Growing Up Magic (Wine of the Gods Book 9)

by Pam Uphoff

  "Do you know, that was probably the most fun I've ever had at one of these hideous balls." He spoke to thin air, but someone laughed behind him.

  Garit. "It was pretty good, wasn't it. I'm working for Janic, and I had a list of things to pay attention to. Gave me a whole new perspective." He grinned. "Did you know those four witches are called the Sisters from Hell?"

  "So they told me. Some fellow by the name of Lord Hell is their stepfather or some such. First they said that, then they declared that as witches they didn't actually have fathers." Staven grinned. "You should have seen the glares when I said 'Oh, parthenogenesis?' At least they're well educated enough to understand."

  Garit snickered. "Well, that's one soirée over at any rate. I'm going to cheat and soak in a hot tub here, maybe even sleep in a real bed—if there are any empty ones, what with every one being here. I'll get back to the barracks tomorrow."

  "The palace is too big to be cramped. But I'm staying at Rufi's, all us Spear types hanging out together. Scary, to think I might follow in their perpetually unmarried footsteps. Mother's got the house closed up while they're all down in South Coast."

  "Ooo, nice warm winters! Smart of them, although I suspect they miss you." Garit sounded a bit wistful.

  He's the baby of the family, and somehow I missed seeing big brothers Rolo and Mirk saying how much they'd missed him over the last year.

  "Yeah, and I miss the little brats, too." He thumped Garit's shoulder. "At least the big brats are here." He was a little surprised to find that he meant it. Even Rebo. Maybe the two year rotation will be as good for him as it obviously has been for Garit.

  Garit laughed and headed back inside.

  I need to help Rebo get ready. Be a good influence.

  Staven lingered for a few moments longer, savoring the brisk night air, then he turned to cut across the palace grounds to the oversized mansion Rufi had claimed as his own. I'll visit Uncle Day tomorrow.

  ***

  Bert heard the neighing and stuck his head out the door. A faint line of light marked the predawn, much too early for loud carrying ons. In fact, there was a dark horse at the gate, and a man dismounting.

  Damien walked out of the barn, lantern in hand. "Staven!" He set the lantern down to shake hands, and then with a laugh clap the young man on the shoulders. "C'mon in. Can you stay long enough to put Devil up or are you bound somewhere?"

  "Nope, I have the day off. I just know your schedule and when to catch you here." He led the horse through the gate and their voices faded.

  Bert blew a worried breath through his mustache. The sword heir didn't know what Damien was; would he spill secrets right and left? Not that a nineteen year old lieutenant knew much of anything . . . yet. Rufi's right. The boy needs to know . . . that his admired father-figure is just playing him? That there's no affection? Oh, Hell.

  He watched, not a little envious, as young man and old returned to the house. Lights came on in the back, he caught a few clinks and clanks, as of pans and china. A whiff of bacon. Damien didn't usually bother with a large breakfast.

  Must be nice to have a big strong son drop by, even though he isn't properly even a step son. Make a fuss over him, feed him, let him know how loved he is. Bert wiped a blurry eye. Does Damien know what he's setting that boy up for? How much it will hurt him, when the truth comes out?

  Max and Code showed up, looked at the empty yard where the teams were not being harnessed, and entered the house. They all came out a few minutes later and got busy. When the wagons moved out for the day's business, Staven was riding along with Damien.

  At least he isn't wearing his uniform. That would set the tongues wagging for sure.

  An hour later, the oldest of Max's boys turned up to harness their small gig to a pair of young horses and take four of the teenagers to school. Bert knew them all well enough to know that Mihaela would be returning to Ash for both regular school and magic lessons for a couple of months. She was waffling about college, here, or the continuation of a rather eccentric education with the witches and such. Apparently they didn't have an organized college, but just taught however many students they had, whatever they wanted to learn. Damien called it "The Disorganized University of Ash" and said it was actually quite stringent. "They've got experts," he'd said, and that they often sent students to the Kings University for some classes as well. It was a bit of an affront to Bert's organized, military mind. Witches, wizards, magic. Well, if I'm going to believe in transdimensional corridors and gates, why not believe in more ordinary magic as well?

