Good Guys

by Steven Brust

  “How often does it happen?”

  “Not very. I don’t have numbers or anything, but it’s rare.”

  “Why do they do it?”

  Victor looked around the bar, as if suddenly afraid of being seen. “That’s a Foundation thing. We don’t do it. But if you use sorcery to try to kill another member, they throw you out and strip you. Maybe for other stuff, but not often.”

  “Strip you?”

  “Of your ability to use magic. I mean, completely. You can’t feel the grid lines; you can’t even trigger artifacts, which is usually something anyone can do.”

  “That’s gotta suck,” said Matt.

  “No shit.”

  “The times it’s happened—what do you know about them?”

  Victor took a long, long pull of his beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nothing. It was just mentioned during training, as ‘don’t ever do this.’ Can we talk about something else?”

  “Oh yeah. Sorry. Is there, like, a headquarters?”

  “Yeah, in London. That’s where they took me when my talent showed up. I’d never been out of the country before. It rocked. And the headquarters, it’s a pretty cool place.”

  “With their name, you’d think they’d be in Rome.”

  “They used to be. They moved during World War Two.”

  Matt nodded, then pushed a napkin and a pen at him. “Got an address?”

  “Um,” said Victor.

  Matt shrugged. “You don’t have to, of course. I can find it. But it’ll take longer and be more irritating.”

  “Yeah, I know. But if they find out I gave it to you—”

  “Is that somehow worse than them finding out what you’ve told me so far? And I already said they won’t find out from me. If you’ve trusted me this far—”

  “Yeah, yeah. Okay.” Victor wrote the address out, and passed the napkin back.

  “Thanks. So, is the Foundation in London, too?”

  “No, Madrid.”

  “Oh, I guess that makes sense.”

  “Yeah, it was Franco, you know.”

  “Franco? The dictator?”

  “I guess. I don’t know much about him. I don’t know how it all went down exactly. It had something to do with Franco and the Church and a bunch of members being scared. The people in London offered to pull them out, but they wanted protection, and it became a thing, so they split off.”

  Matt nodded. “That makes sense. Had this happened before? In the past, where groups split off?”

  “Huh. I don’t think so. You know, they didn’t actually teach us the history. We just sort of picked it up between juggling balls without using hands and making invisible stone walls.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “I can do the juggling one. Three balls, never got the hang of four.”

  “So, why not be a stage magician?”

  “That’s one of the things they forbid. They’re afraid someone will, you know, pick up on it.”

  “What else do they forbid?”

  “Anything criminal. Really, anything that’s likely to be noticed.”

  “How do they enforce that?”

  “From what I understand, as long as you don’t go after another member, I mean, with magic, then all they do is write you a letter saying you should stop. If you keep going, you get another letter threatening you with, well, I don’t know what the term is. We used to call it excommunication, but that was just kidding around. I really don’t want to talk about that.”

  “Right. Sorry. That thing you were saying about artifacts. How does that work?”

  “Oh, man, that was what I really wanted to do. See, well, there’s actually two different things. The one I wanted is, some people, if they can cast a spell, they can, you know, stick the spell into a thing, so that anyone who wants can wave it or whatever and set it off, like a magic wand.”

  “What’s the other?”

  “Huh?”

  Victor, Matt decided, either had a very low alcohol tolerance, or just wasn’t very bright.

  “You said there were two things and that was one of them.”

  “Oh, right. Well, sometimes people find things, you know, from hundreds or thousands of years ago, that still have spells enchanted in them. If you can figure out how to set it off, you can use it.”

  “Pretty cool.”

  For the first time, Victor smiled. “Yeah, it is.”

  “I’ve heard of an artifact that had a time-stop on it.”

  “No shit? Wow. Time-stop. That’s some … Jesus.”

  “Yeah. But Victor, doesn’t stopping time violate natural law? I thought you couldn’t do that?”

  “Uh, I don’t know. I mean, it isn’t like they ever taught us that spell. I’ve never heard of anyone able to do it. They talked about time a little.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t remember. One of my teachers. Something about time being a mode.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “Yeah, neither did I. But it was, like, something about how it’d be possible to set up an area where you were outside it. I don’t know. He was talking about some kind of crazy physics that I don’t understand, and how it might be used in magic.”

  “Can you give me some examples of spells you can put into artifacts?”

  “Can I have another beer?”

  “Coming up.”

  10

  THE FRENCH QUARTER

  One day toward the end of her training, Marci had been sitting in the cafeteria, off in a corner, and William, her favorite instructor, had walked up and sat down across from her.

  “So,” he’d said. “Want to tell me about it?”

  “What?”

  “Jolene told me there’s been something on your mind for the last week and she couldn’t get you to talk about it. Maybe you’d be more comfortable talking to me? I feel like we have a certain rapport.”

  “Yes,” she heard herself saying. “We do. All right.”

  William smiled and sat down across from her. He had one of those smiles that made you think everything was going to be fine, no matter what. “Spill it, then,” he said.

