo practice, or you want to spar?”

“Against you, alone?”

“If you’re afraid…”

“Maybe I should be,” Tobimar admitted. “I’ve seen you in action. But a Prince of Skysand can’t back down from that kind of challenge.” He let the little Toad bounce down and get to the other side of the courtyard. “All right – come at me!”

 

Spell Blind – Snippet 25

Spell Blind – Snippet 25

As I expected, Shari didn’t stay there much longer. I’d scared her too much. She came out a short time later wheeling a large, battered suitcase that must have held her goods. Her folded tent was tied to it with bungee cords. She walked hurriedly to a small hatchback, heaved the suitcase into the back, and pulled out of the lot. I kept low as she drove by me and then followed at a safe distance.

She drove straight back to Tempe, sticking to back roads, and eventually pulled into a driveway beside a small house near the sports complex south of the University. I parked nearby and waited until she was back in her house before walking up the path to her door and knocking.

Shari was slow to answer, and I began to wonder if I’d scared her too much. But then the door opened a crack and she peered out at me over the chain.

“Yes? What–” Her mouth fell open. “You,” she whispered. “How did you–?”

“I followed you.”

“You had no right!”

I showed her my license. “My name is Jay Fearsson, Ms. Bettancourt. I’m a private investigator. I’m doing some work on the Blind Angel killings. I need to ask you some questions.”

She shook her head. Opening the door a bit more, she looked past me into the street, her eyes wide and fearful. “You have to leave. Now, before he sees you.”

“You mean the man who gave you that necklace? The one who used his magic on it?”

Her eyes snapped to me and she opened her mouth, then closed it again. “You have to leave,” she said again, and started to close the door.

“I’ll tell the police to speak with you,” I said, blurting it out.

She’d nearly gotten the door shut, but now she opened it again, appearing even more frightened than she had before. “You can’t!”

“I will. I have to. We have to stop him.”

The woman laughed, sounding half nuts, as if her phasing had already begun.

“You have no idea what you’re dealing with,” she said. “You can’t stop him anymore than you can stop the moon from rising.”

“He’s a powerful weremyste, I know. But . . .”

I broke off. She was laughing again, though there were tears in her eyes.

“You’re an idiot. Get out of here before you get me killed. Please!”

“Who is he? What’s his name? You have to tell me something! Anything!”

She shook her head, scanning the street again.

“He’ll kill again, Shari. You know he will. But we can stop him.”

“No, you can’t!” she said, her tone fierce. “No one can! He’s much, much more than you think he is.”

“What do you mean? Tell me about the magic he used on your necklace.”

Her hand strayed to her chest, where the pendant lay beneath her dress. Then she gripped the door again. “You have to go.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” I said. “You know what this man’s done. You know how many people he’s killed. You have to help me stop him.”

She hesitated, and I wondered if maybe I had gotten through to her.

“I will,” she said. “Really. But not now, not here. You have to go. Please.” This last she whispered. There were tears on her face.

I didn’t want to. Kona and I had been after the Blind Angel killer for three years, and here at least was someone who knew him, who could describe him, tell me his name. She might even have known where he lived. He’d done more than give her a pendant. I was sure of it. That stone still glowed with his magic, which meant that he had done something to it recently. Red’s magic faded too fast for that glow to be from an old spell. Was he communicating with her in some way? Was she helping him? If I could convince her to let me into the house for a moment, I was confident that I could get something of value out of her.

“Just a few questions,” I said, pleading with her. “Tell me his name. His address if you know it.”

“I can’t.” She started to push the door closed. Then she stopped, her face contorting.

“Oh, my God! He’s here! You fool! You let him follow you!”

I started to tell her that I hadn’t been followed, but in that instant I felt him, too. The air around us seemed to come alive with magic; it felt charged, the way it does in a desert lightning storm.

She backed away from the door without closing it.

“No!” she said.

I felt his power, but it wasn’t directed at me, as it had been outside Robo’s or Robby’s house or Antoine’s.

“Let me in!” I shouted. “I can protect you if you let me in!”

“No!” she said again, but it wasn’t directed at me. She said a name — it sounded like Cower, but that wasn’t quite it. “Please, no!”

A moment later she screamed, clutching at the pendant or at her chest. She dropped to the floor, her body convulsing, her head jerking from side to side.

“Ms. Bettancourt! Shari! Let me in!”

She screamed again, the sound strangled this time. I considered kicking the door in, but thought better of it. I didn’t think I could get to her fast enough to ward her from whatever magic he was using. Instead, I pulled my weapon and whirled, searching the street. I was frantic; he had to be close.

And this time I saw him.

He stood at the corner on the far side of the street and he bore little resemblance to the bald man I’d seen in my scrying stone the day before while standing on the spot where Claudia Deegan died. He had long white-blond hair and a thick beard, and he was dressed in tattered jeans, a t-shirt, and an old army coat. But as soon as I spotted him, I knew it was the same guy. He shimmered and wavered like a mirage on a desert highway.

He must have seen the recognition in my eyes, because an instant later I felt his magic turn itself on me. I tried a warding spell, but knew that it would fail. Desperate, acting more on instinct than on rational thought, I raised my Glock and fired.

My aim was true. I’m sure of it. In all my years as a cop, and even in my academy days, I’d been great with a pistol. But somehow I missed this time. Instead of hitting him square in the chest, the bullet struck the street sign above him and to the left. A deflection spell, probably. If he’d used reflection magic instead, I’d have killed myself.

He glared at me, pale eyes blazing like stars in a night sky. Then he turned and ran. I spared only an instant for Shari, who I could see through the narrow gap in her doorway. She lay crumpled on the floor, as still as death, her hands folded over her chest.

There was nothing more I could do for her. I whirled and ran after her killer.

 

Eric Flint Newsletter – 28 DECEMBER 2014

Well, I got through the holidays intact. This is always a bit of a dicey proposition because I do most of the cooking over the holidays and while I’m a rather good cook I am not one who is serene and philosophical and maintains his equanimity throughout the process. To the contrary. On those days when the cooking gets concentrated, my kitchen is filled for hours with expletives deleted.

Well, actually, not deleted. I daresay I am directly responsible for expanding the vocabulary of my grand-children, something my daughter is not entirely pleased with.

But, all’s well that ends well. Everyone got fed and seemed to enjoy the meals, and I made it through another holiday season without suffering a stroke or a heart attack and with no more than a modicum of flesh wounds—and those, quickly healed.

So, back to work, which is far more relaxing. I almost never curse in front of computer. Well. Okay. Except when it screws up, which is fairly often. I have told my tech guru Rick Boatright many times that electrons just hate me, for no discernible reason. For years, Rick dismissed that theory as patent nonsense, but I think that lately he’s been reconsidering. He tells me that things go wrong with my computers that he’s never seen happen to anyone else.

(I knew it! I knew it! The little bastards have it in for me!)

