by R. L. King
Stone looked where he pointed, and something inside him clenched when he saw the stout, sheet-covered figure lying there. “No…” he whispered. “Is that—”
“It’s Runa,” the younger woman said. She’d gotten her tears under tentative control, but her voice still shook and her breath still hitched. “T-they haven’t found Faran yet. They think h-he was…inside…when it—when they—”
Stone gripped her arms. “Tell me what happened. Who are you talking about?”
“The—the T-Talented,” she said. “I saw them leave. Two of them. The place was already burning…and then Runa…she—she—” The woman buried her face in the man’s chest.
“She ran out into the street, screaming,” the man said, meeting Stone’s gaze over top of her. “She was on fire—it was too late for anyone to do anything to help her. Before we could get there, she collapsed in the street. They think Faran is still inside.”
Stone stared at him, feeling suddenly as if he might be sick. Nobody could survive those wild flames. “No…” he whispered.
“I saw them leaving too,” the older woman said, bitterly. She nodded toward the street. “Two men. They just walked out of the shop, protected by a bubble. They walked away like they didn’t even care. Like they hadn’t just—”
Stone clenched his fists, his thoughts whirling. He wanted to act, to run after the murdering mages, to do something—but even as the thought came, he knew it would be pointless. Even if they were still in the vicinity, he had no hope of—
A figure came hurtling up the street and slipped into the shop, where it paused, panting. The older woman hurried to him and pulled him into their little group. “Kuri, thank the gods. We thought you’d—”
The young man rose from his crouch, still panting as if he’d run a great distance. Stone recognized him as the baker’s teenage son, who helped out in the shop. The two often passed each other on their delivery routes. Now, though, when his gaze fell on Stone, his eyes widened in terror.
“You have to go!” he gasped out, pointing toward the rear of the shop. “Now. Right now. Go!”
His father looked him sternly. “Kuri, what are you—”
Stone glanced out the window, but saw nobody else approaching. “Why? What’s going on?”
“They’re coming back!” His voice shook, and tears sprang to his eyes. “You have to go. Please—they found the bike. They’re looking for you. That’s why they came to Faran’s shop in the first place. They were waiting there for you, but one of them got impatient when you didn’t show. Please—go before you’re seen.” His gaze darted to the firestorm across the street and the covered figure of Runa, and the wild horror in his eyes was unmistakable: go before you get my family killed too.
As often happened when he was under major stress, Stone’s confusion burned off and his mental gears clicked into place. He’d have time to process all this later—for now, he had to act.
“Yes,” he said quickly. “I’m going.”
The baker and his wife had caught on now as well, and couldn’t hide their relief. “You can go out through the back,” the man said, pointing. “The alley’s dark—keep your head down and run as far away from here as you can get.”
Stone nodded, not missing the look of desperation that had crept into the older woman’s expression as well. They wanted him gone, and he didn’t blame them. “Thank you,” he said, and took off for the back of the shop. As he slipped out the back door, he thought he smelled the cloying, sweet stench of burning human flesh on the smoke choking the air, but perhaps it was only his imagination.
14
Stone didn’t do what the baker said after he left the shop; not exactly, anyway.
He didn’t run. Unlike the mundanes, who likely knew little of the ways magic operated and were probably kept in the dark by the Talented, he was certain running would be a bad decision if the mages were looking for him. They were probably scanning for auras, and even if they didn’t know what his looked like, the sight of someone running headlong away from the fire would no doubt raise their suspicion.
Instead, he set off at a brisk walk directly away from the bakery—away from where Faran’s butcher shop was even now burning to the ground.
Away from where two people had died because they’d helped him, and where the deaths might not yet be over for the night.
He kept to dark alleys and shadowy streets, doing his best to stay hidden without appearing to move suspiciously. At first, he didn’t pay attention to where he was going, except away—if the mages were looking for him, he wanted either to escape them or lure them as far from Faran’s street as he could. At least that way they might leave the others alone.
He didn’t stop walking for nearly an hour, taking circuitous routes through bad neighborhoods, pausing only long enough to get his bearings. He didn’t look closely at his surroundings until his legs grew so heavy from fatigue that he had to stop before he fell over.
One look at the blasted-out buildings, heavily cracked streets, and flickering lights told him he was on the edge of the Barrens. He glanced back over his shoulder, checking to see if anyone had followed him, but the road behind him appeared deserted. He had no idea what time it was; it couldn’t be too late, though, since he’d arrived back at the shop shortly after sunset. His stomach rumbled—he hadn’t eaten anything since a sandwich at lunchtime. A sandwich made by Runa, he remembered—Runa, who’d never make another sandwich because of him.
Stop it. Time for that later.
He dared not venture out looking for food. If the mages were searching for him, he had no idea how long they’d persist, or whether they’d put out the magical equivalent of an APB on him. Could they track him using the clothes they’d found in his room, or had they thought to collect them before burning the place down? No point worrying about that—if they could track him, he couldn’t stop them. If not, his best bet was to stay under cover and lie low for a while. Perhaps they’d think he’d fled the town when he found out they were looking for him.