  She opened her mouth and closed it again. Words were harder than numbers, because they could mean so many different things, and even more when arranged differently. It wasn’t that she didn’t know the answer; it was that she wasn’t sure if there was a way to say it that wouldn’t be offensive. But one of the things that made William a good teacher was his patience.

  “Here’s the thing that bothers me,” she said finally, speaking slowly and choosing her words as best she could. “We’re doing all of this research, right? Into curing diseases, and ways to improve infrastructure using magic, and all of that.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Well, it bothers me that we’re keeping it secret. That maybe we can cure myelogenous leukemia. How can we just keep that to ourselves?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I know.”

  “It bothers you, too?”

  “Yeah. Only, what’s the alternative? We’d have to reveal what we can do. Then what happens?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yeah, neither does anyone else.”

  “They aren’t burning witches anymore.”

  “I know.”

  “In all this time, someone must have, you know, revealed things. Or tried.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What happened?”

  He said, “That’s something that’s supposed to come up a little later in your training, but what the hell. There’s a division of the Foundation called Investigations and Enforcement. We call it the Ranch because they’re a bunch of cowboys. They handle that sort of thing.”

  “Handle it.”

  “Yeah.”

  “How?”

  “A sorcerer’s ability to detect and tap into the grid can be removed.”

  “Oh,” said Marci.

  “You won’t need to learn that unless you want to work for I and
E.”

  After a moment, she said, “Do you think doing that is right?”

  He shook his head. “I wish I knew.”

  * * *

  “Hey, Laughing Boy,” said Susan. “How are the eyes?”

  “Getting better. You, in particular, are a delightful fuzzy blur and I can tell you have black hair, which I couldn’t have yesterday. And that must be Marci behind you.”

  “It’s me,” she said.

  “How are you, Marci? Doing all right?”

  “My vision’s healing faster than yours, but I have some burns on my face and neck that are going to take a few weeks and that I’ll have fun explaining to my boyfriend.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Where are you staying?”

  “They put us up in a hotel,” said Susan. “Saved the expense of a slipwalk, since they knew we were going to be here anyway. When are they letting you out?”

  “When I can see again. Probably day after tomorrow. Shame about Vasilyev. He seemed like a decent guy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “You doing okay, Hippie? I mean, with what happened?”

  “Yeah,” she said. “Let’s just not make a habit of it, okay?”

  “I’m good with that.”

  “All right. So. Theories? Hippie?”

  “About what, Don? What happened? Pretty easy, isn’t it?”

  “Oh? Lay it out for me then.”

  “Whoever is behind this knows eventually we’re going to be on to him, figures we’ll pull in Vasilyev—”

  “Stop a minute. How does he know about Vasilyev? How does he even know Vasilyev exists, much less what he can do, and that we’d call him in?”

  After about ten seconds, Susan said, “They have someone on the inside.”

  “That’s how I read it.”

  “Damn,” said Marci.

  “What do we do now?” said Susan.

  “Now, Marci and I recover, and we hope no more bodies drop until we’re ready.”

  * * *

  This time the pilot wasn’t talkative—or else was nervous about having done Matt the favor. They made the trip mostly in silence after the initial, “Hey,” and, “How’s it going?” At the end, Matt said, “Thanks for the lift,” and that was that, and he stepped out onto the field at the Naval Air Station Joint Reserve Base Fort Worth. From there, it was a quick jump to Arlington, and a meeting with Sheila McKenzie. The meeting took place in her basement, surrounded by the various pieces of computer equipment she was putting in, taking out, repairing, or testing.

  She got a little nervous when she realized he wanted information and wasn’t a potential customer. He put on his best reassuring voice and, when she wasn’t interested in drinks, offered her $200. She was reluctant to talk about the Foundation, but he managed to convince her that he knew so much already, there wasn’t any harm in it. They settled on $250, and when Matt left he took with him a great deal of advice on virus prevention you could use even if you weren’t a sorcerer, and an address in Madrid.

  * * *

  “I was relieved to hear from you,” I told Charlie. “I was afraid we’d be done.”

  We were in a closed office building in Glendale and I hadn’t heard from him in three days. We sat in adjacent stalls in the men’s room, and it was only later that I realized how ridiculous it was.

  “I am hoping I’ve bought us some time,” he said.

  “So we can continue?”

  “Yes.”

  I closed my eyes as, well, emotions hit me. Then I said, “Good.”

  “I’ll leave a bag in this stall, with your hotel info, plane tickets, and the artifact. Still going to New Orleans. I’ve got all the details written down.”

  “This one’s big. I mean, for me. This is the key.”

  “For me, too.”

  “Once this is done, Whittier is open. Defenseless.”

  “Yes. And we’ll have to move fast, before he realizes it.”

  “That suits me. Sooner the better.”

  “I know.”

  “All right. What is the artifact this time?”

  “Nasty, Nick. It is very nasty.”

  “Good,” I said.

  * * *

  The first thing Donovan did when he got home was make a Skype call. “Hey, Hippie. Did I interrupt anything?”

  “Nope. Did we catch another body?”

  “No, just need someone to talk to. About the case, I mean—sorry, not having a personal crisis or anything.”

