The Turner Chronicles Box Set Edition

by Mark Eller

  "I've never seen you look so angry," Heidi said in a carefully modulated voice. "Everybody said it was there, but I never saw it. Your eyes blaze."

  Aaron brushed off her comment. He seldom understood women, and he did not have time to work out Miss O'Malley's problems. He had an agenda to meet.

  "I want one of you to go to the Assembly Building. The doorman will probably be a surly fellow by the name of Issac Penfrost. Don't ask him anything. Give him orders. Tell him you're to see either Delmac or Tremon, Clan Ambassadors. Let them know about the meeting, and say that I want them waiting at the Assembly door to escort me in. Tell them I'm ready to fulfill my obligation to the Thirty Clans."

  Heidi quickly wrote the information down on a legal pad. Glancing up once, she met his gaze, turned paler, and looked back down. "I have it, sir. Is there anything else? Um, just so you know, I have Zisst at my apartment."

  "No," Aaron told her. "That's all. The rest is up to me--and thank you for taking Zisst in."

  "May I ask what you plan?" Mister Haldrich asked.

  "I'm the little boy who wasn't allowed to play in the big boy's game," Aaron told them. His statement was met with blank looks. "I'm taking my ball and going home."

  They did not understand that one either, but that was okay. Aaron knew what he meant. He would throw his tantrum; he would enjoy doing it, and he would not care about the consequences.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes pounding on the front door did not get a noticeable response so Aaron gathered himself together and flickered inside the warehouse. He transferred into a place he had specifically remembered near the back, inside a little alcove formed by stacked books.

  The unstable light inside came from flickering lanterns with smoke-stained glass. The building's smell was not wholesome, but he had not expected anything different. Fifteen people living in this small an area would create a particular fragrance. In this case, the fragrance lived between Unpleasant Lane and Gag Boulevard.

  He looked past the knee-high stacks of books and saw that nobody had noticed his arrival. Instead, every guard was gathered around the two entrances. Ten stood near the large warehouse doors the books had been carried through. The other five gathered around the smaller pedestrian side door. Each had a weapon out and ready. They were intense in their silence and vigilance, ready to spring into instant action.

  Aaron gently cleared his throat, hoping not to startle anybody.

  "Quiet," somebody whispered. "They'll hear you."

  Okay, so that did not work. The direct approach might work better, but before he tried that he needed to get into a position where he could easily dodge into the book stacks and duck behind their top edges. Aaron wasn't quite sure how excitable these people were, but was afraid of the answer. After all, he wasn't all that calm, and he knew what was going on. Their nerves were probably wire-taut.

  "There isn't anyone out there," he said in the calmest voice he could muster.

  They were very professional. Every eye turned in his direction. Every weapon rose in a threatening manner, but not one foot moved.

  "Mister Turner," one guard finally said as she lowered her weapon. "How did you get in here?"

  "Nobody answered my knock so I found another way in," Aaron told her. "Look, the crisis is over. You can all go home. Take a bath, get clean clothes, and go see your families. Miss O'Malley will see to it that you get a bonus for your services."

  "Sir," the guard said, "I don't like that there's a hidden entrance to this place that we weren't told of. Secrecy implies that you didn't trust us."

  Oh, what the hell. The entire world seemed to know all about him anyway. What did it matter if he told a few more people?

  "There's no secret entrance. I have a usable Talent."

  Smiling unhappily, she nodded and put her weapon away. Her action was a signal to the rest. A massive rustling came as bronze slid into leather. "Some things vigilance won't defend against," she said wryly. "Are you sure we can leave now?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Right, then. Okay people, gather the facilities and the food, and let's get out of here. The man says we can go home. Mister Turner, we'll be gone in ten minutes."

  "Take an hour," Aaron suggested, "and leave singly. I'd rather you didn't call attention to this building yet."

  "An hour," she agreed.

