Eric Flint's Blog, page 284

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 19

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 19

“I trust your room is satisfactory?” she asked.

“What? Oh yes,” Allenson replied. “I will need to hire a servant for the duration of my stay. Can you suggest an agency?”

“Of course, sar, I will arrange it.”

Allenson pointed to a double door made of the same dark wood that formed the structure of the inn.

“Through there?”

The receptionist nodded and he entered to be seated by a floorwalker who was another employee. Everyone he met in the public areas of the inn would be employees, which was why the tariff was high. Indentured servants would work out of sight behind the scenes.

The menu sported a variety of Brasilian dishes. He selected one more or less at random that involving fowl covered in fruit preserve. He chose a light fizzy spiced beer to drink while he was waiting.  It was so pleasant that he ordered another. The dish when it arrived was a pretty good facsimile of the original. A local white meat substituted for the native Brasilian original but the fruit sauce was perfect which rather surprised him. ‘Streamer restaurants with pretensions to gourmet standards tended to boast Brasilian cuisine on the menu but the reality was often rather hit and miss.

Not that Allenson cared overmuch about food as long as it was hot and wasn’t going to poison him. However, he had attended enough formal dinners to tell a patina de pisciculis from an aliter baedinam sive agninam excaldatam, a thought that made him wonder not for the first time why it was necessary to write menus in archaic languages. Admittedly aliter baedinam sive agninam excaldatam sounded better than “steamed meat”.

The empty restaurant slowly filled. A young man brought an even younger girlfriend who stared adoringly as he talked. Allenson sighed. Youth was so wasted on the young, an unoriginal thought but true nonetheless. The waiter and floorwalker pushed two tables together to seat a group of older men and women dressed in conservative business suits. In Paxton, conservative equaled dark green with pink linings.

The party conversed loudly, each trying to outdo the other. The bottles of brandy served to their table were clearly not their first attempt this evening to quench a raging thirst.

Allenson finished his main course and the floorwalker brought him the sweet menu to peruse. He was slightly put off by one of the women in the party flashing covert glances in his direction. He had few illusions about his power of sexual magnetism. The attention was disconcerting so he wondered what was she up to? He glanced casually across to find her in a huddle with her fellow diners. They all turned to look at him.

He felt his face burn and had to resist checking that his clothes were properly fastened.

“Well, I’ll do it,” a florid-faced man said.

He climbed laboriously to his feet and made his way unsteadily to Allenson’s table.

“General Allenson? It is General Allenson, the victor of the Terran wars?”

Allenson gave a small nod of assent, resisting an urge to deny everything.

“Rosy thought so,” the man said, slapping Allenson on the shoulder in a friendly manner. “She saw you at the victory parade on Manzanita.”

He whipped out a datapad that he had been holding behind his back.

“Could I have a selfy? It’s for my wife, not me.”

He turned around without waiting for an answer and held his datapad at arm’s length, leaning in close to Allenson to record his meeting with the great man.

The man checked the picture.

“Would you autograph it?”

“What’s your wife’s name?” Allenson asked.

“Alfred,” the man replied.

Allenson scrawled a greeting to Alfred with his forefinger and scribbled an approximation of his name.

“Hey Alf, ask him over?”

“Would you care to join us?”

Allenson saw to his horror that they were pulling up another chair at the double table and signaling the waiter to lay an additional place.

“Thank you but no, I’ve only just got on-world.”

He rose so fast that he knocked the remains of his spiced beer across the table. A rivulet waterfalled off the surface to splash his admirer’s shoes. Fortunately the man didn’t seem to notice or perhaps he just didn’t care.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Allenson said, disengaging the man’s arm.

He remembered why he had firmly turned down a political career. Glad-handing was not one of his skills. He made a rapid retreat, pressing a coin firmly into the floorwalker’s hand as he passed the podium. A flash of purple light as the money changed hands authenticated the coin as a genuine Brasilian crown piece. That was an overtip but the large rectangular plastic tab was the first coin he pulled from his pocket in his haste. Allenson would gladly have paid ten times as much to escape a round of gut-wrenching embarrassment from people queuing to have their picture taken with the conquering hero.

#

Allenson slept surprisingly soundly. He breakfasted from the preserved food in his room’s dispenser, reluctant to brave the private dining room again. He just finished his morning café and was dropping the cup in the bin when his datapad chimed.

“You requested a servant, sar,” said the receptionist, the same girl as last night going by her voice. She must work long hours.

“Yes.”

“I have one in reception for you to interview. I can personally recommend him as he has worked for our guests on other occasions to their satisfaction. Shall I send him up?”

“No I’ll come down.”

A short, sturdy man in clean, pressed blue overalls waited for him in the lobby. He was balding but covered his head with a lemon yellow cap that had a bright blue badge advertising an agricultural product new to Allenson.

“You must be Colonel Allenson? I’m Boswell, my card.”

The man stepped forward and handed Allenson a small piece of stiff paper. He had forgotten the Paxton habit of exchanging business cards. On reflection, he remembered seeing a similar box of cards with the Inn’s picture on the front in his room.  On one side, the man’s card read Boswell’s Personal Services and on the other listed a scale of charges. He glanced down to find the costs expensive by Manzanita standards but reasonable for a more developed world like Nortania.

There was a pause while Allenson considered what to ask. He didn’t hire the servants at home. Trina handled all the domestic business. He had expected to be dealing with an agency hiring out indentured servants not an independent contractor. Allenson always found them a difficult economic group to deal with. They were neither fish nor fowl in the Lower Stream’s social pecking order.

Boswell had an upturned nose that conferred him with a somewhat irreverent appearance, as if a grin was always near the surface of his features. The man looked him in the eyes obviously expecting Allenson to say something.

“The receptionist speaks most highly of you,” he eventually got out, waving his hand vaguely in the direction of her podium.

“I should hope so, Guv,” Boswell said, indignantly. “She’s my niece.”

There was that half grin again. Allenson laughed. Dammit he liked the chap’s style.

“You’re hired. Let’s start with a week’s service and see how we get on.”

“Money in advance?” Boswell asked, hopefully, inclining his head and adopting an innocent expression.

 

Spell Blind – Snippet 19

Spell Blind – Snippet 19

Chapter 12

I drove back to Chandler, my heart pounding out a salsa beat, and my hands sweating so much the steering wheel grew slick and I had to wipe my palms on my jeans every few seconds. I spent more time glancing up at my rearview mirror than I did looking ahead. I don’t know what I was watching for — maybe some red glowing car, driven by the bald guy I’d seen in my stone. Every time a car drew too close to my rear bumper I started to hyperventilate.

By the time I reached my office, I’d stopped shaking for the most part. But I was still jumpy; walking from my car to the office, I must have glanced back over my shoulder a dozen times. I hated this. I’m not one to go through life scared; I’d spent too long on the job for that. But this sorcerer had gotten into my head.

More than anything else, I was mad at myself for letting him get the better of me. I knew full well that I couldn’t stay locked up in my house or office and still do my job.

Usually when I was in a mood like this, Namid was the last person I wanted to see. But as soon as I was inside my office, I called for him, something I had never done before. I didn’t even know if it would work.

It did.

His name was still echoing off the walls and wood floor when he began to take form in the middle of the room.

“Ohanko,” he said. “You summoned me.”

I took a breath. “Yeah, I did. He found me a third time.”

“It was inevitable that he would.”

For reasons I couldn’t explain that made me feel better. “I know that. But . . . I’m not sure what to do now.”

“You do what you always do.” I thought I saw a smile creep over his glimmering face. “You tread like the fox, and you do your job.”

“I heard him laughing, and I heard his voice.”

Namid didn’t seem overly impressed by this, but he asked, “What did he say to you?”

“Just that I was his now.”

“It means nothing.”

I nodded, glanced toward the bank of windows. Why had that gray sedan slowed as it drove past?

“Listen to me, Ohanko.”

I faced him.

“It means nothing,” he said again, his tone more pointed this time.

“We both know that’s not true.”

“Yes, yes,” he said. “Three times. He knows you now. This increases his ability to do you harm. But he had that ability already. His main purpose in doing this is to track you, to know what you do from one moment to the next.”

“So he can do that?”

The runemyste nodded. “He can.”

“And this is supposed to make me feel better?”

“Yes, Ohanko,” he said, the way he might if he were explaining something to a ten year-old. “If he wanted to kill you, he would have already. He tracks you to follow the progress of your investigation. There may come a time when his purpose is darker. You must be wary. You must learn to ward yourself at all times, with spells more effective than deflection. But this was true already.”

I walked to the windows. The gray sedan was gone. It was just another day in Chandler, and no one on the street seemed the least bit interested in me or my case.

“So then, I really do keep going about my business.”

“Is that not what I said?”

I laughed. “Yes, it’s what you said.”

He sat, that familiar, expectant expression on his face. “You need to work on your craft. Now more than ever.”

I checked the clock. It was a few minutes past two o’clock. I felt like I’d been awake for thirty hours.