Mike Resnick and I are closing in on finishing “The Gods of Sagittarius.” We’d hoped to have it done by the end of the year, but between the disruption of the (miserable damned) holidays and various other problems, it’s taking longer than we’d projected.

(If you’re wondering—ask any publisher or editor—this is not an abnormal state of affairs with authors. For whatever neurological reason, the mental talent involved in being a good scribbler seems to be genetically linked with a tendency to be wildly over-optimistic about work schedules.)

I’ve also done quite a bit of work over the past few weeks with my co-author Jerry Ackerman on our urban fantasy/police procedural, Iron Angels. That novel is shaping up very nicely, I think. Jerry has now started work on the third draft.

Finally, in other news of the day, our cat used the presence of an unusual number of feet passing by over the holidays to work on her ambushing skills. She’s getting quite good at it. I’m beginning to pity any mice who seek shelter from the cold in our house this winter. Usually I have to set out traps in January. But this year… maybe not. We’ll see.

Polychrome – Chapter 28

Polychrome – Chapter 28

Chapter 28.

“So, Lord Erik, we head for the Nome King’s domain once we have landed?”

I turned and smiled at Zenga. She was easy to smile at, having the dark-coffee skin of most of Pingaree’s people combined with the sharper-cut features of her mother to produce a girl of striking beauty. “Yes and no, Princess.”

“You are far too young to speak in riddles,” she retorted, leaning on the rail next to me. “That is the province of wizened old wizards and priests.”

She was dressed in an outfit that I, being totally unversed in the ways of clothing, couldn’t give a name to, but it was some sort of protective clothing that was meant to allow someone free movement… and apparently to still be properly stylish as well. As she came from and was used to a very warm climate, it also wasn’t particularly modest, which did put some slight demands on my eyeball control. Fortunately, I’d had a great deal of practice with that around Poly.

“Old as your father looks, at least. Old enough so that I could have had daughters of my own who had children by now.” I couldn’t use the line that first occurred to me, which was “old enough to be your father”, since the way time flowed and the slightly-faerie humanity of these realms aged, she was still probably as old or older than me in actual years. “Still, it’s not exactly a riddle. Eventually I have to get to the Nome King, but first I have to find the key that unlocks his door.”

“And you know where to find this… key?” She studied me curiously. “I have no doubt there are a number of people that would like to find such a thing.”

I don’t doubt it. “I know, I think, how to go about finding it, even though I don’t know exactly where it is.”

She nodded, though undoubtedly that didn’t really explain much to her. “So first we are heading…?”

“… to the border between Gilgad and the Nome King’s lands. That’s the best region to search.” I glanced into the sky, noting that this time there wasn’t a sign of cloud; so far it seemed that our adversaries weren’t going to attempt another ambush at sea. “I don’t think I’ll say anything more until we’re on our way there.”

She blinked, then looked around the ship. “You … suspect a spy on the Pearl of Gilgad?”

“Oh, no, not at all,” I answered with a chuckle. “However, even an overheard word can turn out to be a danger under some circumstances, and in this case since you’re going to be following me regardless – you made that clear enough – I have no reason to take any risks in that area until we’re somewhere that makes it necessary that you understand what’s going on.”

Her head tilted and she gazed at me speculatively, curiously. “And yet certain things you have made no secret of. I’m not sure how to read you, Lord Erik.”

“Good.” I said, in a voice deliberately deeper with a slight higher-pitched secondary tone which I was pleased to note came out well; my Vorlon imitation was always a tough one.

Zenga blinked in confusion, and I laughed. “The point being that if people traveling with me can’t figure me out easily, then hopefully neither can my adversaries.”

“That makes sense.” She bit her lip – in what was I thought a clearly deliberate affectation that made her look younger and more innocent. “Could… I ask you another question, Lord Erik?”

“As I always say, you can ask any time; whether you get any answers, that’s a different matter.”

She made a very disrespectful face, which of course just made me grin wider. “Why did you let me come along? It was clear to me that you could have said no, and my father would in many ways have preferred it so.”

“Yes, that was fairly clear.” King Inga’s face had shown how worried he was, even if somehow his wife and daughter had argued him into it, and when it had become clear that she was, in fact, going, he’d taken Zenga aside and had a talk with her well out of earshot and mostly out of sight to everyone else.

Some of my reasons I wasn’t going to tell her yet, but there were others I could. “Well, the Prophecy said I had to pick up companions on my way, so I was expecting actually to get one at Pingaree. I suppose I’d originally expected Prince Inga – the books kinda get stuck in your head when you’ve read them so many times as a kid, and I hadn’t thought much about him growing up. Your brother didn’t seem at all interested in coming, either.”

“Nikki?” she said, using the diminuitive of Prince Nikkikut’s name. “No, Nikki’s into the books and studies. It’s all that Father can do to get him out of the library and into the sunlight most of the time. Except for fishing – he’s one of the best pearl-fishers his age.”

“And it was pretty clear to me that you weren’t unable to take care of yourself.”

She patted the hilts of the twin swords that hung near her hips, somehow staying in the inverted sheaths that crossed her back, the tips projecting over her shoulders. “My swordmasters say I’m one of the best. Father did have me trained from the time I was little; I think he was still remembering the time he had to survive the attack on his own.”

“So,” I continued, “I figured that I had good reason to have you along based on the Prophecy. Second, you’re a Princess of Pingaree; even though Pingaree is known to have only a small navy and no army to speak of, its defeat and eventual consolidation of Regos and Coregos gives your country a powerful reputation. King Inga, by sending his eldest child, is sending a message that he has chosen to cast his lot with me and the Rainbow Lord. This is a very significant political signal, and one that I hope will be useful.”

She glanced over my shoulder; I reached up, curious as to what she was looking at, and my fingers found the empty scabbard that was just visible to her. “You didn’t feel you needed protection?”

I laughed. “Not in that sense, Princess –”

“– please, call me Zenga.”

“Okay. Not in that sense, Zenga. Truth be told, I’d forgotten I lost the sword.” I’d lost it, of course, when I’d fallen five hundred feet into the sea. “And honestly speaking, it wasn’t that big of a deal. I keep breaking the swords. I’m surprised I haven’t broken my armor yet.”

She looked at me with an expression of wary suspicion, clearly trying to figure out if I was putting her on. “You do not look so… mighty as that makes you sound, if you will forgive me for saying so, Lord –”

“– Erik, if you’re insisting on ‘Zenga’.”

“Thank you. Then, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, you don’t appear so mighty as to have to worry about shattering your weapons and armor, Erik.”

That got a grin. “No doubt. And I’m not so much mighty as just different. But that’s one of the reasons I need to find the Nome King. He can almost certainly make weapons and armor that will survive my use.”

That was one aspect I’d thought about quite a bit. The sky fairies like those in the Rainbow Kingdom hardly ever touched mundane materials. The Nomes, on the other hand, had to tunnel through rock, work iron and brass and stone and so on. Even though a lot of what they dealt with was, of course, also magical, I was pretty sure that if they understood what I needed they could probably make me stuff that I couldn’t break no matter how hard I used it.

