by Dan Koboldt
At last they moved on, and faster than before. Some urgency drove whatever they planned. Chaudri nearly had to run to keep up with them. She came to a ditch running east-west. It would give her enough cover to get near the tree line, and the raiders were already past it. She’d have to be closer to be useful to Logan and Kiara anyway.
She cut left, trying to keep low. Gods, but she hoped they wouldn’t turn around. The crossbow was getting heavy.
Logan crawled on his belly under the branches of evergreens, working his way toward the enemy camp. He hadn’t lingered near the dead janitor. If the other raiders had heard the gunfire, they’d be coming fast. The blue jumpsuit was another piece in the puzzle; it explained the isotope signal here and how the infiltrators had gotten past security and through the gateway. Security on the Earth-side wasn’t Logan’s responsibility, but he saw how it could happen. Big company, lots of layers of security codes and scanners and such, but you need someone to clean up after closing time. Those trash cans didn’t empty themselves. Janitors had access to almost everything. A well-placed agent posing as a janitor could help himself to the files and reports undoubtedly left lying around.
Some of the smartest scientists in the world, and they don’t know anything about information security.
The worst part was that it hadn’t been Mendez. Bravo’s scout would have really turned the tables on this mission. Logan and Kiara had been counting on the intel and the extra manpower. The idea that he might still be alive had kept Logan better in line. Who had he been kidding? The kid was probably dead, just like the rest of his team. Another awkward letter to send about an “unfortunate training accident.”
He probably should have retreated and regrouped with the others. More planning, more chasing. More bodies probably left behind as the raiders burned their path back toward the gateway. That’s what Kiara would have wanted him to do. But now his blood was up, and there was no Mendez to save.
That only leaves one thing to do.
He paused for a moment to put on the infrared-sensing lenses. They didn’t help with seeing in the near-darkness, but they’d give him a warning if the enemy had night-vision equipment. The moon was enough for him. He edged toward the center of the woods as he went. Sixteen rounds in the clip, three of them spent on the janitor. That left thirteen. Would it be enough? He paused long enough to pull the clip and add three more rounds. No sense going into a fight without a full mag.
The clip slid back into place. He tried to muffle the sound when it seated, the soft metallic click. The wind died at the exact wrong moment. The click sounded too loud in the silent woods. He held completely still, listening, waiting. Good. He took a step forward.
Gunfire erupted from the left, from the shadowed woods. He dropped flat, but not in time to avoid a graze across the shoulder. That was close. He couldn’t see the muzzle flashes—the trees were too thick here. He scrabbled away on a diagonal. Bullets flew again. He was forced to take cover behind a tree. They had him pinned. More gunfire, now coming from the two positions. One to the left, one almost north of him. They were flanking him. He resisted the urge to shoot back; that would only give away his position and they had the drop on him already. He slouched low to the ground, putting the tree between him and the shooter on the north. He brought the stock of the MP5 to his shoulder and quieted his breathing.
Footsteps. To the left, approaching with deliberate slowness. Logan still couldn’t make him out; there was too much foliage. But he was close. Maybe thirty yards. Red beams flared on his IR lenses. Shit! Night vision—Chaudri had guessed it after all. Logan was already sweating; he’d be lit up like a Christmas tree. Farther west came a deep clack-thrum. Something about the sound was familiar to him, but he couldn’t quite place. But he recognized the grunt that followed, especially when the raider fell to his knees. The man saw Logan then, under the foliage. Started to bring his gun up. Logan shot him four times in the chest. He tumbled over backward.
The tree behind his head exploded into splinters. Logan rolled and returned fire, shooting blindly. More shots caused him to bury his head in the pine needles to protect his face from the flying wood. He shot again.
Empty.
Worse, the impotent click gave it away. The man heard it and, like a seasoned vet, charged while Logan fumbled for another one. The damn thing caught on the edge of his pocket. He fought with it, couldn’t get it free. His arm was half-numb. The graze must have been worse than he thought. The last raider came into view, crouched low, scanning left and right with night-vision goggles. He saw Logan struggling. He took a knee, brought a weapon up to his shoulder. Logan wouldn’t make it in time. He closed his eyes, thinking of his girls.
Thump. The raider crumpled forward. Kiara stood behind him, her MP5 held like a club. Logan exhaled.
God, that had almost been it.
“Cutting it a bit close, Lieutenant,” he said.
She hardly spared him a glance as she knelt by the fallen man to check his pulse. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
“I suppose.”
“Good.”
Logan stood slowly and reloaded the MP5. His hands were shaking.
The trees behind him shook suddenly, as if mimicking his hands. A figure burst from between them, crossbow pointing around wildly.
Chaudri.
Logan held up his hands. “Easy, easy!”
“Oh. Logan.” She sagged with visible relief.
“Jesus, Chaudri, you scared the hell out of me.”
“Sorry. I didn’t think I’d make it in time. Thank God.”
“Gods, you mean,” Logan said.
“Right. Gods.” She leaned against a tree, shaken. “That was unpleasant.”