The buildings here were all abandoned, their windows broken, their upper levels toppled, their doors missing or hanging askew on rusted hinges. With one more quick look around to make sure nobody had seen him, Stone entered the nearest one, a squat structure with a sheared-off roof over its second story.
Inside, it was dark. The air smelled of dust, rot, and dried urine. His feet crunched over old bits of wood and crumbling bricks. “Anyone in here?” he called.
Farther into the building, something skittered. Stone froze, trying to identify the source, but he couldn’t. It sounded small, though—probably rats or cats or something. Certainly not large enough to be one of those mutant wolf-things.
Most of the building’s interior structure was gone now; the knocked-down or crumbled walls left a dim, open space. The only exception was the remains of a room on the far side. Mostly intact, it was still missing the top part of two of its walls, and the door was gone. Still, it seemed to be the most defensible part of the building, assuming some other squatter hadn’t already claimed it.
“Anyone here?” he called again as he approached it. When no reply came, he picked his way across the floor and peered with caution through the doorway.
It was too dark to see much, but his eyes had adjusted enough by now to reveal he was alone. More bits of wood and brick littered the floor; on the far side was what looked like the remains of a nest where someone had slept. Further investigation revealed its occupant was long gone, though—the food remnants in the empty cans had dried, and a thin layer of dust covered the ripped, jumbled bedroll.
Heart still pounding, Stone looked around for ways to make the little room defensible. He doubted he’d sleep much tonight, but he dared not venture out, even to try going back to the Fisherman’s Rest. With the mages looking for him, he didn’t know who he could trust, and even if he did, he wouldn’t risk getting anyone else killed for helping him. Not until things had settled down.
After investigating
the ground floor of the small building, he found a stout piece of wood that might be useful as a club. He carried it back to the bedroll and added it to a small pile of bricks he’d already gathered there. They weren’t good weapons and certainly wouldn’t give him much chance against mages, but at least he might have a chance of dissuading any scavengers that might come by.
He collected the empty food cans—there were five in all, marked with the angular writing and images of beans and soup—and spread three of them across the open doorway. The other two he balanced precariously on the sill of the broken window. If he did nod off and anything tried to enter the room without expecting his little traps, the sound might give him enough time to react.
Finally, as secure as he could manage, he picked up the bedroll and shook it, raising a cloud of dust and barely avoiding a coughing fit. It reeked of funk and old body odor, but at least it would help him keep warm as the night’s temperature dropped. He settled himself into the room’s back corner where he could see both the window and the door and gathered it around him.
He couldn’t sleep even if he’d wanted to. The combination of the air’s chill and the growl of hunger was bad enough, but those he could ignore if necessary using his meditation techniques. What he couldn’t ignore were the images of Faran’s and Runa’s faces, and the thoughts of how they must have suffered under the cruel mages’ torture. He could almost hear their screams in his mind as they burned, and it was all because of him. Because Faran had taken a chance on the odd stranger Byra had asked him to help.
In an attempt to drive the horrifying, guilt-ridden visions away, he clasped his hands around his drawn-up knees and took stock of his situation. Things weren’t looking good all around. Most of his meager possessions had been destroyed in the fire—he assumed the mages hadn’t thought to take them, or they’d have used them to find him by now. He never thought he’d be relieved at the Talented’s impatience, but in this case it might have saved his life. All he had left were the clothes on his back and the few coins he’d gotten as tips on his delivery rounds today, which wouldn’t be enough to buy more than one or two cheap meals.
With a sense of grim amusement, he thought about his current situation versus what he’d left behind on Earth. Good one, Stone, he told himself bitterly. Back home you’d be warm and snug in your bed right about now after a good meal and a drink. He never thought much about how, following William Desmond’s and Adelaide Bonham’s bequests, he was now a multimillionaire—wealth was something he’d grown up accustomed to and it didn’t dazzle him—but right now he couldn’t help seeing the irony as he sat here huddled under a stinking blanket, poorer than the most downtrodden of homeless people on Earth.
All because you couldn’t accept your lot, his unwelcome little voice told him. All because you were too proud to let Jason help you. You’re doing just brilliantly, aren’t you?
Shut up, he told the voice, but with no conviction behind it. This isn’t helping.
He wondered what Verity was doing now. He’d been gone nearly two weeks—would she think he wasn’t coming back? How long would she wait before she brought others in on what he’d done? Would she hunt down Arthur and Eddie for help, or try to find Madame Huan?
For a brief moment, hope flared at that thought—Madame Huan was one of the few people on Earth who might have a chance of tracking him down. But then the hope died as he remembered that she was once again out of the country on one of her artifact hunts, and Verity wouldn’t have any way to contact her.
He sighed and lowered his head to his hands. Hell, he even missed Raider. Right now, a warm, furry cat curled up next to him, loud purr rumbling in the silence, would be welcome and appreciated. He’d seen a few catlike creatures in this world, but never up close and always skulking down darkened alleys. Perhaps people didn’t keep pets here, at least not the mundanes. Maybe the constant uncertainty and fear they lived with made them unwilling to risk it.