  The woman was as good as her word. The last of them were gone in exactly one hour. After locking the doors, Aaron went to stand near the gathered books. He looked the stacks and piles over, saw the hard covers and paperbacks and the many, many notebooks that were illegal copies of his property. From the size of the comparative piles, the notebooks were at least a quarter of the collection. The copying had gone on for far too long. Aaron wondered how many notebooks were not here? How much information had already been taken away, and how much information could be reconstructed from the memories of those who had done the copying?

  Three months earlier Aaron would not have cared. He was a rich man who seldom engaged in a rich man's lifestyle. He had brought these books to this land so their information could be used to increase this world's knowledge. He would have been happy if the 'Powers That Be' had allowed the information to flow and just left him alone'

  But nobody would leave him alone. Instead, they wanted him gone or dead because of the books.

  Well to the furnaces with them. Andrews and her crew were more interested in their own financial and political aggrandizement than they were in the public good. To his way of thinking, They could go to hell because well-behaved public servants did not engage in extortion and murder.

  Not usually anyway.

  Bitter and angry, he swept the stacks of books with his mind, separating out a section. This would take a long time. Too much time. There were a lot of books, and his abilities were not the same as they had been when he originally brought them into Isabella. Since then, his Talent had improved in many ways. He could transfer almost at will and no longer had much difficulty with weight. No, his problem now was that he had to transfer himself with any load he moved, and he was limited as to how many individual items he could take with him on any given trip. If these books had been bundled into crates the job would have been quicker, because his ability would have seen each crate as one item. Unfortunately, the thousands of books and notebooks were individually stacked. It would be a long night.

  * * *

  Aaron transferred to the Freelorn broch where his most recent load of fifteen books fell on top of the huge pile he had created over the last several hours. Looking at the mess, he frowned. The books were impressive in their disarray. They begged for order.

  Aaron groaned at the thought. After a well deserved rest, he would have to come back with a bucket and rope and haul them up to the ledges. Once there, he needed to stack them far from the window openings so wind blown rain could cause no damage. Later, when he had time, he needed to find a better place inside the Freelorn lands, one that was guaranteed to be safe and dry. At the moment, the broch was the best place he could think of.

  Sitting down on the dusty floor, leaning against the books, Aaron rubbed his the back of his neck. He was tired. He was bone-weary, wanting-to-fall-into-the-grave-just-leave-me-the-fuck-alone tired. Most of the books were not small; many were hard-covered tomes that stretched from eight hundred to seventeen hundred pages. Even the paperbacks were oversized, and the notebooks were hand-written pages bound between thick sheets of cardboard. In short, they made an impressive load that he had to move…again. Part of him wanted to leave the notebooks on the floor. After all, he hadn't approved their creation. They could rot in the rain for all he cared.

  But no.

  People had sweated over those notebooks, and the work had to be done eventually, so it didn't matter how tired he felt. He would move the damned things up to the ledges so they would remain dry. If he had more energy, he would have tried teleporting them there, but the ledges were narrow, with unsure footing, and the last thing he needed was to take
a tumble because his Talent hiccupped at an inopportune moment. Besides, his tank was nearly dry. He didn't have many leaps left in him, and that was not good. He needed to recharge before things went bang…just in case he had need to run away from a couple hundred irate assemblypeople and the N'Ark Guard.

  So moving the books was going to cause him physical instead of mental resources. Fine, he could deal with it, but that chore would have to wait. He still had the last nine books to collect from the warehouse. One more trip. Then he could rest for a while before chasing down a rope and a pully and a large bucket or crate. Once he had those in hand, he would ruin his back hauling on the rope instead of exhausting his Talent by transferring them up there.

  Exhaling, he rose, closed his eyes, and imaged the warehouse.

  * * *

  A sword poked him in the gut.

  "Hold still," a woman's voice ordered. It rose in volume. "I have somebody. Looks like a bum."