  “I know,” said Susan. “To have a personal crisis, you need a personal life.”

  “Yeah.”

  “I wonder how Marci does it.”

  “Hate to be cynical, but the over/under on that relationship is six months.”

  “Yeah. So, anyway, what’s up?”

  “I’ve got this thing buzzing around in my head, and it won’t settle down. It’s one of those nagging, something-is-bugging-me-I-don’t-know-what deals.”

  “I know the feeling. Let’s hear it.”

  Donovan sat back in his chair. Hippie Chick was resting her elbows on her computer desk, hands steepled, listening. “All right,” said Donovan. “We’ve figured there are two people, right?”

  “Right.”

  “One civilian, and one guy supplying artifacts. Call him the supplier.”

  Skype revealed a smile from her. “If you liked him you’d be more creative.”

  “True. So, here’s the thing. Why isn’t the supplier using the things, too? Isn’t bringing in another person adding to his risk?”

  “Only if he’s found. He’s trying to insulate himself. You know what he’s risking if he gets caught.”

  “What if he isn’t?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “What if he’s already been de-sorcelled?”

  “That’s not a word.”

  “Yeah, whatever it is. What if?”

  Susan was silent; Skype showed him furrowed brows and a serious look. Finally, she said, “Maybe. That would explain some things. But wait. No.”

  “Hmmm?”

  “If he can’t use the artifacts, how can he tell what they are?”

  Donovan nodded. “That’s it. That’s the piece that’s bugging me. Good work.”

  “Answers?”

  “Well, the mostly likely is that I’m just wrong about the supplier. If I’m not…”

  Susan said, “What? If you’re not, what?”

  “Oh, sorry. If I’m not, it means there’s another player. He’s working with someone on the inside.”

  “Our spy.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Our spy might be pulling all the strings.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Shit.”

  * * *

  I arrived at Louis Armstrong New Orleans International on Frontier Flight 702. It was around four in the afternoon when I arrived at the Ritz-Carlton, right on Canal Street in the French Quarter business district. I wished it weren’t in the Quarter itself—if there’s anywhere in the world that screams “distractions!” more than that little bit of New Orleans, I don’t know it. But it was where I needed to be.

  I kept myself in the hotel; I didn’t even go out for beignets, which is a major sacrifice once you’ve had them. But it was a question of focus. I didn’t know what had gone wrong, or what Charlie had done to fix it, but it seemed like this would be a really bad time to get sloppy.

  I was so close.

  Just one more between me and Whittier.

  The massive knot of betrayal I felt was all tied in with the rest of it—the sound of the door shutting behind Joan, the pile of unopened bills on the desk, each one an accusing finger, watching them tow my car away while I imagined all the neighbors shaking their heads, the gradual realization that none of my friends had called in weeks—all of it tied into one lump of hate, with one name behind it. Who would I be when that was gone? Could I go back, start over?

  Stop it, Nick. Get your head back in the game.

  This would be, accordin
g to Charlie, the trickiest of them all, because I had to use two different artifacts: one, as usual, a polished stone, but the other, to be used first, took the form of a pair of cheap sunglasses. I would have to put them on, look at the target, touch the left side, and say, What time is it? Then I could use the other in a more usual fashion.

  It didn’t seem like it would be all that hard, but it was still two things instead of one, and that made me a little nervous.

  I napped a little. I was surprised, when I woke up, that I’d managed to fall asleep. I went down and got more coffee, had a bite to eat. It was hard, doing nothing, especially with the Quarter right there, out the door and around a corner. But I was there to do a job, so I just waited.

  Finally, around 9:00 PM, I had a light supper and went to the lobby to begin my vigil. I spotted the security camera and made sure I found a place to sit that was beyond its scope, and identified a path out so it wouldn’t pick me up when I left after the excitement started. I picked up a magazine and pretended to be reading it as I sat there. What I was actually doing was going over the routine in my head. This one was easier than some, because there were no words to say; I just had to rub the stone briskly with both hands while focusing all of my attention where I wanted it to happen. The stone was a deep blue with hints of red, and unlike the others, it had been carved so facets were showing. As I sat there, I wondered about the person who, so long ago, had shaped it, polished it, and then loaded it with a spell like a bomb, carefully recording—for himself, or another?—how to set it off. Would he approve of how I was using it? Did he hate evil as much as I did, and would he be pleased that his craft was being put to good use? I wanted to think so.

  Just after 3:00 AM, Alexander Young, dressed in a Hawaian shirt, shorts, and white loafers, came into the lobby, obviously drunk, which excited no notice on anyone’s part.

  Not that I had intended to show him mercy anyway, but the white loafers made it easy.

  * * *

  “It seems, Mr. Longfellow, that our friend has struck again.”

  “All right, Mr. Becker. What are the details?”

  “The victim is Alexander Young, a New York native, on an extended vacation in New Orleans. The exact method is as yet unknown but resulted in Mr. Young burning alive. The time was this morning in the very early hours.”

  “But, I assume, a connection to the Mystici is known?”