“Most illusions are a matter of timing and misdirection. The best part is that the audience knows it.”
—ART OF ILLUSION, AUGUST 1
CHAPTER 19
THE HARBORMASTER
Quinn woke before sunrise to find the island wrapped in fog. He dressed quietly, threw on a heavy cloak, and slipped out of the tower into gray anonymity. Visibility was no more than twenty feet. The Enclave had a few early risers, shadows that moved almost imperceptibly in the semidarkness. He drew his hood and became one of them, walking with purpose down toward the island’s docks.
He wanted a closer look at that sailing ship he’d seen in the harbor.
It hadn’t left, or even moved, while he’d been on the island. The docks were often a busy place, though, and it was hard to tell from a distance whether or not they were guarded. There was no better time than now, when most of the Enclave slept and fog hid him from the rest.
Especially the ones who’d been shadowing him. They were careful about it; they never did it openly. But he kept seeing the same faces. They never returned his wave, never smiled. Never did anything but stare at him. Moric had said they weren’t his people—that he no longer required an escort—and that worried Quinn even more.
A single road led down to the docks through a natural cleft in the rocks. The click of his boots echoed off of the cleft’s sides, but the wet heavy air muted the sound. There were luminescent globes strung along the tops of the wooden dock posts, almost like Christmas lights. Fog enshrouded them; their fey light didn’t quite reach the surface of the water. No one seemed to be about.
He walked casually along the dock, as if out for a morning stroll. The wooden planks creaked beneath his boots. The air smelled fresh here. Almost pure. And strangely absent of the odors of dried seaweed and rotting fish that pervaded every body of water he’d seen Earth-side. Up close, the docks were the cleanest he’d ever seen. There was no hiding the sturdiness of the docks, the clean anchor lines, and the harbor waters that were completely free of debris.
He reached the end of the docks, and there she was. It had to be the Victoria. They’d moored her in the deepest part of the ba
y; a small white rowboat currently tied up at the docks must serve as a tender. He bent close to look at it; the boat wasn’t locked. A simple rope secured it to the rock post, and it bobbed alluringly. He could probably be on board in five minutes, well before anyone noticed. But what then? He knew even less about sailing than he did about swimming.
Instead, he took out a pair of compact binoculars. These were about the size of opera glasses, and disguised as an ornate snuffbox with a lacquered lid. Snuffboxes were private possessions in this world, almost like handkerchiefs. No one would open it without being invited to.
At ten-times magnification, the sleek lines of the Victoria leaped into view. Captain Relling’s shipbuilding team had done their job well. Maybe too well. All the angles were perfect, the finish was spotless, and not a single bit of metal had begun to rust. He couldn’t think that it was some kind of magical protection offered by the Enclave magicians, because other than parking the vessel here, they didn’t seem to have touched it.
If this was the company ship, then where was the crew? He’d been hesitant to ask Moric about it. Expressing any interest might clue him in that Quinn recognized it. That was a risk he wasn’t willing to take.
Timbers creaked behind him. Someone was coming. He tucked the snuffbox away in his cloak and began whistling to himself.
A woman in a heavy woolen coat strode down the docks toward him. She spotted Quinn, and seemed just as surprised as he was.
“Oh. Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” Quinn answered.
“Who are you?”
“Quinn. I’m—” he began, and then he got a good look at her face. He knew that face. The stern countenance, the eyes. It was Kiara’s sister, Captain Relling. He wanted to say who he was right away, but some instinct screamed at him for caution. “I’m new here.”
“You’re a little old for a student.”
He grinned at her. “So Moric tells me.”
“One of his, eh?” She gave him a sidelong look, as if reappraising him. “Well, students aren’t permitted down by the docks.”
“Sorry.” Quinn shrugged. “He said I could go wherever I want.”
“Well, you tell Moric that everyone checks in with the harbormaster before entering the docks.” She stalked past him and climbed into the tender. “He has a problem, he can take it up with the council.”
“I didn’t even know we had a harbormaster,” Quinn said.
She took up the oars and started rowing out toward the ship. “You just met her.”
Jillaine was avoiding him. Quinn had seen her once or twice since his testing, always from a distance. He’d waved at her but she never slowed. She never seemed to run, either—that was the crazy part. She’d turn a corner or something and just be gone.
So he climbed up to the highest part of the vale, the pile of rocks where he’d first met her. And he waited.
He never heard her climbing. Never saw her approach. He’d been distracted by the view, and wondering about how his team was doing on the mainland. Then he heard her little huff of surprise when she saw him.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” he said.
She brushed an errant strand of hair from in front of her face. “I have not.”
So that’s how she was going to play it. “Did I do something wrong?”
“How should I know?” she asked.
She was impossible to read, and he wasn’t sure if that vexed him more as a man or as a magician. “Well, I wanted to say thanks,” Quinn said. “The council agreed to let me join.”
She didn’t answer him, and he didn’t want to seem needy.
“That’s all,” he said. He stood and brushed past her to climb down. Trying to ignore the faint rose scent of hers as he did.
“I didn’t feel anything,” she said, without warning.