  "Holding," Aaron told her. Ignoring the sword, he took a look around. The place where he had left the remaining books was bare, so they were lost to him. Instead of the books, he saw nearly fifteen people rummaging through the warehouse, with more coming through the freight entrance. He fought back a smile. With the books gone, nothing remained except a hodge-podge of worthless crates, cartons, and jumbled metal that had been abandoned by the warehouse's previous tenanat.

  A woman approached with two of his books cradled beneath her arm. Stopping, she looked Aaron over. "So how did you sneak in here?"

  The first woman's sword tip moved from his belly to kiss his neck. "He fits the description of the fellow we're looking for. The one with the Talent Stone."

  Reaching out, the swordwoman pulled at the cord around Aaron's neck. A twitch of her sword's tip cut it through, and she held up the pouch containing Aaron's Talent Stone.

  The book holding woman frowned. "I was told that he's dangerous as a snake because of that thing." She gestured toward the Stone. "Now he's a snake with its fangs pulled." She pointed at the bulge under his vest. "Still, we better see what he's carrying under there. Search him, but be careful."

  Aaron decided to be helpful. "It's a revolver, .38 caliber and double action. In other words, it's a weapon." He felt calm and in control. These people had been warned but had not done their homework. Because they had pulled his Stone, they assumed he was safely captured. After all, Haldritch had been correct; everybody knew Talent Stones fragmented and became useless when taken from their bonded person. Unfortunately for these people, the theory was correct, but their method was wrong. In order to break a bond, Stones had to be moved several feet from their owners; at least five, Aaron had been told, and frequently as far as fifteen.

  Aaron's Talent might be nearly drained, but it still hummed. His bond remained.

  "Bind him after you pull his weapon," the woman in charge ordered.

  "I think not," Aaron replied. He closed his eyes, triggered his Talent, and used it to grab his Stone. Just for spite, he also grabbed the two books the sword before transferring back to the broch.

  Leaving the faint sounds of curses behind.

  Staggering, Aaron arrived near the broch's outer wall. His shoulders sagged as the books, sword, and Stone fell to the floor. His knees wanted to fold.

  Hands shaking, he bent to retrieve his Stone. The horseshoe magnet's edges seemed a bit corroded, but overall it appeared unharmed, and he still felt the bond. He would need to get a new pouch and a new thong. Until then, his front pocket would serve.

  Aaron shoved the magnet away and released a weary smile. So far, his tantrum had been exhausting work, and he wasn't done. He had lots more to do.

  But not before he got fifteen straight hours of sleep.

  Chapter 28

  "Has your flow started yet?"

  "What kind of question is that?

  "An honest one," Amanda whispered. "I'm curious as to what it's like. How does it feel to spend such a long time in a child's body?"

  "That's a stupid question, too," Celine whispered back. "It feels normal. To me, unnatural is walking around in a body that looks like yours. I mean, how good can your balance be when you have those things sticking out in front? They have to throw you off terribly."

  "You learn to compensate," Amanda said. "I suspect you will soon discover that for yourself."

  Celine winced. "I know. I started budding two years ago. I doubt I have more than ten or fifteen years before my hips begin flaring out. I'm not looking forward to that." She fidgeted for a few moments. "Look, I have to thank you for making sure I kept my Stone."

  Shifting, Celine nestled her head deeper into Amanda's shoulder. A few strands of hair flew free, brushing against Amanda's cheek and nose, making her want to sneeze. The lower bunk was too small to hold the two of them comfortably, but it was the only way they could get close enough to whisper. Their arrangement was not unusual among the prison's inmates; only the apparent youth of Celine made the situation suspect.

  "You can thank my lawyer for that," Amanda whispered. "He knows the ins and outs of criminal law much better than I do. They are funny, these laws of ours. They are thorough in so many ways, but in so many others they have giant gaps."