  He putzed around his empty house for a bit, telling himself he wasn't feeling sorry for himself. Kicked himself mentally and walked outside. No sign of anyone to gossip with. Walked back inside and glowered at his kitchen. Max had only been half kidding when he'd once said that Bert's cooking was so bad it made marrying Andrai look good. Bert shuddered at the thought of living with that sharp tongued woman. Not a bad neighbor, but . . .

  He burned some toast, and turned his attention to a cabinet beside the sink. When he'd taken this assignment—jumped at a chance to avoid the empty pit of an honorable retirement—he's claimed to be a retired carpenter. Bought the house because of proximity to his assignment, not because he was actually qualified to fix it up. although he hadn't done half bad on the basic structure. But fine cabinetry . . . he finally got the cabinet door pretty much fixed. Working at any rate. He put his tools away and scowled at the kitchen. Very nice, all spruced up and so forth. Still didn't make him a decent cook.

  But the streets were clear, so Bert strolled down to the Sooty Duck for a late lunch.

  The tavern was three ramshackle buildings up from the river docks, where the barges from up river pulled in to unload, and sometimes be dismantled, although a fair number hired tow teams to haul them back upstream.

  He ordered a sandwich and collected an ale, green and sharp. Flavorful. He told himself firmly.

  "No. I'm not a whore. I'm a very good cook."

  Bert glanced over to the side. The blonde woman wasn't young, but she wasn't old enough to be called middle age. Quite. Dressed in country best.

  Onray sneered. If she'd worn less clothing, he have leered.

  Hanseo sneered too. One of the resident whores.

  Fala the other current 'talent' looked at the girl pityingly, and delivered Bert's sandwich. "Why would Onray need a cook? He mostly just does sandwiches. Why don't you go ask at those fancy houses?"

  The woman slumped, and country accent broke through. "I did. Tey sicced teir dogs on me. And t'restaurants trew garbage."

  Old Barto laughed. "Protecting their jobs girly. No outsiders are going to get a foot in the door."

  Clomping feet in the doorway. A couple of loaders from the docks. Probably pocketed a few things on the side. From the looks of them they lived in Gully Town.

  Onray pointed at them. "See. That's who women apply to, for work. Probably get a crown apiece from them."

  She looked at them in horror.

  They swapped grins.

  "New in town, Sweetie? We'll get you off to a nice start."

  "No tank you." She headed for the door.

  One stepped in front of her, the other grabbed her arm from behind . . . and went flying over her hip into his friend.

  Bert, halfway to his feet and wondering if he was too old to tackle two hardened dockworkers, just froze, gawping. Nice throw!

  More foot steps, Damien, followed by Code.

  ". . . can't believe you sent them off alone!"

  "Look, they're kids. Eighteen and seventeen. It's broad daylight. How much trouble can they get into?"

  "Damien! He's the Spear Prince, a Royal! Royals don't have morals, they only respect girls whose father's can make trouble for him. And guess what? I can't!"

  They'd circumnavigated the fallen dock hands while talking. The dock hands were untangling themselves and looking pissed. The woman edged away from them, trying to go around them. Bert could see it wasn't going to work.

>   "Staven is not . . . "

  "The marrying type!"

  Damien sighed. "And Mihaela's a witch. She won't be marrying either." His brows pulled together suddenly and he looked at the blonde woman. "Ash. That's where I've seen you before. Do these idiots have any idea how much trouble they're in?"

  "Tat's t'problem." The woman edged further from the rising men. "I'm not a witch. I'm a cook."

  "Oh? Oh my. Onray, hire her quick. Or Bert. This lucky encounter could save you from your own cooking. That whole village has cooking contests, with incredible results. You won't regret it."

  "Oh yes he will!" The first loader heaved to his feet and charged.

  Damien stepped forward, grabbed his arm, spun, and released to let him fly out the door. The second one jumped him. Code brought his joined hands down on his neck, or tried. He hit him hard enough on the upper back to floor him.

