The Miscreant

by Brock Deskins

  “I am very impressed, Mr. Holt. Is there anything else?”

  “Given the placement of the writing implements on your desk, I first took you to be left-handed.”

  Gregor glanced at his left hand. “You don’t think that now?”

  “No, I think you deliberately switched their places to trick me. Not only are the smudges on several of the documents made by a right-handed person, most of them are complete bullshit, and that got me thinking that this entire thing was a farce and this office set up as one big prop. I was working on showing you what I thought about being toyed with when you returned.”

  “I was wondering why you would crap in a man’s desk drawer. What tipped you off?”

  “You being sloppy.”

  “Please, enlighten me.”

  “Half the documents in here were penned by the same hand despite bearing different signatures. Some of them were supposedly a decade old yet the ink was as fresh as those dated just days ago.” Garran’s voice became more agitated as he spoke. “There is one thing that Cyril mentioned to me, but nothing in this room has provided any answers.”

  “What is that?”

  Garran grabbed one of the swords hanging on the wall, spun around, and swung it at Gregor. A dagger appeared in the agent’s hand faster than the eye could track and intercepted the swing just before it cleaved his skull. He grabbed the boy’s wrist with his free hand and pressed him against the wall.

  Garran’s eyes bored into Gregor’s. “That you are transcended. Now, tell me what that is and what the hell you want with me!”

  Gregor’s stern visage twisted into a smile. He stripped the mostly ornamental sword from Garran’s grip, tossed it onto his desk, and sat down. He extended a hand toward the chair and beckoned Garran to sit.

  “You are right on all accounts of consequence,” Gregor said once Garran sat down. “I am Anatolia’s chief agent and the king’s personal confidant and adviser. This is my office, but I set it up to test you. I tend not to keep many classified documents lying around here. I am one of two, now three, transcended known to exist within the kingdom.”

  “What does it mean? Who is the other?”

  “You will meet the other very soon. As to what it means, you have seen what it means.”

  “I don’t understand it at all. Cyril said some ghosts or something inhabit my body and they allow me to move fast and be a better fighter.”

  “That is one theory, but no one really knows how we do what we do. Have you heard of a man named Hermanus Spence?” Garran shook his head. “Hermanus Spence was a philosopher and noted astronomer. Our science teaches us that time is an inexorable force that cannot be slowed, sped up, or diverted in any way. It is like a glacier grinding its way across the universe at a constant speed without variation. Hermanus speculated that time is not immutable but is a liquid like an ocean. It is all-encompassing, and everything and everyone floats along with it. Like an ocean, it is not universally stagnant, but that it contains currents. Cartographers have mapped several of these currents within our oceans to provide much faster ship travel than relying on wind alone. As transcended, people like you and me are able to find these currents and ride them to much greater speeds than those stuck in the mostly static sea of time.”

  “That doesn’t explain how I suddenly became a great fighter.”

  “You fancy yourself a great fighter?”

  Garran shrugged. “Even though I could tell I was moving faster than everyone else, I somehow knew how to move my body and aim my blows to most effectively kill those men.”

  “I was a soldier before I became an agent. I remember training one particular new recruit. I forget his name, but I remember he was from Wildemont. Have you heard of it?”

  “No.”

  “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I spent hours trying to teach this young man archery, but he could not hit a target more than fifty yards away with any kind of regularity. This was strange as Wildemont is renowned for its hunters, particularly in regards to archery. His father and grandfather were notorious hunters, but he never possessed an interest in it. Day after day, I worked with him, but he seemed purposefully determined to be awful. I should have simply given him a spear and dropped him on the front lines with the other meat shields, but I just knew there was something there that made him more valuable. We had just finished a private training session, and I had given up and decided to put him on the front lines. As we were walking back from the archery field, a pheasant flew up out of the grass. This bird must have been fifty yards away at the least, but the kid, without thinking or hesitating, drew back his bow, loosed the arrow, and dropped the bird. I immediately thought that this was a fluke, but then another pheasant burst from the thickets and he killed that one too. I asked him what he was thinking at the moment he loosed the arrow. He said that he wasn’t thinking at all. He had grown up watching his father and grandfather hunt. Archery was in his blood, but because he never cared for it, it wasn’t in his mind. So when he removed that element, the thought, he was a natural master of the skill.”

  “What happened to him?” Garran asked, enraptured by the tale.

  “He got dysentery and died of the shits before he ever saw battle.” Gregor tossed back his head and laughed. “Lady Luck is a cruel bitch!”

  “I didn’t know my father or grandfather. I know my mother’s family is a long line of uselessness for several generations back.”

  “I don’t have all the answers, Garran. I don’t think anyone does.”

  “Fine, I’m pretty good at accepting who I am. What do you want with me?”

  Gregor leaned back in his chair and wrapped his hands behind his head. “When Commander Godfrey informed me of your existence, there was no doubt that the king and I would have an interest in you. The big question was what would make you the most beneficial to the kingdom and us. That is why I created this little improvisational play. Cyril filled me in on his assessment of your character and some of your actions. I wanted to see if you possessed an affinity for espionage.”

