by Dan Koboldt
Valteron City still had a charred smell to it, but at least the sky had opened. The fog was lifting, and the city was vibrant.
“Magic is like a religion to Alissians. The practitioners are revered and secretive. Either that, or they’re avoiding us.”
—R. HOLT, “QUESTIONS ON ALISSIAN MAGIC”
CHAPTER 11
TAKEN
When Quinn could see again, he was somewhere else. A clearing surrounded by forest, and the trees were the largest he’d ever seen. They towered like California redwoods, the tops of them lost in low-hanging clouds. Some time seemed to have passed; it was near evening here. A footpath lined with round stones led away from the clearing, deeper into the forest. He thought he heard the distant sound of ocean surf.
He whirled on the magician. “Where are we?”
“We are no longer in Valteron, I will tell you that. This is a place not found on any maps.”
“What kind of place?” Quinn said.
“Call it a home, call it a school, call it whatever you will. This is where we come to be with our own. With magicians.”
Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. . .
“Let’s take a walk, shall we?” The man started down a path lined with round stones. Not looking back to see if Quinn followed.
He was unrestrained; he might have tried to run away. But he had no idea where he was. And he was as curious as he was frightened. So he followed.
“Tell me your name, son,” the magician said.
“Quinn.” He said it automatically, not thinking to use the cover identity that Chaudri and her team had assigned to him. Damn. “Well, I was born Thomas More. But I go by Quinn.”
“You have a strange way of speaking, Quinn,” the magician said. “You’re not from Valteron, are you?”
“You didn’t tell me your name,” Quinn groused.
“You may call me Moric.”
“I have a few other things I’d rather call you.”
The magician didn’t seem to move, but a burning sensation lashed across Quinn’s wrists. He cried out, rubbing them against his chest.
“That’s for your impertinence,” Moric said. “You shouldn’t speak that way to magicians. Particularly after masquerading as one.”
He went cold when he heard that. The man’s tone was light, but the accusation was there. “Maybe I did indicate that I had certain abilities. It was only to save my own skin. There were these mercenaries—”
“It’s still a crime. One that true magicians take rather seriously,” Moric said.
Quinn sighed. He should have known that posing as a magician in a world where real ones existed was going to get him into trouble. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
“I’m aware of that. If you had, this would be a far less friendly conversation.”
The man kept looking at him sideways while they walked, as if Quinn were a strange animal or something.
They turned a bend in the path and climbed a hill. Quinn hadn’t been imagining the sound of surf; aquamarine water glinted at him through the woods to their left. He tried another angle.
“Where I come from, you’re innocent until proven guilty.”
“You come from a soft place, my friend.”
Quinn considered making a run for it again—this time he was sure he didn’t want to find out what was going on. And maybe Moric was tired from his recent exertions. He’d climbed the hill with no difficulty, though, and seemed perfectly hale to the appearance. Looking closely at him, Quinn realized the man wasn’t as old as he’d thought. He was middle-aged, probably in his late forties. The shaved head added years.
“This is just too weird,” Quinn said at last. He didn’t know how else to put it.
Things rapidly got stranger. A flock of massive birds flew overhead. They were the size of small airplanes, and wheeled and dove with one another with a strange sort of intelligence. Quinn studied them for a second, shook his head, kept walking.
“How did you make the fireball?”
“What fireball?” Quinn asked. He had to be careful here.
“A witness claimed that you conjured a globe of fire. Like this.” He raised a hand, shook the sleeve of his robe clear, and curled his fingers together. A ball of blue flame appeared at their tips, hissing and curling. Quinn could feel the heat from it on his face. Then Moric let his fingers fall apart, and the ball dissipated.
“I definitely never did anything like that,” Quinn said. Blue flame. He wished he’d thought of that one. There was just something intimidating about fire in such an unnatural color.
“Fire is destruction personified,” Moric said. “Wielded only with the greatest care. It builds nothing, it only consumes.”
“It cooks things,” Quinn said. “That’s a kind of producing, if you ask me. And you can use it to reshape metal.”
Moric pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You’re not quite as foolish as you’ve been acting. And you’ve managed not to try and run away, though I could see you were thinking about it. That’s good. It prevents an awkward situation in which I must drag you back by your ears. Or strip you bare and let you float along beside me.”
“What can I say? I’m a fast learner.”
Moric smiled, though there was no humor in it. “You’d better be. If I’m right about you, you’re as dangerous as anyone who’s ever come to this island.”
So it was an island. That was something useful, if disappointing. It meant that Quinn wouldn’t have any luck escaping on foot unless he got hold of a boat. A big boat. The research team’s reports on predators in the Alissian seas had been simply haunting.
“What makes you think I’m dangerous?” he asked.
“Because you’ve either been masquerading as a magician, or you have a talent that we don’t understand.”
Quinn shook his head. “I’m not threatening anyone. All I wanted was to stay alive.”
“So you say,” Moric said.
