No reason he couldn’t travel. None at all.
She snapped the baby’s shirt closed, feeling pleased with herself. Those fools at the hospital had been difficult about everything: her methods, that she’d brought her own people to assist, that she wouldn’t let them observe the procedure.
Idiots. Perhaps she should have allowed a few of them into the operating theater. It might have been worth it to see their faces before she wiped their minds clean.
Of course, it would be years before she would see how the experiment played out. Considerable time invested if it failed, but much to be gained if it succeeded. Perhaps an end to the shortage of warriors. An unlimited supply of fodder for the Game. Final victory to the White Rose.
She glanced around the nursery. It was full of baby things, more paraphernalia than she could possibly carry. She could always buy more when they reached their destination. What would a baby need to travel? Diapers and clothes. A seat to travel in. What would he eat? Formula? She shrugged. Pediatrics was not her specialty.
She found a large bag on the floor of the closet that already held diapers and a box of wipes. No bottles, though. She yanked open a dresser drawer and found layers of tiny clothes. She shoved some of the clothes into the bag, which was decorated with elephants and giraffes in primary colors. Jessamine frowned and ran her hands over her elegant suit, swept a curtain of dark hair away from her face. She did not relish the idea of walking around with a diaper bag on her shoulder and a baby on her hip. She should have hired someone to take charge of the brat from the start.
She pulled a plastic infant seat from the closet and set it on the floor next to the crib. The catch resisted when she tried to lower the side, so she stretched over awkwardly and scooped the baby from the mattress. She laid him in the seat and began fussing with the straps.
How does one go about finding a nanny? She had no idea.
“What are you doing here?”
Jessamine jumped. The enchanter Linda Downey stood in the doorway. She was just a child, really, barefoot, in jeans and a T-shirt. Linda was the baby’s aunt, Jessamine recalled, not his Anaweir mother. Good. Not that it would have mattered, but she preferred to avoid a scene.
Jessamine stood, leaving the baby in the seat and the straps in a tangle. “I didn’t know anyone was home,” she said, instead of answering the question.
Linda tilted her head. She was a pretty thing, with long dark hair woven into a thick braid. She moved with a careless grace that Jessamine envied. But then, if Jess had to choose one gift over another, she would always choose her own.
“Of course there’s someone home,” the girl said, in the insolent way of teenagers. “You don’t leave a baby by itself.”
At least the sudden and awkward appearance of the enchanter solved one problem. “I’m glad you’re here,” Jessamine said imperiously, with a sweep of her elegant hand. “I need you to pack up some things for him, enough for a few days, anyway. Food, clothes, and so forth.”
“Why? Where do you think you’re taking him?”
Jessamine sighed, flexed her fingers with their long, painted nails. “If you must know, I’m taking him back with me.”
“What?” It came out almost as a shriek, and the baby threw out its arms, startled. Linda took a step forward. “What do you mean?”
“I’m taking him back to England with me. Don’t worry,” she added. “He’ll be well cared for. I just can’t afford to leave him lying about.”
“What are you talking about?” Linda demanded.
“Since the surgery, he has . . . appreciated in value,” Jessamine said calmly.
Linda knelt by the car seat, looking the boy over as if she could discover something through close examination. She extended a finger, and the baby grabbed on to it. She looked up at Jessamine. “What did you do to him?”
“He needed a stone, and I gave him one. A miracle. Something no one has ever done before. I saved his life.” She smiled, turning her palms upward. “Only, now he’s Weirlind.”
“A warrior?” It came out as a whisper. “No! I told you! He’s a wizard. He needed a wizard’s stone.” Linda shook her head as she said it, as if by denying it she could change things. “It’s all in his Weirbook. He’s a wizard,” she repeated bleakly.
Jessamine smiled. “Not anymore, if he ever was.
Be reasonable. A wizard’s stone is hard to come by. Wizards live almost forever. But warriors . . . warriors die young, don’t they?” The last part was intentionally cruel.