“Yeah, all right,” I said, sitting opposite him. “But not too long. I have a date tonight.”

He frowned. “Distractions,” he said.

I grinned. Then I closed my eyes and summoned that clearing image of the golden eagle. After a few moments, I opened them again.

The runemyste nodded once. “Defend yourself.”

#

For the next two hours, Namid threw a wide variety of assailing spells at me — the stinging and fire spells he’d used the night before, a suffocation spell, which scared the crap out of me, and one spell that blinded me temporarily. That one was frightening as well, not to mention frustrating. It took me several minutes to come up with a warding that would defeat it, and all the while Namid was using his power to throw books and cds at me. By the time I could see again, I was covered with bruises and my office was a mess.

Despite all that, however, Namid seemed pleased when we were done.

“You conjured well, today,” he said, as I stood and stretched my back. “You are starting to cast by instinct.”

I was sweaty and tired, but I felt good, the way I would after a long workout. “Well, you don’t give a person much choice.”

“I will leave you,” he said. “You have a big date.”

I laughed. “Yes, I do.”

He started to fade.

“Namid, wait.”

The fading stopped, and a moment later he was as substantial as he ever is. Once more I had the urge to reach out and touch him, just to see what it was like. He was staring at me, and I realized he was waiting to know why I’d stopped him.

“What you told me before about the red sorcerer — is it true?”

“About him tracking you?”

“About him not being able to hurt me anymore now than he could before. I thought that once an enemy tested you three times–”

“We call it ‘sounding’.”

“Sounding,” I repeated. I’d heard the term before, though in my fear I hadn’t yet connected it to what the red sorcerer was doing. “Well, he’s sounded me three times. I thought that means he can do anything to me, and I’m powerless to stop him.”

“A runecrafter can always ward himself.” He paused, eyeing me, perhaps trying to decide how honest he could be. “The danger to you is greater, it is true. But your skills are increasing as well. And as this crafter learns more about you, you also learn more about him. You are linked to each other now. He can hurt you more easily, but you can sense him sooner. The sounding is not without risks for him as well.”

“He must be pretty confident then. He probably knows that I can’t hurt him.”

“You are more than you think you are,” Namid said. “You would be wise to take precautions; keep yourself warded. But he would be wise not to underestimate you.”

“Thanks. Really,” I added. “I mean that. Thank you, Namid.”

He tipped his head to me, and then started to fade again. This time I let him go.

I drove home, showered and changed before getting back into the Z-ster and driving to Tempe. It was early still, but I hoped that maybe Billie would be done with her work already. I kept an eye on the mirrors, but no one was following me. I tried to make myself relax. Even without any reassurances, I knew that Namid was right. I was getting stronger, and just as magic was an act of visualization and of will, so too was it a product of faith, of belief in oneself. If I convinced myself that this red sorcerer had power over me, I wouldn’t survive his next attack. If, on the other hand, I believed that I could protect myself from whatever he threw at me, I at least gave myself a fighting chance.

I found Billie’s house without too much trouble, and parked out front. I started to climb out of the car, but then stopped myself, making certain once again that I hadn’t been followed by the red weremyste. Satisfied that he wasn’t nearby, I walked up the path to her door and knocked. The house was small, built in Spanish Mission style, and it seemed to have been well cared for, at least from the outside. There was a little garden out front with flowers and a few small cacti, and a small lawn that had recently been cut.

Billie came to the door in a t-shirt and jeans, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. Seeing me, she gave a puzzled smile, her forehead creased. “Hi!” She peeked at her watch. “I know I told you not to be late. . .”

I shrugged. “Yeah, sorry. I’m kind of through for the day, and I thought maybe, if you were, too, we could get an early start. But if you’re still working I can come back later.”

“I have a bit left to do. Not much. What did you have in mind?”

 

Spell Blind – Snippet 18

Spell Blind – Snippet 18

He stared past me. “Never heard of them.”

“No? Maybe you heard that Claudia Deegan was killed.”

“Never heard of her, neither.”

Well, now I had to reconsider, because ‘Toine was about the worst liar I’d ever met. What the hell had happened to his door?

“You know what? I think you’re full of shit. I think you ran away from me because you’re into something that you can’t handle and you’re scared out of your mind.”

“Whatever, man.”

“Claudia Deegan was killed with magic.”

“Bad luck.”

“Every Blind Angel victim was killed with magic.”

His eyes narrowed. “How do you know that?”

“I used to be a cop. And I’m a weremyste, too. Remember? I saw the magic on them.”

“Then you know it’s not mine, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. I know that it belongs to someone with real power.”

“Fuck you, man!”

“The magic that killed those kids was red. Deep red, almost the color of blood. And the magic on Claudia Deegan had faded nearly to nothing in the span of about two days. There can’t be more than five people in the entire country with power like that.”

He refused again to meet my gaze. But he was clenching his jaw, and I had the sense that he was considering another assailing spell.

“Like I said, man, if you cast, then you know what my stuff is like. It ain’t red, and it don’t disappear after no two days. So you know it wasn’t me.”

“Maybe, but I think you know who this sorcerer is.”

“You think wrong, then, cop.”

I squatted down and got right in his face, forcing him to look me in the eye. “Like I said, little man, I’m not a cop anymore. But I’ve still got friends on the force. And who do you think they turn to when they’re working cases that involve magic?” I tapped my chest. “Me. All I have to do is give the word and they’ll be all over you. You’ll spend the rest of your life rotting in jail, wishing you were a good enough conjurer to get yourself out, and wondering why you were so stupid as to piss me off.”

He was working up to another attack. I could see it in his eyes; I could hear it in the rasp of his breathing. I pushed hard enough, and I got exactly what I expected. For all his talent and potential, ‘Toine was still just a kid, playing with toys he didn’t quite understand.

The spell he threw at me was similar to the one Robby Sommer had used against me — a basic fire spell. Rudimentary stuff. But he was angry enough that this time he might have been trying to kill me, and so I went with deflection rather than reflection. I didn’t want to hurt him. But he needed to know that he didn’t want to be screwing around with me. I aimed the bounce at the wall directly behind him, so that ‘Toine’s own fire flew past the side of his head, missing him by maybe an inch and blackening the wall with the sound of sizzling fat.

“Shit!” he spat, ducking away.

“Next time, I won’t miss,” I told him. “Tell me who this guy is, or I’ll bring the cops down on you. I’m a PI; I just want to get paid. And all the cops care about is clearing the case. None of us gives a crap if you go down for it. Hell, if I tell them that it’s your color on Claudia Deegan, they’re not going to know any different.” I shrugged. “Now, as far as I’m concerned, I’ve got nothing against you. I’d rather see this other guy off the streets. And I bet you wouldn’t mind using a bit less mojo around the house.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, man,” he said. “I don’t know any red magic sorcerer.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Who sent you here, anyway? Somebody got it in for me?”

“Who is he, Antoine? Why is everybody so afraid of this guy?”

For a second I thought he’d spill it all. He was scared, terrified even. I glimpsed it in his eyes — I’d seen that fear before, in little kids who were being abused by their parents. Terror, helplessness, the memory of pain, the desperate desire to end the abuse, but all of it overmastered by the belief that no one could end the cycle and the certainty that if he tried, if he dared tell a soul, he’d be punished even more severely than before. ‘Toine felt trapped, and he had no faith that I could set him free.

At last he fixed his eyes on the street. It was almost like he expected to see the sorcerer strolling past. “I don’t know nothin’,” he muttered again. “Whoever told you I did was bullshittin’ you.”

He was lying. But again, as with Robby, I couldn’t do anything about it.

I stood. “Fine.” I fished out my business card, and tossed one down to him. It was a waste of time and paper, but what the hell. “If you reconsider, give me a call.”

He laughed. “Yeah, right, man. I’ll be callin’ you.”

I started to walk away.

“We can chat, man,” he called after me. “Like we’re old friends, you know?” He laughed again.

I made my way to the Z-ster, Antoine’s laughter still ringing in my ears. I had been preparing myself all day, planning what I’d do if I felt the Blind Angel killer’s power again. But like an idiot, I allowed the kid to throw me off balance.

And so, when the red sorcerer suddenly had me in his sights again, I was utterly unprepared. I tried to ward myself, knowing as I did that anything I came up with he could defeat, knowing as well what he was trying to do with these teasing encounters. But I made the effort anyway.

The feeling was much more vivid this time. I knew he was close. Too close. I turned a quick circle, but I also knew that I wouldn’t be able to find him. I felt the hairs on my neck and arms stand on end. I felt my skin grow cold, as if I was in shadow and the rest of the city was in brilliant sunlight. If he had wanted to kill me in that moment, he could have, though I would have put up a fight.

But he was toying with me. For a split second, I thought I could hear laughter. Not ‘Toine’s, though I heard that, too. This was deeper, more menacing, more elusive. I turned again, trying to pinpoint where it was coming from. But it was everywhere. Around me, above me, below me. It was in my freaking head.