  “You think I can be an agent?”

  “After watching you just now, very much so. You possess a natural curiosity and insightfulness that cannot be taught. Most men and women who make it through training to join the Ministry of Diplomacy become attachés and analysts. Even without your special ability, I think you could make a fantastic field agent.”

  “What if I decide I don’t want to be an agent?”

  “We both know you are going to accept, so it’s not even worth speculating.”

  “You obviously don’t know me well. That statement alone makes me want to shit in your desk.”

  Gregor grinned and leaned forward. “Who is the most powerful man you know?”

  Garran shrugged. “The king, I guess.”

  “I am closer to the king than almost anyone, and I can tell you that he is not the most powerful man I know. No, who do you know personally.”

  Garran gave it a moment of thought. “I guess that would be Mayor Alessi.”

  “I could make your mayor piss his pants with a look of disapproval and eat horse crap for dinner with a word, and so could you if you become an agent.”

  “Where do I sign?” Garran asked without hesitation.

  Gregor smiled. “I understand you can read?”

  “Yes, surprisingly well, actually.”

  “It is surprising for someone born and raised in Wooder’s Bend. That eliminates what would have been a significant challenge, but only one of several. Training to become a member of the diplomatic corps, especially if one has his sights set on becoming a field agent, is a grueling venture. You will attend the most demanding university in the world. Not only will you study core education, you will learn chemistry, botany, language, and history. Not just Anatolia’s but that of all the major kingdoms.”

  “Hmm, I thought spies just had to learn how to steal stuff and kill people.”

  “And learning those fields enables you to do precisely that.”

&n
bsp; “It’s starting to sound a little less fun.”

  “Let me assure you, the next four years of study will be anything but fun.”

  “When do I start?”

  “About half an hour ago.” Gregor lifted his eyes to the door behind Garran. “Victor!”

  Garran twisted in his chair to see the man who entered. He was perhaps thirty years old and walked with the confident swagger of a man comfortable with wielding authority as well as a blade. The sword hanging from his hip looked as natural as any other appendage. He had one of those faces that spoke of arrogance without saying a word.

  “Garran, this is Victor Law. He is my top agent and the only other transcended in the kingdom. He will teach you how to harness and manage your ability and provide you with additional combat training outside of the university.”

  Victor stood next to Garran and looked down at him as if he were something unpleasant stuck to his shoe. “He sure doesn’t look like much. Did you steal those nice clothes? You wear them about as well as a scarecrow.”

  Garran deeply disliked sitting with Victor looming over him, and it was all he could do to force himself not to stand. He knew that showing such discomfiture in front of Victor would only earn him more of the man’s scorn.

  “Stealing is what petty thugs do. I used my wits to acquire what I needed to fulfill my needs in order to accomplish my goals,” Garran answered.

  Victor smiled in a way that did not make him appear any friendlier and clapped Garran on the shoulder. “It looks like there might be more to you than meets the eye. I bet you’ve used that to your advantage more than once. Good, having people underestimate you can be a powerful tool.”

  “Being transcended, I bet you know all about powerful tools,” Garran retorted before he could filter his thought.

  There was a moment of awkward silence before Victor let out a good belly laugh and squeezed Garran’s shoulder. “You have no idea! You might just make it after all.”

  Gregor said, “I would not have brought him in and placed him in your care if I did not have the highest expectations of him, Victor. His work camp commander says he killed nearly two dozen men with a hatchet or something.”

  Victor looked down at Garran. “Is that right? Impressive.”

  Garran slunk just a bit in his chair. “It was a reaping blade, actually.”

  Victor’s discomforting smile returned. “You and I are going to have some real fun together over the next few years.”

  “Why, are you planning to grow breasts?”

  Victor laughed again and slapped his shoulder. “Damn, Gregor, not only did you find yourself another transcended, he’s as big a prick as I am!”

  “I think you two will get along splendidly if you don’t kill each other first. Take Mr. Holt to the university and get him situated. I’ll leave it to you to work out his additional training schedule.”

  “Come on, boy; let’s get you settled into your new home.”

  “Victor,” Gregor said as they were about to leave, and pointed to the bowl of fruit. “Take that out with you, and have Eunice throw it away.”

  Garran frowned and followed Victor out of the office. He looked for Cyril on their way out of the building but did not see him. It surprised him to discover that it bothered him a little not getting to say goodbye and to thank him for his help. He pushed it to the back of his mind and followed Victor to a waiting coach parked in front of the building.

  “Is that yours?” Garran asked, admiring the splendid vehicle. “I’ve never ridden in a coach.”

  “Nothing but the best when you’re an agent.” Victor turned the lapel of his coat out to display a silver pin bearing a sword upthrust through a watching eye. “There’s a lot of perks when you earn one of these.”

  “Does it get you laid?”

  A grin spread across Victor’s stubbled face. “You better believe it.”

  Garran could not keep from staring out of the coach and watching the multitudes of people and the extraordinary buildings, fountains, and plazas. Just riding in the coach drew many looks his way, particularly those of the women they passed, and he liked that very much.