Now the enchanter stood, her hands balled into fists. “I should have known better than to trust a wizard.”
Jessamine drew herself up. She was losing patience with this scrap of a girl. “You didn’t have much of a choice, did you? If it weren’t for me, he’d be dead by now. I’m not in the business of providing charity care. I did it because I intend to play him in the Game. And I think you’d better remember to whom you are speaking and hope I don’t lose my temper.”
Linda took a deep breath, let it out with a shudder. “What am I supposed to tell Becka?”
“I don’t care what you tell her. Tell her it died.” The Anaweir and what they thought were of no consequence.
“But why do you have to take him now? He can’t play in a tournament until he’s grown.” The girl’s voice softened, grew persuasive. Jessamine felt a gentle pressure, the touch of the enchanter’s power. “He’s alive, but how do you know he’ll manifest? And what will you do with him in the meantime?”
Jessamine shrugged. “Perhaps I’ll bring you along to watch him,” she said. “In a year or two you can go to the Trade.” The girl would bring a pretty price, too, if Jess was any judge. Enchanters and warriors were both hard to come by.
Linda took a step back. “You wouldn’t!”
“Then don’t try your enchanter’s tricks with me.
I’ve spent quite a bit of time on him already. I intend to keep an eye on my investment while he’s growing up.”
“If he grows up. If someone else doesn’t get to him first.” Linda extended her hands in appeal. “Everyone knows you are Procurer of Warriors for the White Rose. How long do you think he’ll last if he’s with you?”
The girl had a point. The stone Jess had used on the boy had come from a seventeen-year-old warrior, her last prospect. A girl who would never play in a tournament. She’d been butchered by agents of the Red Rose when they’d been unable to steal her away. Illegal, but then rules relating to the Anawizard Weir were made to be broken. “I assume you have a suggestion?”
“Let his parents raise him. Come back and get him later.”
The baby scrunched up his eyes and let out a screech, his face turning an angry blue-red. Unfathomable creatures, babies, Jessamine thought. Unfathomable and unpredictable and messy.
“He might be hard to handle later on if he’s not raised to it.” Jessamine said.
Linda lifted her eyebrows. “You’re saying a wizard can’t manage a warrior?”
Jessamine nodded, conceding the point. “What if someone else takes him to play?”
“In Trinity? No one will ever look for him here. It’s perfect. You’re a healer-surgeon. Suppress him, so he won’t stand out.” Linda sat down next to the baby, smoothing down his fringe of red-gold hair. “You can easily keep watch on him. His parents are Anaweir. They can be managed well enough. Tell them you need to see him on a regular basis. Becka will do whatever you ask. You saved her son’s life.”
Jessamine had to admit, the enchanter’s suggestion was appealing. It would be years before this boy could be put to use, and he would be nothing but trouble in the meantime. This way, she could keep the warrior brat out of harm’s way and out of her hair until he was old enough for training.
She looked into the enchanter’s blue and gold eyes. “What about you? Are you manageable? Are you going to be able to give him up when the time comes?”
Linda looked down at the baby. “As you said, I don’t have much choice, do I?”
> Chapter One
The Flying Lobeck
“Jack!”
His mother’s voice cut into his dreams and he reluctantly opened his eyes. It was late, he could tell. The light had lost that early-morning watercolor quality and streamed boldly through the window. He’d stayed up too late the night before, stargazing. It was the night of the new moon, and some of the key constellations hadn’t slid over the horizon until after midnight.
“Coming!” he shouted. “Almost ready!” he lied as his feet hit the wood floor. His jeans lay in a heap next to the bed, where he’d stepped out of them the night before. He jerked them on, pulled a fresh T-shirt from the drawer, and threw a pair of socks over his shoulder.
Jack careened around the corner into the bathroom. No time for a shower. He washed his face, wet his fingers and ran them through his hair.
“Jack!” His mother’s voice had a warning note.
Jack leaped down the back stairs and into the kitchen.