You’re mine now, I thought I heard someone say.

And then it was gone. The laughter ceased, the sun shone on my face and arms, a warm wind touched my skin.

Three times. Once outside of Robby Sommer’s place, once outside of Robo’s in Tempe, and now here, in front of Antoine Mirdoux’s house. Was there a connection there, something linking the three of them to one another and to this sorcerer with the blood-red magic? Or was it mere chance, the random choices of this bastard who was hunting me?

I should have been concentrating on those questions, trying to figure out what Robby, Robo’s, and Antoine had in common with the Blind Angel victims.

But all I could think was that he’d done this to me three times now. He’d touched my mind with his magic; he’d tested my defenses and seen how I would respond to an attack, how I would ward myself.

Three times.

There’s power in numbers. He knew me now. I was his. And the next time, if he chose to attack, there would be precious little I could do about it.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 18

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 18

Chapter 6 – Paxton

Allenson’s carriage phased in over Paxton and began a slow circular descent through a sky crowded with frames. He had read about Paxton and seen video clips but the reality was still astonishing. The population must be four or five times that of Manzanita.

Buller and Todd ignored the view. They concentrated on a heated discussion of the merits of various Brasilian football teams, particularly their chances in upcoming league matches. Both Brasilians were familiar with cities that made Paxton look like a village. Allenson wasn’t so he welcomed the chance to play tourist.

Paxton had been founded as a commercial venture by Exoticana Services, a consortium owned by three powerful Brasilian gens. It was really a series of towns strong along the edges of a ria, a drowned river valley complex.  At some point the world of Nortania must have been in the grip of a snowball climate. When it warmed, water from the melting ice sheets had carved out steep-sided valleys which subsequently flooded as sea levels rose.

The hinterland behind the city must once been a mountain range but glaciers ground it down flattening the peaks into a plateau. Rising sea levels then turned the terrain into a flat coastal strip partitioned by deep saltwater channels that acted to mediate weather already temperate.

An astonishingly rich and agriculturally productive land resulted. Soils formed from glacial loess added to the fertility: something to do with varied mineral content, porosity and cation exchange capacity according to the farming manuals.

The salt-water channels served as ready-made canals to move agricultural produce down-estuary to Paxton. Interworld ships could land directly there on the deep-water ria close in to the shore. Waterborne traffic was slow but extremely cost effective. The plants were in no hurry so the canals were still in use despite Paxton’s modern prosperity.

A cross-Bight transporter and yacht lay floated at anchor. The cargo ship was docked at an industrial terminal, the yacht next to a bank dominated by the stepped up villas of the local gentry. Lighters shuffled between a dockside warehouse and the transporter, moving bales of plant material.

Paxton was perfect for the growth and distribution of the genosurgeoned crops. That made it ideal for the mass production of high value exotic products such as narcotics, drugs, and perfumes. The low organic content of the soil was convenient as it facilitated the spraying of chemical precursors to fine tune the molecular constituents in the crops. Paxton Freeport prospered until it was one the most important commercial centers this side of the Bight.

The extraction and blending of the target organics in the genosurgeoned crops was done on Brasilia under the direct control of Exoticana. The three families that owned the company shares had little interest in Nortania as such provided Paxton continued to supply a steady output of raw material.

Neither Paxton nor Nortania as a whole had a Brasilian governor because the powerful gens involved hadn’t been keen on officialdom poking its nose into their business activities. The company maintained an office and small administration to oversee plant exports. Otherwise the commercial consortium was disinterested in government except in so far as it affected their business so the colonists on Paxton largely governed themselves. The locals had no interest in interrupting the trade on which their prosperity was based so everyone was happy: everyone except for a few political radicals and hot heads who were easily weeded out at intervals and exiled.

Being centrally placed, neither of the Lower nor Upper Cutter Stream colonies, made Paxton an ideal neutral meeting place for the Assembly. The world had a suitably developed infrastructure capable of handling an influx of the great and the good. Such people could hardly be expected to live in tents and dig their own latrines while they discussed weighty matters of state.

Allenson’s carriage descended to a commercial area behind the coastal villas. The region overflowed with shops, restaurants and inns. They parked beside Verdant House, a two story public house built from dark varnished hardwood logged from forests deep in the lands beyond the Paxton agricultural zone.

Buller booked into a different inn much to Allenson’s relief. A little of Colonel Buller went a long way. The man alerted his hotel of his imminent arrival before landing so a complimentary ground carriage awaited him at Verdant House.

Two large animals pulled it. They looked like descendants of an Old Earth tetrapod species although Allenson was unfamiliar with the strain. The beasts stood about shoulder high on the long thin legs of running animals. Muscle was concentrated at the top to lighten the limb itself so it could be swung backwards and forwards with minimal expenditure of energy in reversing momentum. The animals possessed a covering of wiry fur that flowed into long-haired tails and manes.

Animal transport was rare in the Stream as the cost of keeping the animals usually outweighed any advantages conferred by a motor that reproduced itself. Of course, Paxton enjoyed a surplus of animal feed from the unwanted parts of the cash crops – provided the animals in question were plant eaters. This weighted the cost effectiveness of living compared to powered vehicles in the animal’s favor.

One of the beasts looked at Allenson reflectively before issuing a tremendous methanic fart as a prelude to depositing a large pile of steaming waste. The composition dispelled any doubt as to the creature’s herbivorous habits. Allenson could see similar deposits around the frame park and resolved to watch his step.

“Is that thing likely to do that often?” Buller asked the driver who was busy loading his bags into the carriage boot.

“Old Buttercup does blow off a bit now and then, but don’t pay no mind,” said the man cheerfully. “Boys come round later and shovel it up to sell as fertilizer.”

Allenson and Todd heard Buller complaining loudly over his datapad to his hotel about their complimentary transport as his carriage pulled away. Buttercup, whose ruminations had no doubt been excited by exercise, celebrated their departure with another sonic contribution.

“..where’s the proper cars you keep for important guests..” Even Buller’s booming voice eventually faded with distance.

Allenson thought Buller the sort of fellow forever doomed be disappointed by other people’s behavior. The universe would always fail to live up to his expectations.

#

Allenson discovered he was hungry so he went in search of food right after unpacking. He couldn’t be bothered to chase around to find a restaurant so he elected to eat at the inn.

“Is it possible to get a table for dinner, mistress?” Allenson asked the Verdant Green’s receptionist.

“Of course, sar,” the receptionist replied.

The young woman wore a tightly cut employee’s uniform that emphasized her slim figure. Her hair was tinted green with orange highlights in shades that complimented her yellow dress. She sat perched on a stool with a holographic screen open beside her. The receptionist peered at it, suggesting her eyesight was less than perfect at close-in focusing. Presumably glasses were beneath her dignity and genosurgery beyond her means.

“In fact we provisionally reserved a table for you – just in case. Will your aide be joining you?”

The girl smiled for the first time. He reflected that he always seemed doomed to travel with men who elicited smiles from pretty girls.

“Ah, no, I believe he has friends in town that he intends to look up,” Allenson said, wondering why he was explaining himself when no would have sufficed. Pretty girls tended to have that effect on him. The girl switched off the smile as if a switch had been thrown.

 

Polychrome – Chapter 26

Polychrome – Chapter 26

Chapter 26.

Ugu found Queen Amanita in the Third Garden, one of the few spots of green in the Gray Capital. She was apparently experimenting with transformations, morphing a butterfly into a sort of winged centipede with a dozen sets of brilliant wings, then into a bird with butterfly wings, and other variations on flying pretty creatures. She has an excellent eye and appreciation for beauty, but her art is as cold as her smile, alas.

As he waited for her to acknowledge his presence, he reflected that the latter thought seemed somewhat odd. How has this changed me, I wonder. I have found myself spending much time contemplating the best way to keep this realm for my own… and it seems that the best path has led to understanding those around me…

The train of thought made him uncomfortable, and it was almost a relief when Amanita Verdant turned her brilliant smile in his direction. “Oh, my apologies, Majesty. I was so involved in my work I did not see you there. What brings the King of Oz to visit me here in my humble garden?”

Ah, the charming and harmless flower approach. A shame none of your disguises, of body or of speech, work any more upon me. It was sometimes better, then. “Merely… curiosity, my Queen, as to some differences in policy which you appear to have directed without informing me. I would, you understand, prefer to know if any changes in Our directives are to be undertaken, that we appear to speak with one voice to the people.”

Her eyes widened and she gave her most innocent gaze. “To what differences do you refer, King Ugu?”

Play the ingénue as you will, then. “I am certain that you heard – if not with your own ears, then by proxy – my directives to the Viceroys, that assaults on the others of Faerie were forbidden. And now it appears that an assault was made on the flagship of Gilgad, one which nearly sank the object of our own plans, mind you, and which seems to have been directed by none other than yourself, Queen Amanita. Might you be willing to clarify these actions, which seem to me … a bit difficult to reconcile?”

