by John Daulton
“He is,” said the candle maker. “He’s waiting for you.”
Black Sander had to duck as he neared the back of the narrowing hollow that housed the business, a crude passage cut into the rock and little more. A sharkskin hung from a wooden frame, creating a room beyond. He pulled it aside and peered into the small space. A thin man in his middle years sat on a stool and looked up at him with fearful eyes.
“You’re the T?” Black Sander asked.
“I am,” replied the man, brushing nervously at wisps of hair hanging by his ear. “And I got H-class healing should it come to it.”
“It won’t if you keep your mouth shut and do what you’re told.”
“I will, sir. Please just don’t let them hurt my wife.”
“They won’t. Just keep quiet and don’t lose your head. She’ll be fine.”
He nodded, quick, anxious movements that were barely perceptible.
“When are you due back to TGS?”
“Not for two more months,” he replied, stammering some. “M-Misty, my wife, she’s due to give birth any day. Councilman Gangue arranged me leave f-for the delivery and, y-you know, help with the baby for a time.”
Black Sander smiled as he watched the man’s nervousness mount. “Relax,” he said. “I give you my word: do as you’re told, and you’ll be there for the baby and in time to be back at work. And so long as you never mention the least part of this to anyone, your baby might even make it to university someday. You hear me?”
“I do,” rattled the man. “I truly do.”
“Good. Then we have an understanding.”
The man nodded again, like the last, almost more a facial chatter than a nod.
“You’ve checked the boxes?”
“I have.”
“Mass will be right?”
“As near as I can tell.”
Black Sander nodded. That was the biggest risk as he saw it: the weights. That and the smell, if it came to it. But they’d be packed with leaves too. He studied the teleporter for a moment more, watching him and knowing that it was all the man could do to keep from curling up and cowering on the floor. He’d do his job.
“All right, bring them in,” Black Sander called out to Belor, who was still waiting near the candle shop door. “It’s time to get crated up.”
Chapter 38
The Glistening Lady flew in low, Murdoc Bay shrinking in the aft video feed and the blue-green line of the southeastern stretch of Gallenwood growing on the horizon ahead. Altin stood behind Roberto’s chair as the Spaniard piloted them in. Deeqa Daar, seated beside the Glistening Lady’s captain, was already shutting down some of the ship’s systems in advance of the teleport that would send them straight back to Earth—a particular convenience of having Altin Meade along. The five hours it would take to restart the ship were nothing compared to the fifteen to forty hours they’d have to wait at the Tinpoa TGS depot—not to mention the indignity of a ship-wide search. It wasn’t that they had anything to hide from the authorities, but both Roberto and Deeqa chafed at authoritarian intrusions on principle.
“It’s beautiful, man,” Roberto said as they approached the sprawling Goblin Tea plantation, which spread before them like a quilt over the rise and fall of gentle hills, miles and miles of them running up a continental slope that disappeared beneath the southern edge of Gallenwood and eventually became the teeth of the Gallspire Mountain Range. “They told me this is the only place on Prosperion where Goblin Tea will grow. Maybe the only place in the universe. I’d sure love to have a spread like this to retire on someday. Not even this big, but enough to, you know, have something to do during the day, then sit out on my veranda and just look over it into the sunset or something.”
“It is lovely,” Altin agreed. “But it’s too fraught with tension and petty—well, and not-so-petty—feuds and turf wars. You’d be ever on guard for thieves and smugglers trying to get in and steal from you; vigilance would be constant and fatiguing. Hardly a relaxing way to settle down in your last decades.”
As if to prove Altin’s point, they flew over the first of several wide moats that drew shimmering bands across the landscape, dug into the last of the flatlands before the foothills began to rise. Each canal was guarded along its forward bank by a palisade, sharp pales like rows of wooden fangs, and mounted patrols moved back and forth along them at regular intervals, all of them bristling with weaponry.
Roberto, like Altin, peered down at the security and shook his head. “Yeah, well, based on our last two trips, apparently they need more than moats and dudes on horses to keep all the douchebags out.”
“Yes, security is difficult in wide-open spaces like this. The cost of maintaining foolproof enchantments would be nearly impossible to sustain, even with the price of Goblin Tea.”
“Prepare for touchdown,” Deeqa said into her com, alerting the crew. “Chelsea, Betty-Lynn, you set?”
“Set,” came the replies.
Roberto brought the ship over a broad, flat expanse of bare dirt, which had been cleared and leveled just for him. The landing site was some fifty yards south of a huge wooden building, the first in a series of ten exactly like it, in which Goblin Tea was dried and processed. Men were running out from a much smaller outbuilding off to one side.
“Look at them,” Roberto muttered as he set the ship in place and began shutting the engines down. “They come like that every time. Crossbows and swords everywhere, like we’re alien invaders or something. You’re right about that tension thing. These guys’ assholes are so tight I bet they fart birdsongs.”
Deeqa laughed at that, but Altin was too busy watching the men approach. There were six of them, all armed, as Roberto had observed, and a seventh man with them who approached more casually and was therefore well behind.
