“It’ll be way easier once we get the wall up. I won’t have to do so much scanning. And we can boot out and keep out violators.” Seph flexed his hands. “I just wish we had more wizards to help. We could really use Jason back again. If . . .” Seph’s voice trailed off, as if he didn’t want to make their worries come true by speaking them aloud.
No wonder Seph’s so stressed, Jack thought. “I know Madison’s been writing to you and all. But maybe we should send somebody else to Coalton County. You know, to see what’s going on,” he said. “Except it’s kind of like one of those horror movies, where they keep sending people to check on the missing guy, and they keep disappearing.”
“Can’t we wait on the wall until Hastings comes back?” Ellen suggested. “By then we’ll be out of school.”
Why are we talking about high school? Jack wondered. At this point, it’s pretty far down on the list.
“We can’t wait any longer,” Seph said. “Like I said. There are fifteen wizards in Trinity at the moment. Any of them could be spies or assassins. And only three are on our side.”
Chapter Nineteen
Boundaries
The doors and windows of Trinity College’s McAlister Chapel shimmered with magical wards designed to exclude the uninvited. The portraits of James and Mallory McAlister frowned down from the walls, as if disapproving of the proceedings.
There were probably three hundred people spread among the pews—disappointingly few, Seph thought. And they were mostly Anawizard Weir: sorcerers, seers, enchanters, and warriors. The elected board sat down front— the wizard Iris Bolingame, the seer Blaise Highbourne, and the sorcerer Mercedes Foster, of course. Plus the enchanter Akana Moon, who’d been with them at Second Sister. After her experience there, Seph was impressed that she was willing to sit as representative again.
Nick had insisted on bringing Leesha Middleton, who sat off to one side. A small group of unfamiliar wizards sat together at the back.
Conversations in a dozen languages reverberated around the room. Shimmering ghost warriors in period dress slouched up the side aisles and peered down from the balconies.
Well, we have the votes at this point, Seph thought. What we need are sorcerers to sign onto this project. He glanced down at the notes on the scrap of paper in his hand.
“Let’s begin,” Nick murmured, touching Seph on the shoulder. The old wizard shuffled to the podium and gripped it with both hands. “Guildfriends!”
Conversations died away.
“Thank you for coming,” Nick continued. “Most of you know me. I am Nicodemus Snowbeard, acting chair of the board of governors of the sanctuary in Linda Downey’s absence. We’ve met as a board to discuss matters such as the development of emergency housing and language programs, to mediate disputes, and so on. But tonight we are here for a different purpose—to discuss a change in security procedures for the sanctuary.”
He paused, scanning the room for questions, then continued. “Recently, we have seen an unusual influx of wizards into Trinity. They may be innocent tourists, they may be spies, or they may intend to make off with our arsenal of magical weapons. We don’t know. But redirecting them requires constant vigilance.”
“What magical weapons?” demanded a twitchy-looking wizard in the back. “Where are they? Why weren’t we told?”
“Wizards? Innocent tourists? Bah!” a young French seer in the front row said. A rumble of assent followed. “We should expel them all before they knife us in the back.”
Ellen stood. “I’ve got more reason to hate wizards than most people,” she said. “But we need wizards to fight wizards, and they’ve got a plan. I think you should listen to it.” She glared at the crowd until the grumbling subsided, then sat down quickly.
“All right,” Nick said, taking advantage of the lull. “Seph McCauley has agreed to coordinate security matters for the sanctuary. He’ll answer any questions you have.”
Seph mounted the steps to the stage and sat down in a folding chair onstage. Conversations rose on all sides, beating against his flame-sensitized ears.
“He’s just a boy,” said one of the wizards in the back, looking down his long nose at Seph. “Why is he handling security? Are things that desperate?”
“He’s Hastings’s son,” the twitchy wizard muttered. “He’s bound to be juiced.”
“Juice is one thing.” The first wizard snorted. “Experience and common sense quite another.”
A third wizard, a youngish woman with Asian features, shushed the other two. “Didn’t you hear what he did at Second Sister?” she hissed. “Dueled twelve wizards at once and killed them all.”