I could see she wasn’t quite clear on why I found my current material so fragile – obviously she wouldn’t be able to break my armor if I handed it to her and let her beat on it all day – but my matter-of-fact delivery seemed to convince her that I wasn’t just bragging. “And you think you can convince King Kaliko to help you, when he’s refused to take sides at all for centuries?”

I shrugged, but then nodded. “I can’t be sure… but yes, if I can find my key and get in front of him, I think I’ve got a good shot at it. He has to know that – like everyone else – in the end Ugu and Amanita are going to come for him. They’ll have to, to secure their realm permanently. He’s too powerful to take a chance on.”

“And you’re not telling me any more.”

“Nope. Not right now. Once we’re alone in the wilds, yes.”

“Well, then, I look forward to being alone with you.”

What? Was that a wink? I found myself staring, momentarily very discomfited, as Zenga swayed across the deck to where a practice area had been set up, drew her swords, and began warming up.

Inkarbleu came up next to me as I watched her practicing. “A man of deep policy is King Inga… or perhaps his Queen.”

“Huh?” I admit this wasn’t perhaps the most witty rejoinder. “How so?”

“A Queen is unlikely to encourage, nor a King agree to, the sending of their only daughter on such a dangerous expedition unless they foresee a potential for vast benefit in it.”

“Well, yeah. They want Ugu defeated and they understand I have to have political backing besides just the Rainbow Lord.”

Inkarbleu looked at me with an expression that made me feel like an idiot. “Hmmm… perhaps you are as naïve as you sound. How … refreshing, in a way. That political backing could have been achieved in a number of other ways, none of which would require risking his eldest and most beloved child.”

“I… suppose. But then what’s the point of sending her?”

Inkarbleu blinked, then smiled. “Perhaps… perhaps none at all, my Lord Erik.” He walked away, shaking his head and chuckling.

What the hell was so funny?

 

Spell Blind – Snippet 24

Spell Blind – Snippet 24

He shrugged, then lowered himself back onto a folding canvas chair. “I suppose. You interested in buying?” he asked, pushing a few stones around on his table until satisfied with his display. In addition to the polished rocks, he also had agate geodes, pendants of various sizes and colors, and amethyst, quartz, and fluorite crystals. Like the herbs and oils I’d seen elsewhere, his selection of stones was weighted to those said to offer magical protection and psychic strength.

“No, thanks,” I told him.

He gave a sage nod. “Information, then.”

I laughed. “Guess I’m getting predictable.”

He shrugged again. “I haven’t seen you around here in more than a year. And even back when you were a regular, you were never as interested in protection as you were in information.”

“You’d make a good PI.”

He chuckled, but quickly grew serious again. “People here don’t want to talk about the murders. They didn’t when you were a cop, and they don’t now. Can’t say as I blame them.”

“How’d you know I’d be asking about that?”

Barry regarded me in a way that made me feel like the biggest idiot on the planet.

“Yeah, all right,” I said, my voice dropping. “If you knew anything, would you tell me?”

“Yes,” he said.

I believed him.

“Who else should I talk to?”

“I don’t know that, either.”

“Well, thanks anyway,” I said. I started to leave, but then stopped. Barry knew as much about magic as anyone I’d met, aside from Namid. And unlike the runemyste, Barry was willing to give me a straight answer now and then. “What do you know about dark magic?” I asked, turning to face him again.

“Not a lot. Some. I did a little when I was younger. And my brother played around with some nasty stuff once upon a time. Why?”

I asked him the same question I’d asked Luis Paredes a few nights before. “Can you think of any reason why a weremyste would kill on the night of the first quarter moon?”

His eyebrows went up. “First quarter moon is a powerful night. Any spell would be stronger then.”

“So I’ve heard. But what spell would require a murder?”

“Lots of them do,” he said, his voice and expression grim. “Why do you think they call it dark magic? Sacrifice is just another word for murder, and there’s not that much difference between killing a goat and killing a person. Except that human blood amplifies the magic more.”

“Could he be using the kids he’s killing to make himself stronger?”

Barry gave a small frown. “I suppose.”

“But you don’t think he is.”

“I don’t know enough about the guy to think anything. But I’ve never heard of a weremyste making himself stronger with magic. We cast spells, we hone our craft, we practice. But using magic to strengthen our magic?” He shook his head. “I’m not sure I believe it.”

“Yeah, all right. Thanks, Barry.”

“No problem. And don’t be such a stranger,” he called after me.

I walked away, raising a hand as I went. I made my way around the rest of the market, unsure as to what, exactly, I was trying to find. I figured I’d know it when I saw it.

I was right.

Near the back of the market, as far as possible from where I had parked, a woman sat under a small white tent selling an odd assortment of oils, herbs, and stones carved into animal shapes: owls, snakes, bears, wolves. They resembled Zuni fetishes in a superficial way, but I could tell they were knock-offs. In fact, her entire display could have come from one of those new age stores in a mall; I doubted that any of what she was selling had much value for a weremyste. I noticed a small sign taped to one of the tent legs; it said “Renewing Designs, Shari Bettancourt.” It gave a website and p.o. address in Tempe.

I no more than glanced at the woman as I gave her table a quick scan and prepared to move on. Then I froze, eyeing the woman once more, my gaze settling on a pendant that hung around her neck. She wore a long multi-color batik dress with a v-neck. The necklace was barely visible beneath it. But I could see a small stone and the silver setting around it. And I was certain that the stone glowed with a faint shimmering of crimson magic.

The woman was speaking to another customer, and at first paid no attention to me. I stared at the stone, stepping closer to her table. The other customer walked away, but I hardly noticed.

“May I help you?”

I tore my eyes away from the pendant, forcing myself to look at her. She appeared to be in her forties. There were small lines around her mouth and eyes, and her short, dark hair was streaked with strands of gray. She had a pleasant, round face and pale blue eyes.

“Yes,” I said, finding my voice. “I was . . . I was admiring your necklace.”

“Isn’t it pretty?” she said. But her smile tightened and she adjusted her dress so that it covered the pendant.

“Yes,” I said. “That red stone is quite remarkable.”

“It’s garnet,” she told me. “It’s a healing stone, and a protector.”

I nodded, meeting her gaze again.

“I have some garnets here,” she said, pointing to a small wooden box that contained a few pieces of raw red crystal. Compared to the glowing pendant, they appeared dull, lifeless. “Of course, they need to be polished to shine like mine.”

“Yes, of course. Where did you find yours? Shari, is it?”

Her gaze wavered; her smile vanished. “Yes, I’m Shari. I . . . I don’t remember where I got it. I think it was a gift, but I’ve had it for a very long time.”

She wasn’t a very good liar.

“Can I see it again?”