“Oh, that!” Amanita laughed, then covered her mouth with a show of contrition. “My apologies, Majesty. I had thought you more clever than… that is, I had thought my reasoning entirely transparent.”

As transparent as your attempts to goad me. But we shall play the game. “Take care, Amanita. What is this obvious explanation which I am too stupid to understand?”

Her green eyes flashed for an instant with amused malevolence, but immediately returned to the wide-eyed harmless girl-queen. “Well, my King, we are agreed that our great advantage is in knowing the Prophecy, while our adversaries believe we know nothing – save, possibly, that a Prophecy exists, but nothing of its specifics, yes?”

Ugu nodded. “Iris Mirabilis has wisely treated the details as a state secret, and while we could ascertain that there is some ‘prophesied Hero’, no more than that would be available to us were Cirrus not one of us.”

“Exactly! So we should keep that advantage, I am sure you agree.” She scattered a dusting of sparkling powder with a gesture and the ground itself formed seats for the two of them. “Well, if we knew only that there was some prophesied hero and he was moving against us, would we not, in turn, move against him?”

Ugu grunted, as though he began to understand her point.

“I see you agree. Of course we would. For us to not attack him and his allies, at least on occasions when they seemed vulnerable, would possibly reveal that we know more than we ought, don’t you think?” She smiled prettily up at him. “So I had Cirrus direct a small but credible assault on that annoying little ship. We also have learned something of our opponent this way. Is this not a wise thing I have done?”

Ugu’s mouth tightened. His expression made clear that he did not like being so simply out-maneuvered. “I… I commend you on your strategy, my Queen. You are, of course, completely correct. Yet I would point out that General Dawnglory has been under my command, as you seemed more interested in your researches for the mystical defense of the realm, and I would prefer you not simply insert your commands into the military structure. Had you revealed these thoughts to me, I would certainly have given those directives, and this confusion would have been avoided.”

She smiled and ran her fingers sensuously through her silky hair. “Why, Ugu, I’m so terribly sorry. It wasn’t at all like that, it was just a personal request to Cirrus –” She put her hand delicately over her mouth again, the very picture of a woman who has accidentally revealed too much.

So that is the point she wishes to make. “Personal indeed, My Queen,” he said, with a hardness to his voice which – to his surprise – was not entirely an act. She is beautiful and talented and skilled, and helped bring me from my accursed bondage of centuries to rulership of Oz, and a part of me still wishes she was… what I once thought she could be. “Think you that I am entirely blind, or so old that I cannot see, or unable to watch as things pass within my own realm? I am aware that General Cirrus has been seen leaving your quarters at most inappropriate times. That will stop, Amanita, and it will stop now.”

All the gentleness vanished, and now there was just poison-candy venom in her smile. “You think you can order me in that fashion, Ugu? Order my personal life? Oh, I understand you may miss certain… aspects of interaction, but let us be clear that you have long since had all of your rewards in that area. Cirrus is a far more… compliant and entertaining companion.” She leaned forward and her voice carried the silken hiss of a cobra. “I will see whosoever I like, Your Majesty, and unless you wish to show yourself as foolish as other men, you will not risk your life or your current shape by trying to tell me otherwise.”

Ugu’s face was white and his voice, when he spoke, showed the strain of iron control. “I would not dream of interfering in whom you show the favor of your bedchamber, Queen Amanita. But for your sake, as well as that of my own image as the Ruler of Oz – an image you find useful, I remind you – what will stop is the clumsiness of these assignations. You may see whom you will, but you will no longer allow witnesses. The respect of the realm will not be tarnished by such sordid conduct.”

Her eyes narrowed, but the smile slowly returned; apparently she was willing to accept the practical directive with the knowledge that she had truly won the battle. “Oh, of course, my King. So we shall speak no more on that subject.”

Ugu nodded ungraciously. A change of subject. “Then allow me to ask how your researches have progressed, my Queen.”

Her expression lightened. “Oh, very well, King Ugu! In fact, since we are here, allow me to describe this to you – in privacy ensured by my magics, even better than your own.”

And so she tells me subtly that she has realized I have assured myself of security in my own chambers. But I doubt she realizes how carefully or subtly that security has been managed. “I would be most pleased to hear anything you would be willing to tell me.”

She turned and gestured; a small table grew from the ground between them, and the pebbles and grass upon it flickered and became an afternoon tea, with a number of dainty dishes on crystal and china. “Well spoken, my King.

“You understand that our greatest concern is that – despite all of our advantages and preparations – the mortal somehow achieves his power, the fusion of the power of Oz embodied in the Princess and the strength of a mortal being. I have dug deep and searched wide – often with the inestimable aid of your elemental servants,” she bowed in his direction with only a hint of mockery, “who have brought me much information from the other lands of Faerie. Such incidents have only happened a very few times in all our known history, but the past months have permitted me to assemble perhaps the most complete collection of accounts of all of these.” The smile widened. “And it turns out that even in that extremity, we have a good chance to triumph.”

Ugu leaned forward. “You fascinate me greatly, my Queen. How is this so?”

“His time is limited not merely by the nature of the fusion – by the fact that his body and soul will be overstrained by the alien power within him – but by something else.” Her smile grew even wider, a predator’s grin.

And as she continued her explanation, his own smile joined hers. Ahh. So very clear, even inevitable. So as soon as he gains the power, his very triumph is burning towards its own defeat. We need only survive long enough!

Ugu stood. “It is well, my Queen. Though, of course, we hope that this knowledge shall not be needed, as he will serve far better as a sacrifice than as a failed Hero.”

“Of course, King Ugu. Though,” and her smile was even more cold, “the failure of such a Hero would also do much to secure for all time our hold on this land.”

“As you say.”

Ugu bowed and left Amanita, and strode away, deep in thought, for some time. Finally he reached his own section of the Gray Castle.

“My lord?”

He smiled and nodded to Cirrus. “All is well. Very well indeed.”

“So she suspects nothing?”

Ugu’s smile was wry. “She suspects many things, my friend. But she does not give you credit for the strategy, and thus obviously suspects not at all that you passed to her the hints of action against the Hero, or the way in which I might be … missing critical aspects of the situation.”

Cirrus bowed. “Then all proceeds as planned.”

Ugu looked at him. “No… second thoughts?”

Cirrus did not pretend to misunderstand. “Majesty… she is quite beautiful. And … talented in certain areas. But… she is intending to use me as well. And she is even more mad than I had thought.” He shivered. “I will be well pleased when this is over, no matter how… entertaining some of the nights may be.”

Many are the men who would still be unable to think so clearly. A unique and precious find you are, Cirrus Dawnglory. “Soon, my friend. A few more months, I believe… and it will all be finished.”

Second Vision:

Agony of boiling light, cruel radiance tearing her slowly apart, pieces of her own self taken away, forged with hammers of blazing selfish will and cruel luminant ambition.

But the tiny comfort of the point of darkness remained, and she clung to that. Over days and weeks and untold passage of time, when her eyes and soul felt tormented beyond endurance, she could seek it out, so small, but still there, the one still and solid hope in all the light of the terrible world of ceaseless burning cold mystic fire.

Sometimes – for a moment or an eternity – she thought she saw something else, a flicker of different light, almost familiar, not terrible or destroying but laughing, and it danced around the dark point, then away, as though it did not know why it was drawn to the darkness and fled, heedless, to the realms of killing brightness that lay hidden behind all.

She could scream, but there were none to hear, save those who might be taking the strength from her, and they would not care.

And then, one day, like all other infinite days, but it was not. For on that day, when she awakened from the unsleeping rest she found within the unending baking light of all deserts distilled, she opened her never-closed eyes, and looked, and the darkness was no longer a point, but something else, a shape she could not see, but closer, and she knew and laughed, a laugh soundless and tired and agonized, but a laugh.

For Hope now walked towards her, and a Mortal had set foot on Faerie.

 

Castaway Planet – Chapter 18

Since the eARC of this book is now available, Ryk wants this to be the last snippet.  For the eARC see: http://www.baenebooks.com/p-2598-cast...

Castaway Planet – Chapter 18

Chapter 18

Sakura cut, perhaps with unnecessary viciousness, at a bamboolike stalk that blocked her passage. The machete — cut and ground down under Whips’ direction from one of the pieces of steel that had formed a major wing support — sliced cleanly through the stalk, which fell, spattering her with drops of blood and an explosion of crimson tendrils from the flowerlike ends; these were, fortunately, not venomous. “Oh, ick.”

“Sakura, slow down,” her father admonished. “You don’t need to break all the trail yourself. And if you insist on chopping your way along like some old-fashioned axe murderer, you can’t expect to stay nice and clean.”

For some reason, the forest on the farther side of the floating continent — at least in their area — was thicker than on their side. This expedition, with her, Dad, and Caroline, was an attempt to cut straight across from the column where she’d been stung to the other side, which should come out somewhere near where Dad thought there might be a stream.