“Like I said, Felicia, no common sense,” the first wizard said.
“He’s a wizard,” Seph heard one sorcerer say to another. “And he’s going to be protecting the Anaweir?”
Great, Seph thought. Everybody already has an opinion. He looked out over the crowd, making eye contact with several people he knew. Mercedes winked at him, and he relaxed a fraction.
“So,” Seph said. “As most of you know, some of us have been—um—standing guard since then, to make sure the rules written at Raven’s Ghyll hold here in the sanctuary. But it’s been harder, lately, because of all the intrusions.”
“They aren’t intrusions,” the long-nosed wizard said. “The sanctuary is open to all.”
“We have to change that,” Seph said from his chair on the stage. “Lately wizards have been swarming in. If we leave the sanctuary open, there’s a chance the balance of power will be tipped in favor of the Roses. With things as unstable as they are, we could be overwhelmed before we can mount a defense.”
“What do you have in mind?” the Asian wizard asked.
Seph straightened and met the wizard’s eyes. “We’re going to put up a Weirwall.”
There was an instant uproar. He’d expected it. Weirwalls were controversial. They were first used during the Wars of the Roses, to ensnare wizards. They were mostly the work of sorcerers, but some wizards (like Barber) had the skill as well. Many wizards considered them foul play.
“What kind of Weirwall?” one of the sorcerers finally asked, shouting above the hubbub. “And who’s going to design and build it?”
“Great question,” Seph said, relieved it was a question he could give to someone else. “Mercedes?”
Mercedes Foster strode up to the podium and glared out at the Weir. “Give the boy a chance!” she shouted. “He didn’t ask for this job. He deserves your thanks, not your criticism. He’s trying to save your sorry butts.”
The noise diminished somewhat.
“Where’s Hastings?” Long Nose demanded. “And Linda Downey? Seems like they created this mess, they should be here to handle it.”
“Looking back to the good old days, are you, Randolph?” Mercedes said acidly. “When wizards ruled the guilds?”
“It was certainly . . . a lot more efficient,” Randolph retorted.
“If you don’t like it here, leave.” Mercedes turned away from him, waving a sheaf of papers in the air. “I’ve agreed to coordinate the building project, but I’d welcome input from anyone experienced with this sort of thing. I’ve made a map and some preliminary sketches. It’s a traditional curtain wall that selects for Weir. Nobody’ll get stuck in it, if that’s what you’re worried about. You can come and go through the gate. Anaweir can pass freely.”
“So the Anaweir can pass, and not us?” Randolph said, vainly looking around for allies. “Who’s going to staff the gate?”
Jack stood. “The Warrior Guild has agreed to stand watch at the gate,” he said. “Unless you have a better idea?”
Randolph settled back, still fuming. He had nothing.
“Just so you know, Jack,” Iris said. “Some of the merchants around the square have been complaining about ghost warriors bivouacking on the green. Well, actually, the Anaweir think it’s some kind of reenactment group. They’ve been hanging out in campus bars, playing cards, flirting with patrons, and gett
ing into fights.”
“Well, they are soldiers,” Jack said, shrugging. “I’ll check into it. I guess I can move them off the green and up into one of the more remote parks.”
“The building of the wall will require considerable magical labor,” Mercedes said, firmly turning the topic back to the matter at hand. “The board has already voted to proceed. But we need volunteers to help. Sorcerers and wizards primarily.”
“When are you planning to start this?” one of the sorcerers asked.
“Tomorrow morning,” Mercedes replied. “I have a sign-up sheet here. Anyone willing to help should see me.” She glanced at Nick, and he nodded. “That’s it. The meeting’s adjourned.”
Wizards and sorcerers lined up to volunteer for wall-work. Seph was surprised to see Leesha among them. When she was finished, she walked over to where Jack, Seph, and Ellen were waiting for Nick. She looked almost cheerful.
“This is cool,” she said. “I like the idea of a wall. We don’t want just anybody coming in here.”