He paused in his descent. That could mean a lot of different things. “What?”
“During your trial,” she said.
“Did you expect to?”
“I was touching your hands. I should have.”
“Well, you felt the wind, didn’t you?” he asked.
She paused, as if reluctant. “Yes.”
He shrugged. “How else do you explain it?”
Trickery. He could sense the word on the tip of her tongue. Damn it, she knew. He should have been more cautious. All that bragging and celebrating, and he’d never realized that the one closest to him onstage would end up suspicious.
“Could you do it again?” she asked. “Here, and now?”
“I don’t think so.” Repeating a trick was dangerous, especially at the request of someone who wasn’t convinced. She’d only look for the flaws in it. Besides, even if he wanted to, he’d used most of the foam, and the microfan wasn’t charged.
“Hmm,” she said.
“I’m not like you. I can’t just summon magic whenever I want,” Quinn said.
“I see.”
“So we’re OK, then?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “As soon as I talk to my father about it.”
Quinn hurried across the Enclave grounds. He was barely going to make class on time. He wasn’t certain what Jillaine had told Moric, but the man had been asking him a lot of questions. Told Quinn he was the oldest newcomer in more than a century, and that he’d like to find others like him.
Quinn hoped to hell that would never happen.
He still hadn’t figured out what to do about Captain Relling. There was no easy way for him to bring it up with Moric without showing his interest. All he knew was that she was here, alive, and working for the Enclave. What about her crew? The questions were piling up, and he had fewer and fewer answers.
And now he was going to try to learn actual magic.
Today his seven classmates perched precariously on rocks in the middle of a narrow, fast-running stream that fed the river. They were all about twelve or thirteen, and new to the Enclave. Just beyond them, the water tumbled over a twelve-foot waterfall. Sella seemed to enjoy putting her class in harm’s way, in hopes of “lighting the spark of magic.”
The stream was fed by an underground spring, and was ice cold. The thought of taking a dunk in it wasn’t very appealing. He hesitated. Maybe skipping today’s class was a good idea.
“Quinn is here!” one of the students called. Judas.
“Quinn, you’re the last to arrive,” said Sella. She was in purple, as always, with the white hair floating about her head. Since the first class, she’d made it clear that she saw no difference between Quinn and his classmates. They were all untrained magicians trying to “cross the threshold,” to call upon magic whenever they wanted. The ability supposedly improved with age and practice; he certainly had the former, but was in desperate need of the latter.
“That last rock is yours,” she said. She pointed with the long bamboo-like stick that she always carried; it served a variety of purposes . . . including disciplinary ones. Any time she started tapping it against the palm of her hand, someone was about to get the switch.
Quinn didn’t think he was late enough to merit a lash, but stepped lively just in case. The last rock was one of the smallest, and it perched a scant two yards from the edge of the fall. He found the wooden plank that students used to reach their assigned stones and laid it across the water, resting the far edge on his rock. He scurried across it to the rock and nearly overshot his destination; the stone wobbled and grated beneath his boots. A few of the other students giggled at this. Most, though, were preoccupied with keeping their own balance above the frigid water.
Sella waited until he was settled before making a small flicking gesture with her stick that sent the wooden plank back to shore.
“Water magic is one of the most fickle arts you’ll ever study,” she said.
Quinn had to strain to hear her voice over the roar of th
e waterfall. There might be a test after this.
“You’ll spend years mastering even the most basic enchantments and manipulations. Unless you happen to be one of a gifted few with a talent for it,” she said, and seemed to smirk just a little bit.
He missed what she said next, because the comm unit made a burst of static in his ear. Startled the hell out of him. The thing had been absolutely silent since Moric had brought him here. He’d thought it broken, but he wore it all the time, on the off chance that he might pick up a signal from the others.
He pressed a finger to his ear. “Logan?” he nearly shouted. “Kiara?”
Silence answered him.
Sella had heard him, though. “Something to add, Quinn?” she asked.
“Uh, no,” he called. “Sorry.”
She spared a moment to frown at him, and went on. “Many of the guild’s contracts require a water specialist. Deciding where to dig a well, or how best to dam a stream, can affect an entire village.”
Guild contracts. So they did more than just kidnap people. They must have kept it quiet, though, because the reports he’d read had said nothing of it. Unless CASE Global knew, and had kept it from him. God, if he ever got back he was going to demand more access. There was just too much they might have decided he didn’t have clearance for.
“Of course,” Sella said, “water magic can be destructive as well.”
She began tracing little swirls on the surface of the water with her whipping-stick. A circle, then a figure eight. Her lips moved faintly, but he heard no sound. The water around his stone seemed to increase in speed. It rushed and gurgled beneath his stone. The noise from the falls behind him seemed to increase.
One of the other students, a girl, squeaked and stumbled back. She went down with a splash. She flailed for the rock’s edge, but the current had her. She shot past Quinn and over the edge of the falls. Screaming all the way. The other students watched it happen with wide-eyed looks of terror. Sella seemed not to notice; she never broke from her enchantment.