Shari hesitated, then drew the pendant out from under her dress and held it up for me. I noticed that her hand trembled.

“That’s a lovely stone,” I said. “It’s so bright, it could almost be glowing.”

She slipped it back into her dress. “Trick of the light,” she said.

“I’m not sure it was. I think it was magic.” I kept my tone light, trying to make it sound like an observation rather than an accusation, but you wouldn’t have known it from her response.

“Well, I think I’d know if it was magic, wouldn’t I?” she said her tone turning brusque. She dismissed me with a flick of her eyes and spied an older man walking near her tent. “Good morning,” she called. “How are you today?”

The man offered a vague smile and half-hearted wave as he continued by. But Shari had made her point: Our conversation was over.

“I’m sorry if I offended you,” I said. That was a lie, too. I’d meant to spook her.

She scrutinized her goods, and made a show of rearranging several of the items. “You didn’t,” she said, her voice clipped.

I watched her a moment longer, then turned and walked away. I left the park by way of a nearby path that led onto the street running behind her booth, and went so far as to walk past her tent once more, so that she might see me over the small hedge growing there. I wanted her to think that I’d come on foot. Once I was sure she couldn’t see me anymore, I circled back to the Z-ster, pulled out of the parking lot, and then positioned it along a curb where I could watch the Market entrance.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 24

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 24

Hawthorn had spent the last decade keeping his own council in the back of beyond so was unlikely to become indiscrete now. He had never cared enough for money to bother stealing any. Indeed, he rarely got around to spending the modest investment income he had inherited.

Allenson made some notes on his datapad. Hawthorn would need a security pass to attend the rest of the meeting as an observer so he could get a feel for the main players. Allenson thought long and hard about what else Colonel Hawthorn would need to perform his duties as Head of Security.

The meeting dragged out to a desultory close without coming to a decision. Buller had rattled many of the political radicals and they in turn unnerved the plantation owners. The scale of the undertaking and the risks involved percolated into all concerned. The delegates were inevitably a hotbed of cold feet. Allenson wasn’t entirely unhappy at the turn of events as such matters had to be faced. It might as well be sooner rather than later.

Todd met him by the door and held out a sealed envelope.

“From Sar Stainman, leader of the Heilbron delegation,” Todd said.

Allenson was intrigued. Sealed envelopes were the stuff of romance novels. He slit it open with his thumb nail and read the enclosed single sheet. Then he folded it and placed it carefully in a jacket pocket.

“Convey my compliments to Sar Stainman and tell him that I accept,” Allenson said.

Todd looked desperate to ask what was in the message but contained himself.

“Very well, uncle.”

Allenson smiled at Todd’s back as he dodged back through the exiting delegates. The lad was learning. An aide was his principle’s assistant not necessarily his confidant.

#

Later that evening, Allenson idly flicked through the information channels on his pad while he waited in the reception area of the Inn. Nortanian news was parochial even by colonial standards, mostly limited to weather predictions and the fluctuating price of agricultural commodities. The providers seasoned factual matters with discussions about the comings and goings of various local celebrities of whom Allenson knew little and cared even less.

Boswell sat patiently opposite watching some sort of drama on his datapad. Allenson couldn’t see the screen but the sound channel conveyed explosions and heavy breathing.

A large carriage towed by four Nortanian quadrupeds pulled up outside the Inn. A brightly striped canvas weather roof supported by four wooden poles protected the Heilbronites sat within but otherwise it was of open design. Allenson stood up.

“If you please, sar, I believe I should establish your visitors’ credentials,” Boswell said.

Allenson sighed but acquiesced as matters had to be done properly. Boswell went outside to confer with the coachman before coming back and bowing to Allenson, winking as he straightened. Once the societal rigmarole was finished, Allenson took a seat in the carriage. He took the precaution of choosing one well to the rear as far away as possible from the quadrupeds’ rear.

Stainman introduced the other Heilbron representatives. Allenson noticed that Horntide was not amongst them. Strange, the man had been prominent and outspoken in the Hall. They made small talk all the way to the restaurant. A maître d’hôtel met them at the door with much bowing and hand rubbing. He had slicked back his hair with perfumed vegetable oil much to the Heilbronites obvious discomfort. The oil failed to prevent a small snowstorm of dandruff falling onto the wide collar of his dark green suit.

The maître d’hôtel intrigued Allenson by conveying the party to a private room that must have been booked in advance. He anticipated merely social networking when he accepted the invitation to dine but it appeared that the Heilbron delegates had more meaty discussions in mind. When they sat down Allenson noticed that there was one place too many set at the oval table.

Waitresses brought in self-heating tureens filled with various pungent stews. They arranged them in the center of the table alongside bottles of water, imported wine and plum brandy. The maître d’hôtel swept the waitresses out with both arms like a man herding sheep. Then he backed out, closing the double doors with a flourish and a final “bon appétit!”

Allenson helped himself to portions from two of the nearest dishes without taking much notice of the contents. He poured a small measure of plum brandy into a wine glass, taking the precaution of diluting it with a much larger volume of mineral water. He had the feeling he was going to need a clear head tonight.

The Heilbronites poked around in the dishes in an effort to ascertain the contents before serving themselves. Allenson thought they were wasting their time because in his limited experience Nortanian cuisine favored highly seasoned and spiced dishes whose flavor depended little on the identifiable components. The art of Nortanian cuisine seemed to involve making everything taste like something else.

Conversation was desultory while everyone satisfied their initial hunger.

“Ascetic Horntide not joining us tonight?” Allenson asked, innocently.

“He’s indisposed,” Stainman replied briefly in a tone that discouraged further enquiry.

Indisposed could mean anything from a hot date to an encounter with a dodgy oyster restricting one to close proximity with a water closet. It could also mean being locked in a room with two heavies guarding the door so one couldn’t disrupt a serious pragmatic negotiation with unwelcome fanaticism.

“You expressed the opinion that war might be averted,” Stainman said.

“Indeed,” Allenson replied.

“Unfortunately, you’re mistaken.”

Allenson paused, spoon halfway to his mouth.

“What do you mean?” he asked sharply.

Stainman looked glum.

“The fighting’s already started. I received word today.”

“Go on,” said Allenson, heart sinking.

“A group of radicals on Trinity staged a protest outside a warehouse at the increase in import taxes on luxuries like tea.”

Trinity was the most developed of the Heilbron Worlds so was arguably the wealthiest trans-Bight colony and well able to support a luxury import trade.

“I thought the price had dropped sufficiently that tea was still cheaper than last year despite the tax rise,” Allenson said.

“Well, yes, Brasilia allowed us to import straight from the producers cutting out the middle men. That greatly reduced the price but it was the principle, you see.”

“The principle, right,” Allenson said, thinking of Hawthorn.

“Things got a little out of hand and the warehouse, ah, burnt down.”

“Awkward.”

“The owners thought so and protested to the Brasilian authorities who landed a sizable force of regulars to protect private property.”