“If you’re talking about Barber, you promised you’d help us find him,” Jack reminded her. “Otherwise you might be the one on the outside.”
Leesha immediately looked less cheerful. “I know. Only, I’m still trying to figure out how to get him to come into the sanctuary.”
“He’s not going to come in here,” Seph said. “Especially with the wall going up. Whatever we think about him, he’s not stupid. We’re going to have to go after him on the outside.”
“Well,” Leesha said, fussing with her hair. “Um . . . how about this? I could set up a meeting with him, and you could be waiting with a dozen wizards.”
“We don’t have a dozen wizards,” Seph said. “If I went after Barber, Nick would have to stay here.”
“Besides, I think we want you right there with us,” Ellen said. “You know. Just in case there’s a double cross or something.”
Leesha clasped her hands together, looking a little panicked. “But, I really . . . I’d really rather not leave the sanctuary,” she said in a small voice.
“If you try and back out of this, you’ll be leaving the sanctuary in a hurry,” Jack said. “You said Barber knows something about Jason, and we want to know what he knows.”
“Okay,” Leesha snapped. “I said I’d do it. I’ll figure something out.”
Chapter Twenty
The Trader
Warren stood in the second-floor window of the warehouse and scanned the empty street. He checked his watch for the fourth time. You’d think she’d learn.
Well, she’d pay, one way or another, for being late.
Leaning against the window frame, he lit another cigarette, careful where he flicked his ashes. The place was a firetrap, for sure. Many of the old buildings in Cleveland’s Warehouse District had been rehabbed into studios, restaurants, and bars. Not this one. It was decrepit, still littered with trash, abandoned industrial equipment, and barrels of God knows what. He could hear rats scurrying around when he lay down at night, and he made sure he put out wards to keep them away.
There was no sanctuary for Warren Barber. He felt twitchy, uneasy. The stench of betrayal was all around him, stinging his nostrils and crawling over his skin. Assassins had come after him, twice now. Both times, he’d escaped, but his luck couldn’t hold out forever. They were sent either by Claude D’Orsay or by the servant guilds in Trinity. Either way, Leesha had talked.
So Warren had left his apartment and moved into this place three nights ago. After he met with Leesha, he’d move again, though if Leesha came through as promised, maybe he wouldn’t need to.
The day before, Leesha had called to say she’d finally found where they’d hidden the Dragonheart, along with the rest of the things stolen from the ghyll. She’d wanted him to meet her in the sanctuary, but he wasn’t fool enough to fall for that. She’d tried to make a deal over the phone, but Warren demanded that she meet him here to talk terms. And from this vantage point, he could see if she brought anyone with her.
Traders. He snorted. They always thought they were in a position to negotiate.
If she was telling the truth, things might work out after all. It had been stupid bad luck that Jason got away before Warren had a chance to interrogate him. Warren had sweated it, worrying he’d never get the information he needed. But now things were back on track. Once he had the Dragonheart, he’d have no need of D’Orsay. With the covenant and the Dragonheart, wizards would flow to his banner. He’d make the rules. There’d be no more skulking in back alleys, watching for death over his shoulder.
If Leesha showed, she’d bring the goods. Otherwise, she wouldn’t dare leave the sanctuary. She’d want the collar removed. As if that would ever happen. Hunted as he was, he needed someone to do his bidding. Slave Leesha. He wasn’t ready to give her up.
Something was moving on the street below. Warren focused, feeling the proximity of the collar. He leaned into the opening, careful of the broken glass on either side.
It was Leesha. She passed under a mercury vapor light on the side of a building, her shadow stretching out in front of her, a backpack slung over her shoulder. He looked up and down the street. She seemed to be alone.
It was funny when you thought about it, a teenage girl walking alone in this neighborhood at 2 a.m. Any mugger who thought he saw an easy target was in for a surprise.
She reached the warehouse and turned aside, passing under him to the entrance. Warren slid through the window and descended the fire escape into an alley. Once again, he looked up and down the street, alert for betrayal. There was nobody.