The stone-lined path led out into a large clearing. A group of children sat together on the grass some distance away, listening to a shaggy-haired old fellow who was showing them something in tree bark. Moric and Quinn walked about a quarter mile, passing low stone buildings and huts, a small section of farm plots, and an outdoor farrier’s yard. It was like a tiny little community here. They had a bit of everything.
“Is everyone here a magician?” Quinn asked.
“For the most part, yes.”
Quinn made a quick mental tally, like a blackjacker counting cards in the casino. About forty people were in view, including the children. At the estimated rate of magic capabilities in the population, this was beginning to explain why magic users had been so difficult to find.
“I didn’t realize how many of you there were,” he said.
“Few do. We prefer it that way,” Moric said.
“Which hut is yours?”
Moric chuckled. “Oh, I don’t live here. This is one of our farms. A place of peace and contemplation.”
One of their farms? Quinn shook his head in wonder. The company researchers weren’t a little bit off about the numbers of magicians here. They were off by an order of magnitude. Finally, he knew something that they didn’t. And he liked how it felt.
Moric steered him along the road, where some of the other islanders—that was how Quinn thought of them now—called out a greeting to him. They eyed Quinn strangely, but said nothing.
This was the highest point on the island. The ground stretched downhill before them for a quarter mile and then dipped out of view, perhaps into a steep vale. Quinn could see water on either side. To their left was an inlet bay, dominated by several docks to which ships were unloading boxes of cargo. Strangely, there were no dockworkers carrying the boxes out on their shoulders. Instead, two gray-robed men stood waving their hands, moving the boxes around in midair w
ith complex gestures. The crates sailed out of the holds of squat cargo ships and stacked neatly on the docks.
Beyond them, in the deeper part of the inlet bay, was a tall sailing ship with a deep hull and three masts. Like something out of a storybook. Only this craft looked out of place compared to Legato’s trading vessel and the other ships Quinn had seen. There was a sleekness and style about her that didn’t fit in to this place.
And it looked familiar . . .
Recognition clicked. It had to be the Victoria, the company’s lost ship. His mouth fell open; he almost said it out loud. But he didn’t know what Moric had in store for him, whether he was a friend or an enemy.
All Quinn could think about was Kiara. Was her sister here, and alive?
“Do you know what happened, when I touched your temples back in the plaza?” Moric asked suddenly.
“I know it was cold,” Quinn said.
“Yes, that’s how it feels for some. What else?”
“I pushed it away. The cold. It felt like you were turning me into a block of ice.”
Moric grunted. “That test should have gone differently. It should have numbed you completely to my touch. Instead, I felt a resistance in you. A resonance. When I tried to cast a delving, you pushed back.” He chuckled. “I admit that surprised me a little.”
“What does it mean?” Quinn asked.
“What it usually means is that you have the magic in you. The gift, the birthright. It means you’ve come to this island to be trained as a magician. Or else I’m wrong, and you were simply pretending to be a magician without cause. In which case you’ll most likely face death. Either way, I’d say we have some exciting times ahead.”
“Oh,” Quinn said. How is that even possible? “Crap.”
“Yes, there will be some of that. It usually isn’t pretty when we get someone as old as you. Too spirited, too stubborn. Much harder to set straight and put on the guild path.”
“What guild?” Quinn asked. He’d not heard of anything like that in his briefings. And it worried him that there seemed to be no kind of timetable in Moric’s words.
Most of all, he was still reeling from the idea that he might have magic in him. Alissian magic.
Moric had been talking while his thoughts scrambled to find purchase. “ . . . collection of all magicians in Alissia. At some point, most of them come here to be evaluated and taught. We seek them out as children, they come here to train, they leave as guild magicians. Some stay to help with the business of the guild. Like myself.”
“Right, you’re the magic muscle.”
Moric turned to look at him. “That’s a peculiar expression. I prefer to think of myself as a creative problem solver.”
“You’ve got the creative part right, at least.”
Mission failed. That was all Logan could think about as he joined the crowd streaming out of the plaza. Holt was now the most powerful—and untouchable—man in Alissia. How he’d managed to get himself down here and elected on the brink of a civil war, Logan couldn’t begin to understand. Nor could he figure out why the admiral had called him a native Valteroni. None of it made sense, and he felt the beginning of a headache creeping up.
He usually left these political complexities to the eggheads in the research department.
There was a distinctive, upbeat hum to the people here. Most were Valteroni, which wasn’t surprising, but Logan picked out a few foreigners as well. Kiara hailed him over the comm link.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“I can’t raise Bradley. Have you heard from him?”
“No. Maybe he took out his comm link,” Logan said, but a cold feeling began to form in his gut. Something was wrong. “I’ll start heading over to his spot.”
“Chaudri just joined me. We’ll meet you there,” Kiara said.
Logan turned and fought his way against the flow of humanity until he was back in the plaza. Many would-be revelers had lingered there, and members of the city watch were outnumbered far too heavily to do anything about it. Well, Holt would have his first test of leadership soon.
He tried the comm link one more time. “Bradley, can you hear me?” Only static answered him.