Allenson winced. The next step was as predictable as two schoolboys squaring up to each other in the playground.

“No doubt some of the radicals launched direct attacks on the soldiers.”

“Only some minor stone-throwing although the loss of life when a vehicle went off the road was regrettable.”

“And the soldiers retaliated, yes?”

“They shot unarmed civilians,” a Heilbronite whose name Allenson had forgotten said hotly.

“Unarmed except for stones,” Allenson replied neutrally.

“And hunting rifles,” Stainman said, conceding the point.

“That is the current situation?” Allenson asked.

Stainman looked even more uncomfortable.

“Well no, I received another letter by fast cutter. Peytr Masters who is the senior colonel of militia on Trinity has called in militia regiments from all over the Heilbron Worlds to besiege the Brasilian regulars in the city of Oxford.”

“He’s not thinking of storming the city?” Allenson asked, alarmed.

“No, least I don’t think so,” Stainman replied, somewhat defensively.

“What military experience does Masters have?” Allenson asked.

“He’s very highly thought of,” replied the delegate who had already spoken. Allenson now recalled that Tobold was his name. “He was a ship’s captain and has a successful import-export business. He’s most eloquent in debate.”

“No doubt,” Allenson replied. “But that does not answer my question.”

“Masters was commander of the Trinity Militia Regiment of Oxford when it was part of Levit’s column during the Terran War,” said Stainman.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 23

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 23

“You are still a major in the Manzanita militia reserves,” Allenson said.

“Am I?” asked Hawthorn surprised.

“Yes, it’s an unpaid commission. However, there will undoubtedly be a rapid expansion of the military. We’d better put you back on the active list and bump you up to colonel so you have some clout over the new boys.”

Allenson took out his datapad and made a note. He had taken to making “to do” lists as he got older and his responsibilities multiplied like cockroaches in a bakery. Life was so much simpler when he and Hawthorn were young.

A waitress came and took their order for plum brandy and café. Both eschewed pudding. Allenson generally found them too rich and sleep-inducing at luncheon. Hawthorn had already eaten enough for two.

“There was talk of setting up an elite regiment of Hinterland men on one man frames to act as an independent fire brigade,” Allenson said, when she served the drinks and left them alone. “The commander’s commission would be at colonel rank. I could swing it for you if you like?”

Hawthorn poured some brandy into his café and stirred the mixture while he thought about it.

“You know I think I might pass on that offer. Colonel isn’t really a combat role is it? From what I remember it’s nine tenths office work and one tenth detailing other people to go off and do the difficult stuff and get killed.”

“True.”

“Which isn’t really me, is it?”

“I guess not,” Allenson replied. “But I already have an aide, young Todd.”

Hawthorn held his hand out palm down three feet above the ground to indicate a child.

“What, Todd Allenson, your nephew but he’s just…”

“You’ve been away a long time,” Allenson said gently.

“Todd junior, well, well, who’d of thought it,” Hawthorn said. “I’ve another role in mind. You’ll no doubt be commissioned as captain general of the colonial army…”

“Probably not,” Allenson interrupted. “Colonel Buller sees himself in that position.”

“Who the hell’s Buller?” Hawthorn asked.

“Regular professional Brasilian soldier with some experience of senior command. He emigrated from the Homeworlds to the ‘Stream after you left.”

Hawthorn snorted. “Never heard of him. As I said, you’ll undoubtedly be appointed captain general and you’re going to need a security service.”

“A security service?” Allenson asked, astonished. “Whatever for?”

“To run a bodyguard unit, how long do you think before it occurs to your enemies that it’d be to their advantage if you had an unfortunate but very terminal accident?”

“Oh come on, no individual is that important.”

Hawthorn ignored him.

“You’ll also need a special unit to plug leaks of sensitive information and to run an intelligence network to find out what your opponents are up to. When I speak of opponents I don’t just mean the enemy. You know where you are with the enemy. They’re just trying to kill you. It’s the smiling bastards standing behind you that present an unknown threat. ”

“I suppose so,” Allenson replied, a little stunned. He hadn’t given such affairs any consideration but it was clear that Hawthorn had devoted considerable thought to the matter.

“The head of your security force needs to possess certain key abilities.”

Hawthorn counted them off on his fingers.

“Firstly total loyalty to you personally without independent political ambitions, secondly the balls to tell you want you don’t want to hear and not tell you what you don’t need to know, and thirdly and most important, enough common sense to distinguish between the two.  A cynical nasty mind that sees the worst in everyone coupled with the personality of a ruthless bastard who’ll do what needs to be done wouldn’t hurt either.”

Allenson opened and closed his mouth like a pet fish waiting to be fed while Hawthorn continued remorselessly.

“If you know of anyone else who possesses these qualities to a greater degree than myself then I’ll gladly step aside. Otherwise I shall consider myself appointed.”

And that was that.

#

The afternoon session in the Assembly Hall was if anything even more balls-achingly tedious than the morning. Much time was given to pointless discussions about what form a ‘Streamer army might take.

“I see no need to repeat the mistakes of the past,” asserted Horntide, a sallow-faced Ascetic with an irritatingly pedantic manner. “The army should be an expression of the people and as such must conform to the sacred principles of the people. Accordingly it must consist of volunteers who choose where and for how long they wish to serve and under which officers they are willing to serve.”

“Quite so and all soldiers should’ve an equal say about how campaigns are conducted, possibly through a system of referenda,” said another Ascetic whose name Allenson hadn’t caught.

A murmur of disquiet went around the Hall.

“Are you people bloody mad!” Buller exclaimed. “You propose to take on Brasilian regulars with a poxy debating society? Grow up, you idiots. An army fights because its troops are more scared of their officers and NCOs than they are of the enemy. Soldiers have to obey without question, go where they’re sent, do what their told, and kill whomsoever they’re told.”

Buller jabbed a finger at Horntide who shifted uneasily in his seat.

“All else is bollocks and if you think I’m going to be humiliated by taking command of a load of bolshy barrack room lawyers who run at the first bit of bloodletting then you can think again. Give me a professional army that can win or get used to forelock touching every time some minor Brasilian popinjay wafts past. You may want to die at the end of a Brasilian rope but I don’t.”

At that Buller stormed to the door. A commissioner tried to explain that the Hall was in lockdown. Buller pushed the flunky roughly aside with a decidedly unnecessary comment about his mother’s sexual habits. He unlocked the door himself and stormed out without bothering to shut it behind him.

Obviously there were limits to Buller’s support for egalitarianism. There was a stunned silence in the hall as the more politically radical delegates digested an unwelcome force feed of reality.

“I thought the point of the exercise was to free ourselves from Brasilian control,” said a gentleman from the Lower Stream. “Not to try to create some sort of utopia for the proles. I don’t know much about running an army but I do know how to run a plantation and it ain’t done by letting the staff vote on whether they wish to work or not.”