  Bert drained his ale, drew his arm back and let fly. The heavy mug hit the first loader in the forehead as he threw himself back through the door. He crumpled against the door jam and sat blinking.

  Damien gave the second man a carefully calculated love tap, then heaved him to his feet and sat him in a chair. Bert and Code grabbed the arms of the first and seated him next to his buddy.

  "Two ales, on me." Damien flipped Onray a coin.

  Bert looked at the pair and tossed a second coin. "Make it four, they aren't going to be feeling very good." He eyed the stationary blonde a bit uncertainly. "Err, Miss? Would you like a ride away from here? Umm. Not sure I can actually afford a really good cook, but I've got a spare room you could stay in while you look for a real job."

  Her lips quirked in an unsteady smile and her eyes were a bit wild. "Certainly."

  ***

  ". . . and he just looks at me and shakes his head. 'Staven, don't you think that spear will work better if you turn it around so the pointy bit is aimed at the bad guy?' I just about died of embarrassment."

  Mihaela and the brats were still giggling as he turned the gig into the yard. Two of the wagons were standing in the yard, horses still hitched. The giggling stopped abruptly.

  "What happened?"

  "Uh, oh."

  They all leaped off, and ran for the house. Staven was left to swing the pair to the fence beside the wagons, set the brake, and tie the fillies before he followed the rush inside.

  Bert, the old guy from across the street, and a pretty blonde woman were sitting on the couch, the woman eyeing the Travelers' traditional "Christmas" tree askance.

  Andrai was carrying in a tea tray while ordering the kids about. ". . . just because those men forgot to take care of the very important business of caring for their horses doesn't mean there's a disaster. Now do you have school work you need to take care of before you run off like wild street urchins?"

  Damien was leaning against the door jam, and looked over his shoulder at Staven. "Do you think she's hinting about something?"

  Staven snickered. "Hi, Aunt Andrai. Nice to see you again. I'll drag this horrible fellow out to tend his neglected beasts."

  Damien snorted. "Hey! You're supposed to be on my side." He stepped out the door and followed Staven back to the yard. The windows were open far enough to catch voices.

  Mihaela's first. "I can't believe you left Ash!"

  "I just . . . got tired of being pitied for being perfectly normal."

  Staven lifted his brows at Damien.

  "Some witch daughters don't inherit the magic genes. So they take ordinary jobs. Mica cooked, and worked in a shop and helped in the fields at harvest and all the rest of the things needed in a village. But the witches, they use their abilities to raise buildings and prospect for diamonds, so they have a lot more money, quite apart from magic being the way status is measured, there."

  Staven nodded. "So she left. Good idea."

  "Well, she got mad and tried to do it without help or support or introductions from anyone. Didn't work real well, although she came close to not needing to be rescued. What are you grinning at?"

  "Another stray, Uncle Day? You wouldn't believe what Pudgy said mother said when she got your letter about the triplets. Tsk, tsk. I think the words 'male' 'idiot' 'hound dog' and 'bachelor' figured large in her . . . outburst."

  Damien sighed. "And then she decided to stay the whole year and another winter down south. I am such an idiot."

  "Really. You ought to know better than to drink any wine from that Sooty Duck." Staven followed him into the tack room and hung the harnesses. "Not going back out?"

  "No, it was slow today. The northern rivers have frozen. Might as well let the horses have a half day off."

  From the window, a feminine voice, country accent. " . . . have a pine tree in ya'house? Err, with tings all over it?"

  "It's a tradition, where we come from. Not unlike your gift giving at the winter solstice. We just do it a few days later. I missed the Christmas tree, and started the tradition back up a few years ago. It's a symbol of the renewal of life as the days get longer."

  "A dead tree?"

  "Yes."

  Staven looked over and could see Damien grinning.

  "Hey, have you ever tried to logically explain swearing by the Old Gods?" His courtesy uncle snickered. "Although, now that I think about it, a generic calling of them as a whole might get you the right sort of response through the collective subconscious."

  "Uncle Day, have you ever called on the God of the Roads?"

  "Yep. And Harry showed up and helped."

  "Harry?"