Water was dripping on her from above, too. There’d been a heavy rainstorm last night, which had at least reduced the worry about water, but they still didn’t know anything about Lincoln’s seasons. This might be the “rainy season” and the dry season could leave them without water for weeks.

At least the dripping water helped her wash the icky stuff off, but the combination of heat and water wasn’t very pleasant.

Sakura slowed down, waiting for the other two to catch up. Whips would have come along but he wasn’t quite recovered from his fight against what Melody had named a dire-worm, causing her father to lecture everyone on the differences between worms, cnidarians, echinoderms, and how none of that applied here — and then agree that dire-worm was a very good name for the thing.

“Hey, Dad,” she said once they were caught up and had started pushing their way forward again, “you’d said you thought you’d figured out some things about our native life here?”

“Hmm?” Her father had been studying a small creature like a green box with bright lavender eyes, apparently spinning a web of some sort. “Oh, yes. Well, it’s nothing staggeringly surprising, but it is very indicative. From what I’ve seen, most things here — with the possible exception of our four-winged quadbirds, as Laura’s called them — have evolved to be able to survive both on land and underwater, at least for a time. This is rather what I expected to find, of course, but it’s exciting to have it confirmed.”

“And a little worrisome,” Caroline said.

She looked at Caroline. “Why?”

“I think Caroline means because of what it implies,” her father answered. Caroline nodded, and he continued, “If these islands stayed stable for, oh, millions upon millions of years, you’d expect obligate air-breathers to become fairly common. There’s a biological cost for keeping both options open, so to speak, and something that can just focus on one should gain a considerable advantage. The ocean-dwelling ones certainly are nicely focused.”

Sakura thought, then understanding dawned. “Oh. You mean that if they’re all ready for either one, then these islands break up, roll over, whatever, fairly often on an evolutionary scale.”

“So I would guess, yes.” They rounded another of the great columns, this one slightly shorter than some others, and pushed on into another cluster of heavy jungle. Sakura watched every unfamiliar object narrowly; the last thing she wanted was to end up stung again.

The path ahead lightened, and suddenly she could see into a moderate sized clearing. “Oh, wow,” she whispered.

In the clearing, apparently grazing on the blue-crystalline semi-grass that carpeted the little meadow, was a herd of creatures. They had blunt heads with big, rounded eyes, bodies supported by several squat legs, and a pair of ridges extending on either side of the body. But what was surprising was that they were covered with a lovely blue-green material that looked — at least from this distance — like fur. The animals measured about two meters long on average, but Sakura could see several much smaller, but generally similar creatures, trotting around and between the others, nuzzling their flanks, and generally being treated the way that young animals are everywhere: as a beloved but sometimes having to be tolerated nuisance.

“My goodness,” Akira said bemusedly. “Their top jaws seem to have fused, though the bottom still splits. Other than that odd tripartite jaw, they have an almost Earthly look about them. Like… like a capybara, in a way.”

“They’re adorable,” Sakura said. “I wonder if they’re dangerous.”

“We have to assume so,” Caroline said.

Two of the creatures nearest them straightened and looked at the humans at the edge of the clearing. The two gave warbling chirps, and the rest of the herd moved restlessly. Other cries were heard, and Sakura could see the youngsters moving closer in.

“Defensive reaction to the unknown. They’re tightening into a better defended group,” her father said, in a fascinated tone. “The scouts or guards have moved closer too, but they’re staying on the outside and watching us, obviously ready to defend the others.”

He frowned. “This isn’t a new reaction. They obviously do this often.”

“Which means there must be some pretty big and mobile predators around,” Caroline said slowly.

“I’m afraid so. But this may be a very big find. Those animals might be tamable, if we can figure out how to make use of their herd instincts.”

“You mean domesticate them? What for?”

“I’m not sure — yet. But anything from meat to draft animals. We have soil, we have water, there are undoubtedly plants we can eat here — agriculture seems like a good idea. But trying to plow a field by hand… let’s say I’d rather find an alternative.”

Caroline nodded. “The larger ones are about the size of … oh, what was that breed… Shetland ponies. Not exactly massive draft animals, but still pretty big, and strong enough for a lot of things. If they can be domesticated. I have no idea if that’s possible, though.”

“It’s worth thinking about.”

Sakura grinned. “I could ride one!”

“If it didn’t decide to bite you,” Caroline pointed out.

Her father finished getting imagery of the creatures and gestured. “Let’s move on. No need to keep these things on edge.”

As the three of them moved around the edge of the clearing, the small herd of animals edged cautiously around, trying to keep the same position with respect to them, moving under some of the large tree-like growths fringing the clearing in that direction.

Without warning, something lashed down from above, grasped one of the blue-green capybara-like creatures, and yanked it screaming out of sight into the forest canopy above. Sakura gave her own yelp of startled shock, and heard similar sounds of consternation from her father and Caroline.

For the herd it was not consternation; it was panic. The entire mass of creatures stampeded away, even as a second pair of tendrils streaked out and slashed at one of the rearguard, sending the animal tumbling. One of the littler animals gave a trilling shriek and ran towards the one that had been struck. The bigger animal let out an emphatic bellow and got up, running with a pronounced limp; the little one turned and fled just ahead of the limping one. A mother and its baby?

Something leapt from the trees just behind the fleeing herd and thudded to the ground. It scuttled on multiple jointed legs and held two tentacles coiled back, waiting to strike. It looked ungainly, like a cross between a lobster and a squid, but it moved shockingly fast. It was closing the distance between it and the limping creature.

Sakura didn’t know what caused it. Maybe it was the pitiful trill of the baby as it saw the thing coming, or the sight of the parent creature obviously trying to keep itself between the baby and the oncoming predator. But something drove a knife of empathy and rage straight into her heart and she was suddenly charging out, her father and sister screaming at her.

Part of her — most of her — realized how stupid this was — and how it was even more stupid than she’d originally thought. They might think she was another predator trying to attack!

But instead, the running herd merely split around her as she ran. The limping creature and its cub were streaking closer, but the tentacular predator was faster still. Got to …

Instinct and reflexes of a born pilot were the only thing that saved her. She saw a ripple on one side of the predator and dove forward, the striking tentacle passing just over her head. She rolled to her feet, feeling the ice-cold of adrenaline washing through her. The predator was now less than a meters away, but she swung hard —

The concussion of impact tore the machete from her hand and sent her tumbling away, bruised and dizzy. Sakura heaved herself back up, trying to focus as the predator shrieked in rage, but she knew she didn’t have any more weapons.

Abruptly her father was there, plunging an alloy-tipped spear straight into the thing’s shrieking mouth, rolling aside as the tendrils ripped through the air he’d occupied. Then Caroline, pale as paper, brought down her own machete with a two-handed blow that split the thing’s carapace. It spasmed and went limp.

Sakura shook her head, clearing it, even as her father — with one more glance at the creature to make sure it wasn’t moving again — ran to her. “Sakura! Sakura, are you all right?”

“I… I think so, dad. Just a little shaken up…”

Her father’s face suddenly transformed from concern to fury, more angry than she had ever seen him. “Bakame! What the hell were you doing? A little shaken up? I… you… I should give you a shaking you’ll never forget!”

“And I’ll be there to help!” Caroline stomped her foot as though that might be the only thing keeping her from slapping her sister. “Of all the utterly idiotic things…”

“I’m sorry!” she said, and she was. That was so stupid.

The shock and fear and guilt overcame her and she started crying. “I know, I was so stupid, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Dad, I don’t know why…”

Akira sagged to his knees, then touched her shoulder. “I know perfectly well why. But we can’t do that, honey. We can’t afford to lose anyone. And even if we could, your mother and I would be devastated if –”

“I know. I know…”

She looked up and then saw movement beyond her father.

The wounded animal and its baby were standing maybe fifteen or twenty meters away, looking at them. Farther behind, the herd waited, shifting restlessly.

Her father and Caroline turned slowly, and for a moment all was still; the blue-green animals with deep green eyes staring at the humans, the humans looking back and wondering.

Then the parent-animal snorted quietly, and turned and walked, still limping slightly, away. The baby looked back and followed. There was no sign of hurry or concern in the herd now.

Her father took a shaky breath, let it out. “That… could be very promising.” He looked down and the anger was back, though more muted. “But that does not excuse your behavior, Sakura. If you cannot control yourself, you’re little better than Hitomi, and I may have to ground you — even though we really cannot afford that.”

She looked down. No way I can argue. He’s right. I saw the little animal running and the mother — I assumed it was a mother — hurt, and I just acted, no thinking. No better than Hitomi. Maybe worse, because I know better than that.

She forced herself to look up and meet her father’s gaze — and with him looking so angry, that wasn’t easy. Akira Kimei was almost never the angry one, that was her mother who brought down the wrath of God usually. “I know, Dad. I won’t do anything like that ever again. I promise. I knew it was stupid as soon as I found myself out there, and I know I was luckier than I deserve.”