Allenson could feel the unity of purpose of the meeting slipping way as reality punctured various cherished illusions.

“If I may make a comment,” he said, carrying on without waiting for permission. “Colonel Buller is essentially right that an army must be a trained and disciplined organization or it risks falling into armed anarchy. Enthusiasm is no substitute for professionalism.”

Allenson paused to let that fact seep in before continuing in a more conciliatory vein.

“However, I sympathize with Delegate Horntide in that a professional army must be under political control. A ‘Streamer army must serve the people of the colonies and reflect their aspirations. I see no advantage in replacing our masters in Brasilia with a local military dictatorship. Accordingly the army commanders, especially the captain-general, should be carefully selected.”

No one had anything more useful to add, which didn’t stop them adding it. Discussion diverted into uniform design and who would get the lucrative contract to supply said garments.

Allenson took the opportunity to tune out and consider his lunch meeting. Hawthorn wasn’t the hard young man he had tramped the Hinterland with but then, neither was Allenson – and neither would be much use to the Cutter Stream now if they were.

Hawthorn was undoubtedly right, though. Allenson would likely be appointed to some sort of senior commission in the new army. Not the captain-general of course, that was just Hawthorn’s loyalty to a friend talking, but some position of responsibility nonetheless. He would need intelligence and that would involve civilian spies as well as military scouts. Dealing with spies was always a tricky proposition. His spymaster would have to be completely discrete and financially trustworthy. He would control sizable unattributable funds needed for bribery and the like.

 

Spell Blind – Snippet 23

Spell Blind – Snippet 23

Chapter 13

Often on the cusp of a phasing, my dreams become fragmented to the point of incoherence, as if the insanity that’s about to be brought on by the moon has crept into my sleep. But not this night.

All night long I dreamed of the red sorcerer, and in every dream he was tracking me, hunting me down. I’d wake from one dream, fall back asleep, and slip right into another; my mind was like a flat stone skipping along the surface of a pond. At one point I dreamed that I was back in the monument with Billie, running along a dried river bed, leading her, pulling her by the hand. I kept staring back over my shoulder, expecting to see the red sorcerer. I could feel him behind us, and as much as I wanted to get away, to get Billie away, I also wanted to see his face, to find out who he was.

We reached a bend in the riverbed, and I hesitated, though now Billie tugged at my hand, trying to get me to run on. She said something to me that I didn’t hear, and I turned to her. And as I did, I saw her eyes widen at something she could see past my shoulder. She screamed, and I spun to look.

Which, of course, is when the phone rang, waking me from the dream. I groped for the receiver, missed it the first time, got it the second.

“Fearsson,” I mumbled.

“Sleeping late, I see,” Kona said. “You alone, or did you have another date?”

I grunted a laugh. “Both.”

“Good. What do you have for me?”

“So much for the social niceties.”

“You’re lucky you got as much as you did. I’m having a bad day, partner. It’s not even nine o’clock and my day’s shot to hell.”

I sat up, running a hand through my tangled hair. “Tell me. Maybe I can help.”

“It’s nothing you don’t already know. Gann is being arraigned right now, and I’ve got no way of proving to Hibbard or Arroyo or anyone else that he’s innocent.”

Right. “I’ll see what else I can find,” I said, forcing myself awake. “I didn’t get much from Q or Luis, but there’s another place I can go today.”

“We don’t have much time.”

I chuckled humorlessly. “Don’t I know it.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning that our friend has taken a particular interest in me. I don’t know why; I guess he knows I’m after him. But he’s taken the measure of my warding three times now and–”

“You’ve lost me, partner. It’s that mumbo-jumbo stuff again.”

“Sorry. He’s been testing me in a way, and he’s done it three times, which in magical circles basically means that he owns me. The next time, if he wants to hurt me, or kill me, or turn me into a toad, he can pretty much have his way.”

“And you’re guessing it won’t be the toad thing.”

I grinned, despite the tightness in my gut. “Yeah, something like that.”

“Well then, watch yourself,” she said.

“I will.”

I hung up, showered, and was soon on my way back to Mesa. There was a small park near Falcon Field where I knew other weremystes would be gathered today in anticipation of the full moon. The drive was as slow as one would expect on a weekday morning, and by the time I was parking the Z-ster I could see the crowd gathered among the small tents and plywood stalls.

Passers-by would have thought it nothing more than another small farmers’ market, of which there was no shortage in the Phoenix area. This market, though, was far from typical. We referred to it as the Moon Market, because it only turned up for a few days right before the phasing. Rather than selling produce and jams and homemade salsas, the sellers at the Moon Market sold herbs and oils, crystals and talismans, elixirs, incense, and bundled blends of flowers and native plants that resembled the sage sticks burned by the Pueblo people. Many of the items were similar to those Q sold at his place, only in far greater numbers and varieties, and often at much better prices. Some peddled their own spells, which they taught to other weremystes for a fee. Some sold knives or candles that they claimed to have charmed.

As usual, there were as many wannabes circulating among the tents as there were actual weremystes. Sometimes tourists stumbled across the market as well. They took pictures of the various displays and bought the occasional geode or quartz spear. But it was always easy to spot the weremystes in the crowd, even if direct sunlight obscured the wavering effect from their magic. They weren’t there for the fun of it, and they weren’t shopping for pretty trinkets. They moved around the market with quiet urgency, seeking something — anything — that might take the edge off the coming phasing.

I’d tried a few of the herbs early on: sachets of stargrass and alyssum that I was told to leave near all the windows and doors of my house; blends of anise, bay, pennyroyal, and rosemary that I was supposed to put in pots of boiling water. Once I even bought a wand made of mulberry. As far as I could tell, none of them had done anything to ease the pull of the moon.

But other weremystes swore by remedies like these, and who was I to argue? I knew cops who used one kind of aspirin, but not others. Different people have different headaches; same with phasings.

I wandered through the market, searching for people I knew, people who might be able to tell me something about the Blind Angel killings. A few vendors and shoppers appeared to recognize me, but most of them refused to make eye contact. They probably thought I was still a cop.

The first person I saw who both knew me and appeared willing to speak with me was an old Navajo named Barry Crowseye, who sold crystals at the market, and jewelry in a small shop in Tolleson. He waved me over when he spotted me and stood to shake my hand, reaching across a long table that was covered with baskets of polished stone — petrified wood, tiger’s-eye, citrine, jasper, bloodstone, malachite, and a dozen other stones I couldn’t identify.

I’d known Barry for years and he hadn’t changed at all. As far as I could tell, his hair had always been silver, and he had always worn it in a long ponytail. He was a big man, with a chiseled face that could have come straight off of a coin. If I’d been making a western and needed to cast the part of Indian Chief, I’d have tracked him down simply because he looked the part. His skin was the color of cherry wood, and his eyes were almost black. He was wearing jeans, a pale blue Los Lobos t-shirt, and a brown leather vest. And as always, the shimmer of magic around him was so strong that his face, neck, and shoulders were blurred.