  “Victor, can I ask you about being transcended?”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m here for.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “I was around fourteen. My father was beating the crap out of me during one of his frequent drunken rages. I was sure he was going to kill me this time, and I just sort of snapped. I ended up beating him so bad he staggers when he walks even when he isn’t drunk.”

  “Do you ever see him anymore?”

  “I went and saw him after I earned my pin. He always said I wouldn’t amount to anything, and I wanted to rub it in his face.”

  Garran nodded his understanding. “What did he say when you showed him?”

  Victor tilted his head to the side, opened his mouth in a lopsided rictus, and drooled down his chin. “Dar muh urg maaaa!”

  The agent laughed uproariously while slapping his knee and stomping his foot. Garran covered his face with one hand and chortled along with him.

  “I passed out when I came out of my…episode. Is that normal? Will that always happen?”

  “Hopefully not. All power comes at a price and the greater the power, the greater the cost. When we go into one of our, let’s call them fits, everything inside us speeds up. That little bit of fighting you did took its toll on your body, as if you’d been at it for hours. You probably burned through two or three days of food in that one little episode. You went until you couldn’t go anymore. It’s my job to teach you how to control when you enter a transcended state and how to come out of one before you just burn yourself out like you did at the work camp.”

  “Has it ever happened that a person can’t learn to control it?”

  Victor shrugged. “It’s possible. It’s certainly happened before. Have you heard of a Hillman rager?”

  “Cyril mentioned them. He said that’s why we exist, to counter them during the Hillman War.”

  “Could be. When a Hillman goes into an enraged state, there’s no turning it off. He goes until he drops from exhaustion or, more likely, finally bleeds out. A few transcended have been like that. We almost all discover our ability during some traumatic incident, you with the raiders and me with my father. Some men never learn to control it. It just comes on when they are sufficiently enraged or terrified, and they go until they pass out or someone kills them. Most of them because no one worked with them to hone their ability, but some just couldn’t learn to.”

  “What if I can’t learn to control it?”

  “Then Gregor will likely find you a nice, safe, boring desk job where there won’t be anything to set you off.”

  Garran looked out of the coach’s open window. “I think I’d rather be dead.”

  Victor slapped his knee. “You got a good attitude!”

  Garran looked at him to see if Victor was being sarcastic, but the agent seemed to have meant what he said every bit as much as he had. He returned to watching the buildings roll past. Crowded streets soon gave way to less congested roads intersecting plazas with lush grass, fragrant flowers, and manicured hedges.

  The coach passed through the gates of a wrought-iron and brick wall and made its way up a wooded lane. The trees opened up to reveal more manicured lawns and red brick buildings. The central building was large, imposing, and sported a tall clock tower and numerous gables and minarets. Throngs of people, mostly around his age or a few years older, occupied benches, sat on the grass, or purposefully made their way across the grounds. They all wore a uniform of dark blue trousers and a long coat with tails, a brown vest, and a white shirt with a red, blue, and gold striped cravat.

  What disturbed Garran more than the uniforms was the insufferable ratio of women to men. The few girls he saw wore a similar uniform but with ankle-length dresses instead of long coats and were all surrounded by no less than half a dozen male students. There was one universal truth; everything a
nd everyone reeked of wealth and privilege regardless of their gender. Even if his humble background did not set him apart from the general populace, his abrasive personality certainly would. Garran mentally shrugged it off. He could not change the former, and he certainly would not change the latter.

  “Gregor says he doesn’t want you telling anyone about being transcended.”

  “Why not?”

  “It could complicate things and cause distractions. It could also put you in danger. Not everyone is thrilled with our existence, particularly when we’re trained agents. It upsets the balance.”

  “Damn, I guess I’ll have to rely on my wit and charm.”

  “Yeah, good luck with that.”

  The carriage clattered to a stop near the base of the wide stairs leading up to the big, central building. Dozens of faces watched the coach arrive and waited to see who was inside. Victor drew several interested looks when he exited, but Garran’s emergence received the welcoming looks of a fart in church.

  “This is going to be fun,” Garran muttered.

  “Don’t count on it.”

  “I was being sarcastic.”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “I gathered that.” Garran sought out a familiar face but found none. “Where’s Cyril? I had hoped to see him again before he left.”

  “He had to get several things in order before he returned to the camp. Don’t look so glum. He didn’t forget you and asked me to give you something.”

  Garran felt some of the pressure of being in a strange place surrounded by strangers lift from his shoulders. “What?”

  Victor smiled and punched Garran in the groin. “This.”

  Garran doubled over with a gasping groan but managed to keep his legs under him.

  “I gotta hand it to you; you know how to leave an impression on people.” The agent glanced at a young man descending the steps and making his way toward them. “Ah, good, here comes your prefect.”

  A young man of perhaps twenty years descended the stairs. He had brown hair and wore the same school uniform as several other students Garran saw, with the exception of a long, black sash draped over his shoulders and hanging down his front with three red stripes at the ends.