As he entered through the side door, Leesha was spinning around, flame spattering out in all directions. He flung himself backward, throwing his shields up, then realized he was not the target. Blueblood Leesha was frying rats.
“Hey! Be careful with that. You’ll burn the place down.”
She swung toward him. “As if that would be a loss. I can’t believe you asked me to meet you in this dump,” she said.
He relaxed a little. It was Leesha, all right.
“Funny,” he said. “People keep trying to kill me. This place seemed safer than my apartment.”
“Really? Darn. Well, I don’t want to be here any longer than I have to in case somebody tries again.” She unslung the backpack, setting it on top of a barrel like it was made of glass. “OK. I brought it all. The Dragonheart. And some other stuff. Only—be careful. It’s really powerful and hard to handle. They’ve been having trouble controlling it, I guess.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“They had it hidden under McCauley’s porch.”
“How’d you find out it was there?”
“I bribed someone.”
“Good work, Leesha. I’m proud of you.”
She shifted from one foot to the other. “I was wonder-ing. What happened with J . . . with Haley? Did you . . . did you find him?”
Good, Warren thought, crossing one problem off his list. Haley is history. Never called. Never wrote. Never came back and snuffed Leesha Middleton for ratting him out. He must be dead after all.
“Yeah, I did find him, as a matter of fact,” Warren said, smiling. “Why do you ask?”
Leesha bit her lip. “Just . . . wondered, is all,” she whispered.
Don’t tell me Leesha Middleton is growing a conscience, he thought. That would be inconvenient.
But she pulled herself together and checked her watch. “Look,” she said coldly. “You asked for the Dragonheart and I delivered. Now take this thing off and I’m out of here.” She slid her forefinger into her neckline and lifted her chin, exposing the glittering torc.
Warren laid his hand on the bag. “You expect me to take your word for it?”
“See for yourself. The Dragonheart’s in the velvet bag on top. I’d rather you not mess with it until after I leave. In case you set it off.”
“Nuh-uh.” He shoved the backpack toward her. “Show me.”
Hissing with irritati
on, Leesha unzipped the backpack and pulled out a velvet bag with a drawstring. She worked free the knotted ties.
Then she flung the pouch at him.
He leaped to the side and hit the floor rolling. When the pouch landed, it exploded into a shower of carbon-black powder. Like coal dust.
Gemynd bana. Mind-Slayer. Meant to knock him out in an instant.
Leesha was more agile than he’d given her credit for. She backflipped out of range of the powder explosion, and scrambled madly for the door. He could have used the collar; he could’ve used an immobilization charm, but some things are best done directly. He charged after her, three long strides, and then tackled her, bringing her down on the floor under him. Her head bounced, hard, on the battered wooden floor.
He threw up a shield in time to turn an immobilization charm and a gout of flame. Pinned her hands to keep her from scratching his eyes out, then sent a little disciplinary flame through the collar. She screamed and thrashed around, trying to rip her hands free.
“You scheming little double-crossing trader,” Warren muttered. “What did you hope to accomplish?” And then, understanding flooded in. “Who are you working for now? D’Orsay? Longbranch? McCauley?” He could’ve gone down a whole long list, but just then the front door shattered, spraying them both with wood splinters and hardware.
Two tall figures stood in the empty doorframe. One had a wicked sword in his hand. The other didn’t need one. A warrior and a wizard side by side.
It was Jack Swift, looking like a muscle-bound action hero. Except for the Trinity Soccer T-shirt and blue jeans.
And Seph McCauley. Leesha was right when she said he was scary. He was scarcely recognizable as the naive blue-blood who’d arrived at the Havens. He was taller than Warren remembered, thin and angular and intense, as if he’d outgrown his weight. He wore a black hoodie and jeans, and his pale face and green eyes were framed in a tangle of curls. You could see Hastings’s blood in him—distilled down and concentrated. Leicester had been an idiot not to spot it at the Havens.
Warren rolled to his feet. He reached down and grabbed Leesha by the arm and hauled her up in front of him, pressing his fingers into her carotid, where a whisper of power could stop the flow of blood.
The Heir Chronicles: Books I-III Page 92