His mom had granola and orange juice waiting for him. She must have been distracted, because she had also poured him a cup of coffee. She’d left her muesli unfinished and was sorting through a stack of papers.
That was Becka. His mother was a woman of a thousand passions. Although she had a PhD in medieval literature and a law degree, she had difficulty managing the household economy: things like school schedules, lunch money, and getting the library books back on time. Jack had taken on the task of organizing both himself and his mother from an early age.
Becka looked at her watch and groaned. “I’ve got to get dressed! I’m supposed to be at a meeting in an hour.” She shoved a large blue bottle across the table toward him. “Don’t forget to take your medicine.” She thrust her papers into a large portfolio. “I’ll be at the library all morning and in court this afternoon.”
“Don’t forget I have soccer tryouts after school,” Jack said. “In case you get home first.” His mother was a worrier. She always said it was because he’d almost died when he was a baby. Personally, Jack thought such things were hardwired. Some people always worried, others never did. He supposed his father fell into the latter category. Maybe it was hard to worry from three states away.
“Soccer tryouts,” Becka repeated solemnly, as if to fix it in her mind. Then she raced up the stairs.
Someone pounded at the side door. Jack looked up, surprised. “Hey, Will. You’re early.”
It was Will Childers, stooping to peer through the screen. Although Jack was tall, Will towered over him, and he was built solidly enough to play tackle on the varsity football team. His trumpet case looked like a toy next to him. “Jack! We gotta move! We’ve got jazz band practice this morning for the concert next week.”
Jack slapped his forehead and carried his cereal bowl to the sink. Pushing his feet into his shoes without untying them, he grabbed the book bag waiting by the door. Fortunately his saxophone was at school. “School starts early enough in the day as it is,” he grumbled as he followed Will down the street at a trot.
They cut across the grassy square and threaded their way between the classic sandstone buildings of the college. Trinity was a postcard Midwest college town; its streets lined with stately Victorian homes and ancient oaks and maples. Full of people who could recite every sin Jack had ever committed. He’d lived there all his life.
Thanks to Will, they were only a few minutes late for practice. It wasn’t until Jack was seated in homeroom and the first bell had already rung that he realized he had forgotten to take his medicine.
What was amazing was that it had never happened before. The perfect record so far was his mother’s doing. The medicine was priority one with her. She never forgot, not once, not this time either. He was the one who’d messed up.
Jack knew the history well enough. Jessamine Longbranch, the famous London heart surgeon, had swept in from overseas to steal him from the jaws of death. She still visited the States once or twice a year, and would give Jack a checkup.
Her bedside manner left a lot to be desired. He’d strip to the waist and she’d do a brief physical, run her hands over the muscles in his arms and legs and chest, listen to his heart with an unusual cone-shaped stethoscope, check his height and weight and blood pressure, and proclaim him healthy.
He always felt like a piece of meat during those meetings with Dr. Longbranch, poked and prodded for fat and bone, interrogated about his exercise habits. Their tenant, Nick, said it was a failing common to surgeons; they preferred to deal with people under anaesthesia.
Each visit ended with a reminder to take his medicine. Dr. Longbranch always delivered a new supply on her visits, and his mother ordered more from her office in London. The medicine in the blue bottle had taken on a kind of talisman quality, the elixir that kept evil away.
No one was home to bring it to him, he knew. Becka would be in the library at the university, and then in court, unreachable at both places. His mother didn’t carry a cell phone because she was convinced they caused brain tumors.
Perhaps he could reach Nick, though, at the house or his apartment. Nick would answer the phone if he was doing handyman work in the house, though he never checked his voice mail. Or maybe Penworthy could be persuaded to let him walk home and get it. It was worth a try. He asked for a hall pass just as the final bell rang.
Leotis Penworthy, the Trinity High School principal, was working cleanup in the school lobby, intercepting students who hadn’t yet made it into their classrooms and taking names from the unfortunates who still trickled through the front door.