He closed his eyes, then opened them and nodded. The anger had faded to a warning behind his gaze. “All right. Then let’s keep going; if you’re not hurt, we’ve still got work to do.” He looked to the body, lying not far away. “And the first work is to take a look at this beast.”

Sakura nodded and moved towards the body. She glanced towards the trees from which the thing had come. And another way I was lucky; what if these predators had decided to protect each other? We’d all be dead.

She gripped the handle of her machete and ripped it out of the body. I won’t endanger my family again. I won’t!

As she bent over the animal and listened to her father’s discussion of the thing they’d killed, those words echoed deep inside her, not merely a decision, but an oath. I won’t endanger them. I won’t.

Never again.

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 17

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 17

Hawthorn picked up the heavy laserrifle that he kept by the pad. He opened the flap on the counter and made for the door, automatically checking that the weapon was powered up before sloping it across his right shoulder. He held it by the pistol grip, forefinger alongside the trigger. These were habits that had kept him alive but then, life itself was just a habit these days. He had as little to die for as to live for. He just went on, clicking through the sub-routines of his existence like an automaton.

His trading post attracted a small shanty town of Riders as trading posts always did. He ignored the Rider’s hovels to search the skies. A low, grey cloud base made the sledge phasing in easy to spot. It maneuvered slowly giving him a good view of the occupants. The driver was a midget of a man but the spare passenger space in the front was more than taken up by the girth of his companion. He was large in every sense of the word. The lemon-yellow padded shell suit covering his ample frame multiplied the visual impact.

He looked like a barrage balloon advertising custard tarts.

“You’re early, Shrankin,” Hawthorn said to the trader when the sledge had landed.

“Yeah, well, you may have noticed that the weather is closing in early so I made Jeb’s Shop the first on my circuit this year. Don’t wannabe hauling goods through snow.”

“Jeb’s shop?”

“That’s what they call this world nowadays.”

“I’m flattered,” Hawthorn said.

Shrankin, the name of the man worn by the shell suit, jumped out of the vehicle.

“Buggers, get the stuff of the wagon and take it inside,” he said to the driver who climbed into the back without a word.

“Is he really called Buggers?” Hawthorn asked, mildly curious.

“No idea,” Shrankin replied. “It’s what I’ve always called him. I’ve never asked to see his birth certificate ’cause he probably ain’t got one. Does his name matter?”

“Suppose not,” Hawthorn replied, losing interest.

He took the trader into the backroom where he kept his purchases. They dickered over a price to be paid partly in trade goods and partly in Brasilian crowns. The negotiations were desultory as both men knew what price they would finally agree. It was simply a matter of honor to put up some show of bargaining even if they were both just going through the motions.

A loud bang of wood on wood sounded from the shop, followed by a yell and another slam. Hawthorn flew through the door, lips pressed close together. A young male Rider glared at him from the other side of the counter. The Rider insolently lifted the counter hatch and slammed it again so hard that it tore off its hinges. Two of his friends standing in the entrance laughed and said something in their secret clan language.

“Quiet beastspawn or I’ll gut you,” Hawthorn said in Kant, angling his laserrifle and caressing the trigger so that an orange sighting dot glowed on the Rider’s chest.

“Want tonk,” the Rider said. “Got tokens.”

The rider swayed slightly as he fumbled in a cloth bag tied to a greasy loin cloth. Hawthorn was amazed he could stand given the stench of stale tonk on his breath. The Rider extracted rectangular purple and grey trade tokens and tossed them on the counter.

Purple and grey were the Mark of the Stream Administration. Hawthorn picked up one of the tokens and ran a thumb along the edge. A pattern code identified which trading post issued the token. It was not one of Hawthorn’s but that didn’t matter. Hinterland traders had an agreement to honor each other’s credit.

“Shrankin, know anything about O’Zhang’s post?” Hawthorn asked, without taking his eyes off the Rider.

“Got burnt out, three, four months ago,” Shrankin said from behind him. “O’Zhang lost his hands.”

Riders collected hands from their victims as religious trophies. The term was used by people in the Hinterland as a euphemism for dying but in this case Hawthorn suspected that Shrankin meant it quite literally.

“Yeah, that’s what I heard,” Hawthorn replied, putting his laserrifle carefully under the counter.

He tossed the token back at the Rider. The man fumbled the catch and the plastic rattled on the stabilized earth floor. The Rider attempted the catch with his right hand, which was odd as Riders were invariably left handed. This Rider held his left hand behind his back.

“Token no good, maker dead so power gone. No tonk, feck off,” Hawthorn said.

There was a dead silence. The Rider stared at him slackly as if his booze-sodden brain had trouble understanding that he had just been dismissed.

“Women’s piss,” the Rider screamed and launched his body through the gap in the counter. He thrust upwards at Hawthorn’s lower torso with the flint knife that he had concealed behind his back.

It was a beautifully timed strike despite the Rider’s apparent intoxication. If Hawthorn had recoiled the blade would have eviscerated him all the way to the rib cage, possibly nicking his heart or aorta before stopping.

Hawthorn anticipated the attack and stepped forward.

He deflected the knife strike with is right arm and pivoted, rabbit punching the warrior in the back of the neck as the man flew past. The Rider smashed head first into a cupboard and went down. Hawthorn put the boot in before he could get up. He kicked the rider in the side of the head and twice in the ribs. Something broke with a sharp crack after the last blow.

Grabbing the Rider’s ankles, Hawthorn dragged the unconscious warrior back across the shop. His head left a trail of blood on the floor. Barging past the warriors at the entrance he dropped the wounded man in the dirt outside.

The warrior’s two friends looked uncertain. One fingered a hatchet looped to a belt around his waist.

Shrankin loomed like a bright yellow mountain behind them, waggling the discharge end of an ion pistol for emphasis.

“I don’t think so boys.”

Hawthorn ignored them. He stomped back into his shop followed by the trader. The Riders disappeared carrying their out-of-it mate.

“You took one hell of a chance,” Shrankin said, holding out a flask of plum brandy. “Why didn’t you just shoot him?”

“And start a Blood Feud,” Hawkins replied before taking a pull of the liquor.

It stung his tongue and burnt all the way down his throat and, reminding him that he was still alive. He took a slower slip, savoring the tangy fruit aftertaste.

Hawthorn grinned and handed back the flask.

“Besides, where would be the fun in shooting the bastard.”

Shrankin joined him by sinking a generous measure. Hawthorn found a couple of glasses and the trader filled them.

“There may be plenty of shooting soon enough,” Shrankin said.

“Really, why?” Hawthorn asked.

“The nobs are meeting at Paxton…”

“On Nortania?”

“You know of another one?”

“No, just surprised at the choice of location. Why not meet at Manzanita or Trinity?” Hawthorn asked.

“How the hell do I know? Do you want to hear about this meeting or not?”

“Sorry, okay, continue.”

Shrankin looked mollified.

“As I said, the Nobs are meeting at Paxton to organize a joint response and give Brasilia an ultimatum over taxation.”

“Why, most of us don’t pay taxes?”

“The nobs do,” Shrankin replied, refilling the glasses. “I’ve a mate who knows some guys in the militia. They reckon there’s going to be a war.”

“I see,” Hawthorn said.

“The Colonel of Militia is going to Paxton,” Shrankin said, tapping his nose to convey his subtle grasp of colonial realpolitik.

Hawthorn started and put his glass down.

“This Colonel, your mate didn’t mention his name?”

Shrankin shook his head.

“Didn’t have to. Same colonel we’ve always had. The one who was a hero in the Terran War, Ballysin or something.”

“Allenson?”

“That’s the bastard.”

Hawthorn put his laserrifle over his shoulder and headed for the door.

“Oy, where you going?” Shrankin asked.

Hawthorn turned.

“Have you ever heard of amalgamated vertical business administration?”

“No,” Shrankin replied, clearly confused.

“Well, you have now. The trading post is all yours, an outlet for your distribution business. Just think, in a few years they could be calling this place Shrankin’s Shop or lemon-yellow land.”

“But what are you going to do?”

“I have,” Hawthorn said, “to see a man about a war.”

 

Spell Blind – Snippet 17

Spell Blind – Snippet 17

Right. I got back in the car and drove east on Thomas and then turned onto Eighteenth. Antoine Mirdoux lived in Mountain View’s seven thirty-three beat, another garden spot. To a civilian — one crazy enough to be walking these streets — there wasn’t a whole lot of difference among the beats in this part of town. A person could drive from one to the next without knowing it. But to the cops working the neighborhoods, each beat had a personality, a flavor. I’m sure the seven thirty-three was like that, a place that cops came to know and even like, in a perverse sort of way. To me though, these were just streets and ramshackle houses, places where a dark sorcerer could be waiting, watching for me. The area around Orestes’s place I knew; I’d been there enough times before to make even those rough streets feel familiar. But as I drove the Z-ster up and down Eighteenth, looking for a house that glowed with pale green magic, I felt like a soldier entering an urban war zone for the first time. These streets were alien to me, and I could almost feel the danger crawling up my arms and legs, making me shiver. As I drifted past, kids and old people stared at me, grim and hostile. They knew I didn’t belong there; they might even have sensed an ill omen in my coming. I kept my speed the same, trying not to make eye contact as I searched for Antoine’s house.