Something skittered. Stone stiffened, jerking his head back up. A flash of pain shot through him as the vision of the two-headed mutant wolf thing rose in his mind—he was close to the abandoned Barrens area, after all. Did the scavengers come in this far if they smelled fresh prey? He snatched up his wooden club and flicked his gaze back and forth between the window and the door, ready to leap up if anything came in.
The skittering faded as whatever caused it moved off, but Stone didn’t let himself relax until several minutes passed without its return. He let his breath out and settled back, leaving the club close by.
It was going to be a long night, and he didn’t think he would sleep for any of it.
He awoke to the sound of voices.
For a moment, he thought they were in his dreams. Despite his cold and hunger he’d managed to nod off, dreaming that Faran and Runa were shouting at him for getting back late from his delivery rounds, only to have their heads erupt in flame as two menacing, long-coated figures rose up behind them. One figure had his face, and the other one had Harrison’s.
Stone snapped awake, heart thudding. He closed his eyes and listened. Surely the voices must have been in his mind. Nobody could—
But no—there they were again. A man and a woman, both speaking in tones so low Stone couldn’t make out what they were saying. More squatters? A drunken couple on their way home from one of the bars? He had no idea what time it was, or how long he’d been asleep.
Moving with care, he pushed the bedroll aside and crept across the floor, keeping below the level of the window. Careful not to dislodge the cans he’d set as a trap, he rose until he could barely see over the sill—and froze.
The two figures weren’t close—at least half a block separated them from the building where Stone hid. But even from here in the faint moonlight and the flickering illumination of a dying streetlight, the sweeping silhouettes of their long coats marked them as Talented. Stone’s breath caught in his throat. Were they looking for him? Why else would they be out here this time of night? As he watched, the two figures turned and began heading in his direction. Quickly, he dropped down so even the top of his head wasn’t visible from the outside.
Think, Stone, he ordered himself as he crouched there, his heartbeat increasing and his breathing quickening. You can’t do magic, but you know magic. Don’t lose your head now.
Assuming magic here worked similarly to Earth’s, if they were searching for him they’d be looking for his aura. They might have other kinds of detection spells, but if they did he was lost anyway—there was no way he could outrun their magic, and if he tried they’d spot his aura instantly. Especially out here in the dark, where it would blaze like a beacon. His only hope was to hide it. Since he didn’t think he could do that with magic, he’d have to use the mundane method: cover it up.
He snatched up the bedroll, lowered himself back down into the room’s corner, and pulled it over himself, making sure to draw his legs up and cover his body completely. It wouldn’t fool them for a moment if they actually entered the room, especially if they had light spells, but if luck was with him they’d pass by if they didn’t spot the telltale glow of an aura through the open window. The hard part was that he couldn’t risk peering out to check—if he uncovered even the top of his head, his powerful aura would instantly reveal his location any magical searchers. He’d have to be patient and wait.
The voices grew closer—close enough that he could hear them even through the heavy cloth over his head.
“He’s not here,” the woman said, sounding bored and annoyed. “Why are we even wasting our time out here? Who is he, anyway? Nothing but a Dim nobody. Let’s go back. All we’ll find out here is stinking squatters and scavengers from the Wastes.”
“Just a little while longer,” the man replied. “If we find him, Garionus will be pleased enough that I finally might get free of Temolan.”
The woman snorted. “In your dreams, my friend. You’ll need to do more than track down a runaway Dim pig for that to happen.”
Stone remained
still, holding his breath, terrified that his stomach would growl or the dusty air would cause him to cough and give away his position. As he lay there he realized—though he didn’t know how he knew it—that the two Talented weren’t speaking the same language as the mundanes he’d been interacting with the last two weeks. Did the mages have their own language? It made sense—as proud and arrogant as they were, they’d be unlikely to speak the same tongue as the common “Dim” among themselves—but the translation spell seemed to be handling it effectively. Did that mean he could speak it as well? Had he spoken it, unwittingly, when he’d first arrived here and the Talented thugs had hassled him? That knowledge might come in handy if he managed to evade capture.
The voices came closer. Now they were talking about a party they planned to attend after they finished here. To Stone’s horror, it sounded as if they’d paused only a few feet from his window. Thoughts rose unbidden: had they spotted him? Were they toying with him like cats with a bedraggled mouse, waiting to see how long he could remain still before he had to move or cough? If he poked his head out of the bedroll, would he see them standing outside the open window, smiling with malevolent amusement as they waited to immobilize him with a spell, or even kill him?
The temptation to peer out, to check, became nearly overpowering. No, he told himself. They haven’t seen you. Just stay still and they’ll move on. Don’t bugger it all up now. Joining the temptation was the equally compelling fantasy of leaping up, club in hand, and trying to take them down before they could get their spells off. If they weren’t expecting him, if he caught them by surprise, he might be able to manage it. The satisfaction of bashing one of these conceited bastards’ heads in would be pleasant, no doubt. He wondered if these were the two who’d killed Faran and Runa. If there had only been one of them, he might even have tried it.
He gripped the club tighter. Remaining still was the more intelligent decision, but he still felt shame and anger at his mouse-like behavior. Jason would have attacked them. Hell, Verity probably would have attacked them.