“Good to see you, Jay,” he said, smiling at me, a gold tooth glinting. “Been a while.”

“You too, Barry. Things going well?”

 

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 03

Phoenix In Shadow – Chapter 03

Chapter 3.

The twin swords flickered at her like darting reflections from a pool of water, and Kyri realized just how very, very good Tobimar Silverun was with those weapons. In moments she deflected two strikes with her own sword, and still felt three, no, four impacts of those blades on her Raiment. And I’ve already increased my speed some.

The raven-black hair was pulled back in a long ponytail that swirled behind Tobimar as he pirouetted away from her retaliatory attack; his brilliant blue eyes measured her, calm yet with a hint of the laughing joy she knew he felt, that she echoed, at this chance to push each other to their limits against a foe worthy of their skill yet not an enemy to be destroyed.

“Heads up!” called another voice.

Oh, no!

The third combatant was so small that even with the hint of his voice she didn’t see him; the sphere of swirling vapor hurtling at them, however, was all too obvious. She called the flame of the Phoenix and carved downward, slashing a safe haven through the spell; at her side, Tobimar did the same somehow, weaving a defense from willpower and the unique discipline of the art which the mage Khoros had taught him.

“Attacking us both?” Tobimar shook his head. “In that case, my lady, shall we?”

“Oh, yes, let’s.”

Now she and Tobimar ran stride-for-stride towards the source of that mystical assault, and a part of her remembered how – even when they had first met, before they had even been formally introduced – somehow they had known how to work together.

A tiny brown streak burst from a clump of grass on that side of the training field, and suddenly the mists erupted low and thick, covering the ground to a depth of two feet. That’s not good; we can’t see him coming –

She closed her eyes, letting the Truth of Myrionar guide her, even as she knew Tobimar would be extending his own senses…

There!

From the ground behind them Poplock Duckweed sprang, and he gave a flip in midair that, astonishingly, caused Tobimar Silverun’s sword to pass just under him. Kyri’s sword blocked the little Toad’s path to her, but he wasn’t aiming for the young Justiciar, but at his partner, Tobimar. Now he was on the Prince of Skysand, scuttling with startling surety under the arm, even as it swung, then around to the back –

And Tobimar flipped and came down on his back. Poplock barely got out from underneath in time, but he had Steelthorn out, the slender blade glittering deadly silver –

— and freezing, as he realized that the immense gold-red sheened sword Flamewing was an inch from his brown-warty hide. “Whoops.”

“Do you both yield?” she asked with a grin, and she could see that Tobimar realized the way she was standing, she could simply run them both through.

“Yield,” said the Toad, sheathing Steelthorn.

“Yield,” agreed Tobimar. Once she lifted her blade, he rose. “Shall we try another?”

“Best four out of seven?” she asked with a grin. “No, I think this is more than enough for today. I’m quite winded.”

“I think we all are.” Tobimar nodded to Poplock, who then bounced to each of them, removing the safecharm from their weapons. “That vortex ball – I didn’t expect that one. Where’d you learn that?”

“Sasha Rithair, of course,” the little Toad answered, bouncing to his accustomed location on Tobimar’s shoulder, as they walked back into the Vantage mansion. “She may specialize in summonings – and believe me, I’ve been learning those, too – but she’s got all the magic basics down, and after what we’ve been through, I figured I couldn’t just sit there and dabble in magic. Time to get serious about it.” He gave an exaggerated sigh. “Not that it does much when you guys can just cut the spell apart.”

Kyri laughed, and let the Raiment flow off her and onto a nearby rack. “You did warn us in advance. I don’t think you’ll do that with our enemies. Besides, that doesn’t always work.”

She noticed that Tobimar was sheathing and unsheathing his swords; the motion seemed slightly uneven. “What is it?”

He held up the slightly curved, tri-hilted swords with a rueful grin. She saw that the shining perfection of the metal was marred with dings and one was slightly bent. “I am afraid that even the finest swords in the Skysand armory weren’t really meant for contesting with Justiciars – real or false.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” She was, truthfully, somewhat annoyed. Tobimar and she were allies against forces that even she barely understood, and the last thing they needed was one of them working at less than their top form.

“Oh, I kept meaning to get them repaired, but we’ve been doing so much putting Evanwyl back together it just never quite got done. You’re entirely right, though, I should have told you and made sure it was done. My apologies.”

His expression was so solemn that she couldn’t keep the serious look on her own face. “Oh, fine, fine, you’re forgiven. But aren’t your weapons magical? I can’t believe that Skysand has no mages.”

“Oh, we have some magicians, of various types, certainly. But … Kyri, you have to understand that fighting things that play on your level just isn’t the same as most battles. I’ve fought quite a few things – mazakh, graverisen, a few demons, once one of the least Wormspawn, a few other things – especially when we were travelling with Xavier – but you and Thornfalcon?” He shook his head ruefully. “My Lady, that is a whole different kind of thing. There were points in that battle where I knew if I had been too close, at the wrong angle, the power that you were both deflecting would be enough to kill me. Training with you… I think both Poplock and I have been learning just how very far we have to go.”

Startled, she looked at the two Adventurers. Tobimar was completely serious, and the Toad bobbed an assenting nod.

“Well,” she began, not quite knowing what to say. “Well… all right, I suppose there must be truth in that. If there wasn’t something special about a Justiciar, we wouldn’t need them. But really, training with the two of you makes me feel the same way. And sometimes I think that Xavier would have been worse.”

“Oh, no doubt,” said Poplock with a chuckle. His tongue snapped out to grab a flying insect before he continued. “He had some very nasty tricks.”

He glanced at the two of them as they hesitated at the base of the stairwell. “Oh, that’s right. Clean up or go to eat? Here, I’ll help with that.”

Kyri saw the Toad make a few gestures and a sparkling, cool mist enveloped her and Tobimar, evaporating to leave her feeling as though she’d just had a nice long shower. “Now that is impressive, Poplock.”

“Sure more useful in most situations than calling the thunder down,” Poplock agreed with a bounce, and held on as she and Tobimar headed for the dining hall. “So like I said, Xavier had some real nasty tricks. But power-wise? We were totally in the mud compared to you two, Kyri. You and Thornfalcon were way, way out of our normal playing level. Look at what you did at the end there, calling on Myrionar and wiping out… well, I don’t know how many, but it was a lot of monsters in one big flare. I’d bet Thornfalcon could do stuff like that too, if he had prepped.”

Kyri couldn’t argue; whatever power had been backing Thornfalcon – whatever it was that lay behind the false Justiciars – had been able to fake the Justiciars well enough that no one could tell. She had to assume anything she could do, they could equal. She seated herself at the table and nodded to Vanstell to have the food brought out. “You’re right. But I’d have been dead, dead, dead if you hadn’t come along. I really can’t see you as being that far below me.”