By the time he’d reached Bradley’s post, most of the crowd had thinned out. That’s how he noticed the men following him. Three of them. They stuck out because they were armored and well-fed, whereas most of the people in the square were neither.
“I’ve got some trailers,” he said softly.
“City watch?” Kiara asked.
“No,” Logan said. Watchmen usually carried clubs or steel-wrapped cudgels, the kind of weapons you’d use for crowd control. These men had swords, and looked like they knew how to use them.
“See if you can lose them,” Kiara said.
Already way ahead of you, Lieutenant.
Logan waved at a random person ahead in the crowd, and hurried forward as if to greet him. He skirted around a group of Kestani merchants sharing a bottle of wine, chanced a look back. The men had sped up to follow. Now there were four of them, and they’d given up any pretense otherwise.
He reached the mouth of a narrow avenue exiting the plaza—what had been Bradley’s post. There was no sign of him. No blood on the ground, though. At least that was something. The swordsmen were twenty paces out.
“Heading up the street. Don’t think I can lose them,” he said. “Permission to engage?”
“Try not to hurt anyone. We’re almost there.”
No promises.
He ducked into the first alley and drew his sword, putting his back to the wall. The alley was narrow enough that he might avoid being surrounded. Boots pounded toward the corner. Logan counted to himself. Three. Two. One. He swung low, catching the first one across the shins. Down he went, even as Logan engaged the second pursuer. The man parried his first slash. They locked blades, hilt to hilt. Logan threw a shoulder into him. He stumbled back out of the alley into the arms of his companions. The first attacker was trying to stand. Logan kicked him in the side of the head. He went down like a sack of bricks.
The three others kept their distance. They were looking behind him. Logan spun, already slashing, but it was only a woman. She wasn’t armed, or armored. A trick. He started to look away, but she raised her hands in a complex gesture. It was a trick, and a very dangerous one. She spoke some words he couldn’t understand. An invisible weight pressed all around him. Son of a bitch! He tried to warn the others, but he couldn’t move, couldn’t even speak.
Chaudri appeared out of nowhere and bowled into two of the swordsmen, taking them down in a tangle. Kiara approached the third; to Logan it seemed she was holding her sword awkwardly. As if she could barely hold the weight, and fear was written on her face.
The third swordsman smirked. “Just you, little lady?”
This should be entertaining.
He sauntered toward her, holding his own sword almost casually. Thinking her an easy mark.
One more step, Logan thought. The man complied.
Kiara’s blade whirled in her hands, even as she spun and slashed him across the shoulder. He cursed and stumbled back. She was on him instantly, her sword flashing. He recovered enough to parry the worst of her cuts. She wasn’t trying to kill the man, or he’d be dead already.
Logan felt the cold tip of a dagger against his throat.
“Stop!” the woman called. “Or your man dies.”
Kiara glanced over, saw them both, and backed off. The man she’d been attacking leaned against the wall, panting. Chaudri scrabbled away from the other two as they regained their feet. Logan tried to shake his head. Go, he wanted to tell them. Better that two get back to the gateway than all of them be captured. His head wouldn’t move, though, so he rolled his eyes. Kiara saw it, but she shook her head. He would have cursed if he could.
“That’s bette
r,” the woman said. “We’re not supposed to harm you.”
“If that’s true, then release him,” Kiara said. She kept her blade up.
“Put your steel away.”
Kiara paused, not giving in straightaway. That was good. Show some backbone. After a long moment, she slid her blade back into the sheath on her belt. Even as she did, the invisible bonds around Logan lifted . . . for the most part. He could move, though every motion felt sluggish, as if he were moving through water. Kiara gave him the hand signal. Stand down. His knuckles were white around his sword, but he obeyed and put it away.
“What now?” Kiara asked.
“The big man wants a word.”
“And which big man would that be?” Kiara demanded.
“The Valteroni Prime.”
“The gateway is a secret we cannot hope to keep forever. Sooner or later, someone is going to talk.”
—R. HOLT, “WHAT IS OUR ENDGAME?”
CHAPTER 12
THE VALTERONI PRIME
Richard Holt’s new residence, the palace of the Valteroni Prime, dominated the great plaza in Valteron’s capital city. Everything about the structure seemed to defy physics and architecture. The alabaster roof curved like a sail over the main structure, supported by great stone chains stretching from a seemingly too-thin marble pillar hundreds of feet tall. The building was shaped like a half moon, both sides curving up from the ground. From a distance it looked like a fat cargo ship balanced precariously on the plaza, its bow pointed to the ocean.
This structure had astounded the CASE Global’s consulting architects, as it was unlike anything they’d seen in Alissia. They were all but certain that a stiff breeze should knock it over, but the structure had stood firm for decades. And the cost of the materials to make it, the labor required, spoke to the kind of wealth Valteron had amassed by dominating the Alissian seas. The Valteroni Prime was one of the most powerful leaders in Alissia. The fact that the former Prime had died shortly before Richard Holt got here was a little suspicious, but Logan still couldn’t picture the studious, scholarly man planning an assassination. Not really his style.