I spotted it about a block short. Like Orestes’s house, it was dripping with magic — between Orestes and Antoine, I was beginning to feel like I should go home and put a few spells on my place. It seemed there were some heavy clouds looming on the magical horizon.

I couldn’t tell for certain in the daylight, but Antoine’s magic did appear to be a very pale green, about the same color you might see on a traffic light. At least I knew that he wasn’t our killer.

I drove past the house and parked two doors down, not wanting to spook him. I tucked my weapon into my shoulder holster, walked to the door, and knocked.

No answer. I raised my hand to knock again, and as I did, several things happened at once.

I felt a pulse of magic aimed at me through the door — an assailing spell — and without even thinking, I warded myself. When in doubt, go back to what you know best. I used a deflection spell.

I didn’t know what ‘Toine had in mind for me when I redirected his assault at the first thing I thought of: his door, to be precise. But given the way the door exploded inward, I guessed that he wanted me blown up. The wood shattered with a sound like thunder from a too-close lighting strike and fragments of the door and flecks of old white paint flew through the house like flakes in a snow globe.

My initial thought was that Orestes had sold the kid short, making him sound like some kind of hack conjurer. He wasn’t a master yet — if he had been, I’d have been killed by the explosion — but he was better than Orestes had made him sound. I should have recognized Brother Q’s attitude for what it was: professional jealousy. ‘Toine was every bit the sorcerer Orestes had been the first time I busted him. Give the kid a few years, and he’d be a force in this town.

In the next instant I realized that I’d heard another sound after the door vaporized. A second door had opened on the far side of the house and a moment later a screen door had slammed shut. I sprinted through the house and out the back in time to see a young black man disappear around a corner. It was Robby-freaking-Sommer all over again. And my leg still hurt.

But ‘Toine had tried to kill me, and I was pissed. It was amazing what a bit of anger could do to strengthen a person’s magic. Turning that same corner, I saw Mirdoux running away from me, and I tried the most basic assailing spell I could think of, something so simple that he never would have expected it, something so harmless that if he reflected it back at me, it wouldn’t do any damage.

Three elements. My hand, his foot, his momentum. As I’ve said, the words don’t matter; it’s all visualization.

‘Toine went down in a heap, the way he would have if I’d been close enough to grab his foot in the middle of his stride.

I ran toward him, warding myself as I did. I almost pulled out my Glock, but then I thought better of it. I didn’t want him panicking, and I didn’t want to give him another target for his magic.

As I got near him, I slowed to a walk. He had sat up, and was glaring at me. I expected him to cast a spell my way at any moment.

“Don’t even think about it, Antoine,” I said, still easing toward him. “I’m a better conjurer than you are.”

“The hell you are, man!”

“Have you seen your door lately?”

He said nothing, but if he’d been able to turn that glower into magic, I’d have been little more than ash.

Antoine couldn’t have been more than twenty-five years old, and he was surprisingly clean-cut for a kid who’d tried to splatter me all over his front steps. His hair was short and neatly cut, his face was square, his skin smooth. It was hard to tell with him on the ground, but I don’t think he would have stood much more than five-six or five-seven. He was broad in the shoulders and lean, and he wore a diamond stud in his left ear.

“Who the hell are you?” he asked. ‘Toine may have been from Haiti, but he had no accent, and I had the feeling that he could have spoken like a news anchor if he’d chosen to.

“You’re trying to kill me, and you don’t even know?”

“I know you don’t belong ’round here. I know you got no business knockin’ on my door.”

“So you’d have tried to blow me up even if I’d been selling Bibles?”

“You don’t look like no Bible salesman.”

“No? What do I look like?”

“A cop.”

I guess it never really goes away. It’s not like I could argue with the kid. “It would have been pretty stupid to blow up a cop.”

“Man, what are you talkin’ about with that blowin’ up shit? I didn’t try to blow up nobody.”

“No? Then what was that spell you threw at me through what used to be your door?”

“Nothin’ you ever heard of, man.” He grinned. “It’s one of my own. It would have felt like somebody shattered a beer bottle on your head. Would have put you out cold.” The smile vanished. “Instead, you gotta go and destroy my house.”

Either he was lying, or I was far more powerful than I’d ever thought and had unwittingly found some way to amplify his assailing spell. Guess which one I was betting on.

“I’m not a cop, Antoine,” I said. “I’m a private investigator.” I pulled out my wallet and showed him my PI’s license. “My name is Jay Fearsson. I’m doing some work on the Blind Angel murders.”

 

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 16

Into The Maelstrom – Snippet 16

The restaurant itself was a circular bowl with terraced seating under a ruby-red ceiling fluorescing from spotlights projecting up into the glass. Streams flowed down from the edges of the bowl. The water meandered around the tables to drain under the kitchen hub in the center. Few staff assisted the diners. One found a table, ordered via datapad from the menu and collected the food in person from automaton dispensers in the hub. It was all rather egalitarian in a high tech sort of way.

Allenson chose a seat up on the bowl where each table was made from a different colored mineral marbled with various contra-colors. The seats were likewise constructed. Allenson scored them ten for fashion but minus several hundred for comfort.

The restaurant was almost empty. Allenson checked his pad and found it was an odd time for dinner on local time. That was the problem with frame travel. The local time zone was usually never convenient but here it had worked in their favor.

Allenson ordered a stew more or less at random from the hologram over the table while Todd chose something complicated from the Terran section. Todd trotted off to get them a couple of beers while their meals were prepared.

Allenson was pleased to see that the boy returned with simple lagers only mildly flavored with elderberry.

“I don’t understand how Colonel Buller can hope to be put in command of the colonial militia regiments,” Todd said, when they had slaked their thirst. “Surely you already hold that position?”

“Indeed, no,” Allenson replied. “True I was the last Inspector General of Colonial Militia until my retirement but that position was never refilled.”

“Why not?” Todd asked.

“Well, as it’s a gift within the control of the Brasilian Colonial Office, you would have to ask them. I’d imagine that they saw no useful purpose in a unified military command this side of the Bight once the Terran colonies were defeated.”

“But mother said you were elected Colonel in Chief of the Colonial Militia Regiments.”

“Not exactly, I was elected Colonel in Chief by each Regiment which is not the same thing at all.”

Todd looked at him blankly, clearly not understanding.

“It’s not a unified command.”

“Sorry, Uncle Allen, you’ve lost me.”

“Maybe an example would help,” Allenson said. “Suppose I wanted the Wagner, Manzanita and Prato Rio Regiments to go to, say, Leyland. I would have to give the Commanding Officer of each Regiment a personal order as his superior. Now further suppose I want to conduct a military operation on Leyland in Brigade strength. How would I do that?”

“You would have to be present at Leyland to order each Regimental CO personally unless the operation was so simple that you could send them out with fixed orders,” Todd replied slowly.

Allenson was pleased to see that Todd grasped the problem immediately, not that he expected his brother and Linsye’s child to be slow.

Allenson continued.

“In my experience everything is simple in warfare but to do the simple is extraordinarily difficult. In my experience if the enemy have only three different choices of reaction to your plans you may expect them to take the fourth, the one not foreseen in the original orders. Now assume I also want other militia regiments to conduct a simultaneous brigade operation deep into the Hinterland.”

“You would need to learn to pedal really fast,” Todd said with a grin.

Allenson laughed. “And then some. Sure each regiment will take orders from me personally but only a proper military organization can conduct a prolonged campaign, let alone a war.”

“One might almost think that Brasilia planned it that way,” Todd said.

“Never assume the enemy. I mean the opposition, is stupid,” Allenson replied, remembering his conversation with Trina.

The table hologram flickered and chimed.

“Ah, I think our meal is ready and here comes Buller.”

“Oh joy,” Todd replied.

#

The first bite of winter lay on the steppe and a thin smear of frost on the thick grass hinted at the cold to come. The coating was a prelude to the main symphony of thick snow and iron-hard ground. Hawthorn pulled back the heavy wooden door. The chill steppe wind swept gleefully into his workshop. It pried playfully into the nooks and crannies including some rather personal to the owner. He shivered and made a mental note to look out his furs. When he walked back to the counter he limped slightly on his left leg.

Hard wood was at a premium on the steppe so it only used for the skeletal frame of the building and the doors and window shutters. The walls were made of a lattice of interweaved stems generously coated in a sticky mix of mud, dried leaves and animal dung. The smell wasn’t too bad once it had dried. In winter, anyway, things got a bit whiffy in high summer.