The exiled Prince of Skysand grinned, and snagged a crispwing as the platter was set down. “I didn’t say we didn’t have some kind of edge. But my poor swords, they didn’t have the edge.”

“Or rather, they don’t have much of an edge now,” Poplock corrected, earning a poke from his friend.

“I really think you need to get them fixed soon, Tobimar,” she said slowly, as she served herself from the other platters. “Evanwyl’s pretty stable now, and I know time’s slipping away.”

Tobimar paused in eating, and nodded seriously. “I know. I wasn’t going to push you – this is your country –”

“But maybe you should have. It doesn’t do any good to help Evanwyl if the threat that’s going to destroy it is still out there.”

“No one’s seen the other Justiciars, have they?”

She shook her head. “Not since they fled from the Temple before Arbiter Kelsley’s wrath, no. But that just means they’ve been taking this time to figure out their next step, while we’ve been clearing up everything… without ruining everything.” The two didn’t ask what she meant; they knew, and she was incredibly lucky the two had been able to stay and help her.

The problem of course was that the Justiciars being utterly corrupt – and in the case of Thornfalcon, vastly worse than merely corrupt – was a shattering blow to the faith that held up Evanwyl. The faith of Myrionar, the Balanced Sword, god of Justice and Vengeance, was represented most clearly by two groups: the priests – Arbiters and Seekers and such – and by the Justiciars, the living symbols of the faith. The fact that the entire order had become corrupt, had committed murders for years and never been caught, had even been able to mislead and trick Arbiter Kelsley undermined all the faith Evanwyl had relied on since before the last Chaoswar, at least.

So Kyri had had no choice but to stay, to shore up the damaged faith. It wasn’t just a matter of keeping Evanwyl together and strong, though that would have been more than enough for her, but it was also a matter of the mission Myrionar had laid upon her. She had to be, as the god had said, the living representative of the Balanced Sword, and surely that included keeping the few remaining worshippers – the people of Evanwyl – strong in their faith.

“You still can’t find the Justiciar’s Retreat?”

She shook her head and sighed. “I’d hoped that I could find it now, because I’m a real Justiciar. But whatever corrupted the Justiciars obviously dealt with that; I get no sense of location even when I head to the West, which I know is the right general direction. Rion told me that all he had to do was think about going to the Retreat and he suddenly knew exactly where he was going. Only one of the other false Justiciars can find their way to the Retreat now.”

“There has got to be some other way,” Poplock said emphatically, voice slightly muffled as he snagged a large green darter out of the air and stuffed it into his mouth. “There’s other gods, and magicians, and so on.”

Kyri nodded. “Oh, I have no doubt there is some other way. I just don’t know what it is. Neither does Arbiter Kelsley, or your new teacher Sasha.”

She saw Tobimar reached for another crispwing, to find that they were all gone. His expression as he looked down and realized he had eaten them all caused her to grin; she gestured to Sanhon, one of the three servers this evening, who whisked the old plate away and replaced it with another. “There you go, Master Tobimar.”

He had tried to convince them not to call him “Master”, but that had failed miserably, as she could have told him if he’d asked.  So there was only a slight twitch before he replied, “Thank you, Sanhon. I don’t suppose…”

“You want more crispwings? Don’t you have them –”

“In Skysand? Almost never. They had to be imported from the Empire of the Mountain, at best, and maybe from somewhere in the State of the Dragon King. I think I got them three times before in my life, and these are just wonderful.”

The older woman – well, older than me, but not anything like old – smiled. “In that case I’m sure I can get Dankhron to fry up some more, if you can wait.”

“Thank you so much; I’d be glad to wait. I can always eat something else.” She watched as he surveyed the generous assortment of fruits, vegetables, and cheeses in the center of the table. Grabbing a handful of arlavas – greenish berries with a frosty sheen – he sat back and looked over to Kyri. “Well, all right, let’s leave that problem aside for now,” he said with a quick smile that emphasized the clean symmetry of his face. “Do you think you could leave Evanwyl now? Are things all right?”

Kyri considered. The Temple of the Balance was fully repaired, and – more importantly – people were attending regularly again, and she felt their faith, especially when she was there, part of the ceremony with Arbiter Kelsley. Their doubts had slowly faded over the last month or so; she knew this was because pretty much everyone in Evanwyl, from the Watchland to farmers and butchers and the other Eyes and Arms knew her, and they listened to her when she explained to them her faith, her mission, and the need for not just her, but everyone, to believe in Myrionar. “It has already fulfilled much of It’s promise to me,” she would say, “and I now know that It will somehow fulfill the rest of it, so long as I stay true. And I know It will bless us all if we can all find it in our hearts to keep our faith in the Balanced Sword.”

“I think… yes, I think they are,” she said finally. “Oh, I’m always going to be nervous that leaving will trigger some catastrophe, but waiting forever will be worse. There’s only…”

Somehow he caught on, perhaps from seeing her glance around the room. “Oh, that’s right. Your aunt isn’t here and so there won’t be anyone guarding the family home.”

“Is that silly of me? I mean, it’s not like the house will fall apart, Vanstell will –”

“It’s not silly at all,” Poplock said emphatically from somewhere near the cheese wheels. She saw him pop up from behind one, chewing on a berry. “The Vantages are a symbol to your people. Even if you aren’t here, this place is going to be a symbol, and someone might decide that burning that symbol down, like they did your parent’s house, would be a great statement of how weak you and your god are. Someone being the false Justiciars, or their boss.” He made a comical face. “Well, okay, hard to BURN this place down since it’s mostly stone, but you get the idea.”

She wished she could argue that, but she couldn’t. Vantage Fortress was a symbol, hundreds, maybe thousands of years old, and if their enemies wrecked it after she left…

She toyed with the seasoned steak in front of her. “You’re right, of course. But I can’t stay here forever. Your mission and mine… time’s not standing still, and we know what’s happening elsewhere. But I need someone who will be able to keep Vantage Fortress… alive, I guess, even if they’re not a Vantage. Vanstell –”

Vanstell shook his head and smiled. “My Lady, I am – with no false modesty – an excellent Master of House, and I have been proud to serve you and your family in that capacity for the last twenty-two years. But I am, regrettably, not a person with the dynamic and powerful presence you would need.”

Kyri smiled fondly at him. “I was about to say something of the sort, because I know what you like to do, and if you wanted to be that kind of person, we’d already know it. But then… who? Or do I leave anyway?”

“You may have to,” Tobimar said with obvious reluctance. “Believe me, I understand your concern – in your position I’d share it – but as you said, the world isn’t waiting for us.”

“Perhaps I might offer a solution,” said an impossibly familiar voice from the doorway.

Almost without realizing it, Kyri found herself standing, staring in simultaneous disbelief and joy.

Tall, angular, straight of figure, impassive of expression, Lythos, her invincible, imperturbable Master of Arms, stood framed in the doorway.

And then the Sho-Ka-Taida collapsed to his knees.

“Lythos!”