Penworthy wore ankle-length pants and a powder blue polyester sports jacket that was three sizes too small. His stomach poured over a belt hidden somewhere beneath. His face was always flushed, as if the constriction at his waist had forced the blood upward into his temples.
“MISTER Fitch!” he crowed, collaring a boy who was trying to slip past him. “Do you know what time it is?” It was a comical matchup. Fitch’s clothes were a chaotic mix of Goodwill bargains and oversized military surplus chic, sleeves rolled to fit, pants belted to keep them from sliding from his slender frame. His pale hair was bleached white at the tips, and he wore three earrings in one ear.
“Sorry, Mr. Penworthy,” Fitch said. He glanced up at Jack, over Penworthy’s shoulder, then looked back at the floor. The corners of his mouth twitched, but his voice was solemn. “I had some updates to do online this morning, and I guess I lost track of time.” Fitch was webmaster for the school’s site, and unofficial systems administrator for the high school. A cheap source of high-grade technical expertise.
“Don’t think you can use the Web site as an excuse, Mister. We gave you that computer so you could do the work on your own time.”
Harmon Fitch had run late for a lifetime. His mother worked nights, and Fitch had four younger brothers and sisters to get on the bus.
“Mr. Penworthy,” Jack broke in. “Excuse me. I, ah, forgot something at home and wondered if I could go get it.” He kept his tone neutral.
The principal turned his attention to Jack.
Penworthy despised him, an opinion he communicated in a hundred different ways.
“Mr. Swift,” Penworthy said, lips spreading in a predatory smile. “I find it incredible that a boy of your intelligence could be so utterly disorganized.”
“You’re right,” said Jack politely. “And I apologize. I can be home and back before homeroom is over, if you’ll let me go.” Fitch was already halfway down the hallway. Penworthy didn’t notice. He had a new and better target.
“I’m sorry,” the principal said in a way that had no sorry in it. “Students are not allowed out of the building during school hours. It’s a matter of liability.”
Jack didn’t feel like explaining about the medicine to Penworthy. It wasn’t something he liked to talk about. But he knew an explanation was his ticket home. “I have to go home to get some medicine. It’s for my heart. I forgot to take it this morning.”
Penworthy scowled, ro
cking on his heels like one of those inflatable dolls that pops back up when you knock it down. Jack knew it would be difficult to deny this request (a matter of liability). But the principal had weapons of his own.
“Fine,” Penworthy snapped. “By all means, sign yourself out in the office and go home and get it. But plan on serving a detention this afternoon to make up the time.”
“But I can’t,” Jack protested. “I have soccer tryouts.”
“Well, Mr. Swift, let this be a lesson to you.” Penworthy’s pale eyes gleamed with triumph. “Nothing reinforces memory like consequences.”
Jack knew he was stuck. If he didn’t make it to tryouts, he wouldn’t make the team. And he thought he had a chance to make JV at least. “Never mind, then,” he said, turning toward the pay phones next to the school office. Becka wouldn’t allow Jack to get a cell phone, either. “I’ll call home and see if I can get someone to bring it in to me.”
“Just make sure it’s an adult,” Penworthy warned. “We have a zero tolerance policy regarding drugs in school.”
There was no answer at the house or at Nick’s apartment. Surely a few hours’ delay in taking his medicine couldn’t hurt. In his sixteen years, he couldn’t recall so much as a single symptom. The surgery had cured him, as far as he could tell. Longbranch had never even explained exactly what the medication did. His mother, who was usually so full of questions, treated it like a magic potion.
He felt fine anyway. If any symptoms developed, he would say he was sick and they would have to let him go home. He returned the phone to its cradle and headed back to homeroom.
Jack hadn’t been back in his seat for more than a minute when Ellen Stephenson touched him on the shoulder.
“What kind of measurements did you get in the respiration lab?” she whispered. “I was working on my lab report last night and my numbers were all over the place.”
The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III Page 2