  "Yeah," Celine said. "Well, you don't need to tell me about it. Have you any idea how many kids are being used right now? People take them in and treat them like unpaid servants. I once spent six months scrubbing floors and washing laundry, a virtual prisoner of a family who pretended to be taking care of me for my own good." She shivered. "That was bad enough. It's worse now. Kids are being made into slaves at these new orphanages. They're chained to benches and made to sew new clothing. If they screw up, they get the lash or no food, and even if they do it right, they get drugged food. I was in one of those places. Spent days there and only ate one time before I picked my lock and escaped. When I left, I didn't go alone either. I took six others with me."

  Amanda was aghast. "I never heard of such a thing! Chaining kids to benches is morally illegal no matter what the law forgot to say. I mean, workhouses have to be illegal."

  "Guess again," Celine said bitterly. "During one of my previous incarcerations in juvie, back when people thought my Stone was just a bauble, I went to the prison library, pulled down the law books, and spent two months looking through them. The workhouses were closed, but the assembly forgot to make laws to protect kids. Children are not just falling through the cracks; they're falling into caverns of legal neglect. The law assumes that someone, somewhere, will take care of them. Well, guess what, nobody is. Those Turner Houses are nothing but a cover for workhouses. Some kids have died."

  Icicles ran through Amanda's veins. Cold sweat broke out on her brow, and her usually unflappable nerves began twitching. "Did you say this was going on in the Turner Houses?"

  "Can't prove it," Celine whispered angrily. "and nobody will listen to me, but is there someplace more likely?"

  "Oh, no, Celine, hon, that's not possible. It can't be the Turner Houses. I work for the man who set them up. I funnel operating funds to them. Mister Turner is very committed to the idea of caring for children. It will kill him if his Houses are a cover for horrible workhouses. No, it won't kill him---it will be much worse than that. He can be a terrible man when he gets angry."

  Celine became very stiff and still. Her young-old body almost vibrated with tension. "How can you work for a man like that! He's a hypocrite! He pretends he's one thing and becomes something else."

  Amanda looked Celine directly in her eyes. Celine's face was guarded and distrustful.

  "Celine," she said, "look at me. By the strength of your Talent, look at me."

  Eyes narrowing, Celine focused in concentration.

  "Celine, I swear to you with everything I have that neither Mister Turner nor myself knew anything of this. I swear to you that when Mister Turner discovers what has happened, the people who caused this will wish they had never crossed him. The practice will stop, and the Houses will go back to being what they were intend
ed to be--places where children can grow and learn to be strong."

  "This is rare moment," Celine said. "You're not lying at all. You might be deceived--but you're not lying. So what is he going to do, this Mister Turner of yours? Is he such a terribly big man that he'll scare all the bad people away?"

  "I don't know what he will do," Amanda said, "but I'll tell you, this matter will send him beyond angry. It will make him absolutely and coldly furious." She shuddered at the thought. "When he's like that, he's one of the most dangerous people alive."

  Celine seemed filled with doubt. "If he's so effective, why hasn't he seen to your freedom?"

  "I don't know," Amanda admitted. "Just remember, I never said he was effective. I only said that he is dangerous."

  * * *

  The front grounds were still filled with picnicking tourists, gawkers, and the many desperate and anxious hopefuls who wanted admittance to the almost holy Assembly Building. Amanda smiled at them, winked, and passed on a few happy comments, but none of the onlookers looked at her with envy. She might be going where they wanted to be, but they did not want to go there in the same manner.

  The trip to the Assembly Building had taught Amanda one very important lesson--that she hated walking while wearing wrist and ankle chains. She hated the jangle and the clang and the clatter. Most of all, she hated being a public spectacle, an object of amusement and ridicule and humor and speculation. She wanted to hang her head and crawl deep inside her clothes to hide from the judgmental eyes.

  But there was no hiding from this.

  And so she refused to accept her humiliation. She did not cower. Instead, she raised her chin and allowed a glint of contemptuous amusement to fill her eyes. She cast an air of confident superiority upon those who had nothing better to do than to stare at the woman in chains being escorted by half a dozen armed guards.