A small collection of Riders waited stoically outside, their skin turning blue with cold under their furs and trade-cloth blankets. The first in line was a Rider woman, looking about eighty but probably nearer thirty. Riders aged quickly because life in the wilderness was brutal and short. Those who praised the noble ways of the simple savage from the depths of a comfy armchair would be shocked by the reality.

The woman produced a small statuette, a crude representation of a Rider on a Rider beast. Hawthorn examined it, turning it over in his hands. It had probably been hand-carved by a blunt trade knife wielded by a Rider male too old to hunt. Ivory from the tusk of some animal provided the raw material. In short it was just the sort of one-off unique item that would appeal to a collector in the Homeworlds where rarity was at a premium. Homeworlders prized imperfect uniqueness, conditioned as they were by the cheap availability of automaton mass-produced perfection.

He offered the woman ten trade tokens using Kant, the lingua franca Riders used for inter-clan communication. The fact that “foreigner” and “enemy” were the same word in Kant spoke volumes about the nature of most interclan communication.

Her eyes widened. Ten was a good price, worth twenty in goods from his own store. Each token was valued at an exchange rate of a few Brasilian pennies. The work would sell for several crowns in a Brasilian art shop specializing in the primitive provided it was accompanied by a certificate of provenance signed by every dealer along the trade route but that was there. Here, at a trading post deep in the Hinterlands, ten tokens was a good price.

The “box-people” astonished Riders. Why would anyone so imaginably rich in possessions want to exchange valuable items like knives and blankets for a piece of old tat that anyone with two thumbs could knock out in an hour?

The woman elected to take half the payment in a bottle of tonk and some cloth. Hawthorn carefully measured out the length from the roll chosen by the woman. The material was bright red with black zig-zag patterns. Riders liked loud colors but who was he to criticize their taste? After all, his people paid ridiculous prices for “primitive art”.

“Tonk” was the universal word for rotgut gin. Riders had no access to alcohol before humanity crossed the Bight so the human word had found its way into Kant. A little went a long way with a Rider but, in its way, tonk was as useful for keeping out the cold as furs or trade-cloth.

The word originally came from a shortening of Tollins Superior Berry Distillation. Tollins was still a popular brand in the Stream for those with shallow pockets but deep thirsts. Hawthorn drank it himself when he was out of plum brandy. The only thing superior about Tollins product was that it was guaranteed not to actually blind its customers provided they didn’t drink too much or they didn’t get a dodgy batch rushed through on a Friday afternoon, or – well, you get the picture.

Hawthorn served his little band of customers. He traded cloth, tonk and ceramic tools for furs, gem minerals and curios. Eventually he worked through the queue of Riders and was left alone with his thoughts. That was nowhere he wanted to be so he used a trick he had perfected of clearing his mind and just being.

A soft chime switched his intellect back on. He retrieved his datapad from a shelf under the counter. An icon flashed red, activated by a solar powered instrument package on the roof that monitored ripples in the Continuum.

 

Spell Blind – Snippet 16

Spell Blind – Snippet 16

“Brother Q knows nothin’ for certain,” he muttered.

“But you have an idea of who’s doing this, don’t you?”

He peered at me over the top of his sunglasses. “Who are you askin’ for, Brother J? Yourself or the cops?”

“Does it matter?”

“What matters and what doesn’t depends on where you stand. Brother Q might feel different with some green in his hand.”

I had to laugh. “That was pretty good.” I reached for my wallet and pulled out two twenties. It was more than I usually gave to any informant, including Orestes. But after three years, we were getting close. I felt it in my blood, in my bones. And I was still shaken by what I’d seen in my scrying stone on the trail. The money was the least of my worries. I held the bills up, but I didn’t hand them to him. Not yet.

“You’re hungry today, aren’t you, Brother J?”

“I need a name.”

“Brother Q doesn’t have a name to give.”

I lowered my hand. “Then what do you have?”

“What do you know about this sorcerer you’re after?”

“Not a lot. I know the color of his magic. I know that he’s taken an interest in me and my case. I know that he carried Claudia Deegan out into South Mountain Park and killed her there.”

“How you know that?”

“I scried it,” I told him. “A seeing spell.”

“Good for you!” he said, sounding like he meant it. “A seein’ spell. That’s high magic.” He glanced up at the sky. “But you’re right: you don’t know much.”

The last thing I needed was Q telling me how much I did and didn’t know. I examined his shop again, noting the orange light that danced along the roof line and around the windows and doors. “What are you so afraid of?”

He twisted around in his chair. “What do you mean? Brother Q ain’t afraid of nothin’.”

“No? Then why all the warding spells? Your place is glowing like the magical equivalent of Fort Knox.”

“There’s a lot of crime around here. You know that.” He forced a smile. “Things aren’t as safe around here since you left the force.” He wasn’t very convincing.

“What’s going on, Q?”

The smile faded. He regarded me for a minute. Then he motioned with his head toward the shop, stood up, and walked inside.

I followed.

“Close the door,” he said.

The shop was lit by a single light bulb in an old fixture, and it smelled of incense smoke and oils. I recognized the frankincense as soon as we got inside, but it was mingled with something harsher, more bitter.

“Is that Petitgrain?” I asked.

“Very good, Brother J. You’re learnin’ well.”

Petitgrain and frankincense. Among herbalists, both were thought to be powerful guardians against dark magic. Orestes could deny it all he liked, but he was scared.

“What’s all this about, Orestes? Frankincense, petitgrain, all those wardings; it’s like you’re preparing for a war.”

“A man can’t be too careful.”

“Why not? What’s out there?”

He shook his head. “Brother Q doesn’t know.”

“Damnit! I don’t have time for this. Some sorcerer is out there stalking me, making me look over my shoulder every two seconds!”

“Brother Q is tellin’ the truth. Q swears it. He hears whispers, wind in the trees, nothin’ more.”

“What kind of whispers?”

He licked his lips, glanced around the shop. “There’s a new player in town. A real badass. You know what Brother Q is sayin’?”

“But if he’s new–”

“Brother Q doesn’t believe he’s new. It’s the same guy you’ve been after for three years. But he’s gettin’ stronger. That Q does believe.” He shook his head. “People are scared, J. People are real scared.”

“Who is he?”

“No one knows. He’s got no name. Nobody ever sees him, or at least they don’t talk about it if they do. He comes and goes and no one knows where he lives or where he’s come from.” He leaned forward. “Some are sayin’ he comes from Hell itself,” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper.

“How long have you been hearing about this guy?”

“Not long. Can’t say for certain. But not long.”

“Why does he kill? What’s he getting from these kids?”

“I don’t know that either.”

“Come on! You’ve got to be able to tell me something about this guy, other than the fact that he’s a badass weremyste.”

“He ain’t like other weremystes. He’s more than strong, you understand? He’s different.”

I felt cold suddenly and had to keep myself from shuddering. “Different how?” I asked, though I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear his answer.

He shrugged. “Q don’t know. He’s just different. His magic’s stronger than it should be. Some people are sayin’ that the moons don’t bother him, though I don’t know nothin’ about that.”

“Yeah, all right,” I said. I believed Q was trying to help me, and would have, had he known enough. “Who else can I talk to about this guy?”

“No one other than Q is gonna talk to you about him. They’re all too scared.”

“Leave that to me. Give me a name. Someone’s had dealings with him, right?”

He hesitated. “Some say he’s done business with an enchanter near here.” Orestes said the word “enchanter” as if it were something dirty. To those skilled in the use of magic, enchanters were weremyste wannabes, people who dabbled in conjuring but had learned little craft. He might as well have called the guy a fraud. “A boy named Antoine Mirdoux. Another brother from Haiti.”

“Mirdoux,” I repeated. “Sounds familiar.”

“He’s been around a little while, but he’s just a kid. Calls himself ‘Toine. Thinks he’s goin’ to be somethin’ big, you know what Q’s sayin’? Thinks he’s goin’ to be the next Brother Q.” He shook his head. “But the boy ain’t got the chops.”

“Where can I find him?”

“Like I said, it’s not far. He has a place just off of Thomas; I think it’s on Eighteenth. It’s white, but it needs paint. There’s –” He stopped and waved his hand, in the general direction. “You’ll see the wardings on it. Pale green; very weak.”

I handed him the two twenties. “Thanks.”

“Did you mean what you said before? Is this hell sorcerer really targetin’ you?”

I rubbed the back of my neck, wishing I’d kept that bit of information to myself. “Yeah,” I said. “At least I think it was him. It felt like someone was about to use assailing magic against me. I warded myself both times, but no attack ever came.”

“Both times,” Orestes said. “It’s happened twice?”

I nodded. He grimaced.

“Have you considered whether you might be better off leavin’ him be?” he asked.

I didn’t bother to answer. Instead, I reached for the door. “Thanks again.”

“Brother Q has one favor that he’d ask of you. . .”

This one I’d heard before; his standard parting line. “Please don’t tell a soul that you heard it from Q,” we said together.

“You got it,” I told him. “Stay safe.”

“You, too. Keep your head down.”