  "The secret, sacred name of the God of Travelers. Don't use it in vain or loosely. But knowing it will get you some credit with Travelers, should you ever need it."

  Staven grinned. "Changed your tune? Now you are a Traveler?"

  "Nope. I just do everything a Traveler does, and have spotty horses."

  "Ah. I see. It's all a matter of how you look at it." He rubbed Devil's nose in passing and squinted at the sun. "I'd better head back now. The other family expects me to show up, now and then."

  "Do you know yet where you'll be posted?"

  Staven shook his head. "I think they've got more than enough current and future Spears here already." He suppressed a glum sigh. "And they apparently still think I'm too young to be told any secrets."

  Damien glanced up at that. "Oh. Drat. I rather suspect I'm part of the problem."

  Staven blinked. "Uncle Day! I know you're Veronian but surely . . . you don't spy for your Emperor."

  The older man shot a look at the house, and lowered his voice. "Staven . . . I'm from Earth."

  Chapter Three

  22 December 3506

  Early winter 1389

  "What?" Staven took a step back, tripped and sat on a bale of hay.

  "We were sent to keep an eye on the Oners. And make sure your government wasn't making a deal with them instead of us."

  "Deal?"

  "I work for—and I'm loyal to—the stupidest government in existence. They have no respect for other people. You aren't from Earth—their Earth—so you barely count as human, to them. All they care about is raking in more goodies. And they're scared of the Empire of the One. Half of them think maybe they ought to let the Oners have you—with us moles swallowed up along with the 'Natives' to spy on them from the inside."

  "And Mother and I are camouflage."

  Damien tip a bucket upside down and sat. "Bringing myself to the attention of the authorities, as I have by getting near Nicole, and thus you, is the stupidest thing I've ever done. It's the stupidest thing a mole could possibly do. And I don't regret a moment of it." He stared at the courtyard. "General Rufi knows about us. Bert Howard is King's Own. But they pretend they don't know, and we pretend we've never noticed them watching us. And we keep an eye on the Oners."

  "I didn't realize there were any of you—or them—in town." Staven stared at the man in consternation. "The new history sounded like one of Rufi's tall tales. I mostly ignored it . . . They're here too?"

  Damien nod
ded toward the back of the property. "That green warehouse across the alley. There's only one of them, right now."

  "I thought they were supposed to be magic? Are you playing 'we pretend to not notice you' with them, too?" He caught the angry note in his voice, and swallowed. Uncle Day? How could Uncle Day be . . . the enemy?

  The . . . stranger he thought he'd known scratched his chin. "The theory is that in a big city of non-magical natives, there's so much mental noise they mostly keep their mental ears shut, or shields up or whatever. We've got them bugged—an electronic monitor that picks up their voices and sees a slice of the inside of the warehouse. So we're pretty sure they haven't identified us. There's only one fellow there, at the moment. They call him a Post Head. Fellow by the name of Ojge."

  "Oh Gee?" Staven's head was starting to feel like an over inflated balloon.

  "Close enough."

  "And you report all this back to Earth. That stupid government."

  "Well, no. About a month before the Comet, the God of Peace, the Amma of Auralia and the Oners down there got together and hijacked our gate anchor, and invaded Earth. We've been out of contact, ever since."

  "The Amma?"

  "He went through the gate, with a Oner trained army and was never seen again. Some of my fellow soldiers were captured with the gate anchor. They've taken control of the Fascia region." Damien shifted uneasily. "Thirteen years ago. I'm beginning to hope we'll never hear from Earth again. That's why Rufi doesn't tell you any secrets. Nor your mother, not that she has an official position with the government any more."

  Staven swallowed, feeling hollow, empty of speech.

  "Staven . . . sorry, I shouldn't have dumped all this on you. But your parents raised you to love and be loyal to the Kingdom, and I hope I have too. Now that you're a man, and in the Army, you need to know . . . that you cannot confide anything except the most personal information with me. Tell me all about the snowball fight you had with Nazar and Martin. And not a thing more. Tell Rufi that you understand that." He looked nearly grief-stricken.