“Who is that?” Altin asked.
“He’s the tea master. He told me his name the first time I met him, but everyone just calls him Tea.”
“Sormand Fallowfield,” Deeqa supplied.
“That seems contradictory, doesn’t it?” Altin observed.
“It does, doesn’t it?” said Roberto. “Anyway, he’s the plantation big shot. Actually a pretty decent guy. He’s one of only three plantation masters down here, apparently, that are entirely loyal to the Queen. I guess some of the other ones are less devoted. Makes for even more tension around here.”
“Where there is gold to be had, that’s usually how it goes,” Altin said. “Especially between the Queen and the marchioness.”
“Well, all I know is, I’m going to get me a big fat heap of it back on Earth, so these guys can piss over each other’s fences all they want.” He shot a wide, gleaming grin across the console to Deeqa, who reflected it right back at him.
A few moments passed, and then Altin felt the ship settle beneath his feet, a thrum that he’d not been aware of since teleporting aboard suddenly gone, making itself conspicuous in its absence.
“That’s it,” Roberto said, rising from his seat. Deeqa shifted from her seat to his as he moved out of the way. “Let’s go. Deeqa will watch on sensors for any sneaky crap like before, anyone trying to creep aboard invisible or anything else our eyes don’t see.”
As he spoke, Liu Chun came in, ducking through the hatch. The prominent display of cleavage afforded by her uniform glistened with sweat, and her hair stuck damply to her forehead in places above her dark eyes, suggesting she’d been hard at work somewhere. “Both additional pulse detectors are up around the core,” she reported as she slipped past Roberto and took Deeqa previous place at the com. “Our little blind spot is gone.”
“Good.” Roberto glanced from her to Altin with a satisfied grin. “We may be blanks, but we aren’t stupid.” Altin smiled back and nodded, and then the two of them went out the way Liu had come in.
Two brawny guards, Chelsea and Betty-Lynn, met them at the top of the ramp, both bearing heavy laser cannons braced on their hips and supported by wide straps around their backs.
“You
girls ready?” Roberto asked as he hit the switch that sent down the loading ramp.
“We’ll be sure to smile and act nice,” said Betty-Lynn, a big, fake smile pushing up her lightly freckled cheeks.
“Not too nice,” Roberto replied, then, into his com button, he added, “Going out.”
“We got you,” came Deeqa’s voice.
“Well, for a deal set in motion by the Queen,” observed Altin from his place at Roberto’s side, “I might have expected a bit less formality between you and your contacts here.”
“Yeah, me too,” Roberto said. His two guards were already making their way down the ramp, the long, thick barrels of their weapons laid out before them and causing them both to lean back some against the straps. “Let’s go.”
By the time Altin and Roberto were standing on Prosperion soil, the tea master, Sormand Fallowfield, was waiting for them. His six men formed a semicircle behind him, a respectful five spans away.
“Well met and welcome, Captain Levi,” the tea master began. He noted Altin with a smile and a polite nod of the head. “And Sir Altin Meade. We were unaware that the Galactic Mage would be gracing us with a visit today. Welcome to my humble farm.”
“It is magnificent,” Altin said. “I had the pleasure of observing it from above as we flew in. An astonishing bit of work to keep it all healthy and growing, I should guess, a testament to your expertise.”
“Why, thank you, Sir Altin. We do work very hard to please Her Majesty.”
“I can assure you, you do please her. I don’t think there is anything the people of Crown City enjoy so much as the product of your labors.”
“That is good to hear, Sir Altin. I had feared that the … incidents of Captain Roberto’s last visit might have put Her Majesty off of us a bit.”
“I have seen her quite recently, and I assure you she didn’t mention it at all.”
“Oh, thank the gods,” he said. He was visibly relieved too, after which there was, to some degree, a decrease in the rigid formality. “Sir Altin, would you care for a tour of the plantation? I would be happy to take you around personally.”
“I would love that,” he said, “but I fear that my dear Orli would have my hide were I to do such a thing without her. She rather fancies growing things. I suspect seeing it done on this scale would send her into a fit of giddiness that I am not fain to deny her. I should like to hold you to that offer at another time, however.”
“At your least whim, it will be done. I understand that her beauty is famed across the galaxy, and I’m sure such radiance can only be good for the harvest.”
Altin laughed, and glanced at Roberto, who shrugged, long used to the ass-kissing the Prosperion big shots passed back and forth before getting to anything. “I shall tell her you said so,” Altin said.
The man called Tea gave another brief tilt of his head, a last formality it seemed, and got straight to the purpose of the visit. “Then let us get to work. Captain Roberto, you remember the way to the packing house, I’m sure. Sir Altin, please, this way.” He turned and led them toward the huge building nearby, Altin looking it over as they approached.
He gauged it to be perhaps two hundred spans in length, and while he was too close to estimate its width from here, having seen it from the air, and those like it in the row, he speculated it must be something near another hundred spans across. It was easily forty spans high, an expansive place for doing business, and he was eager to see inside.
Soon enough he did. The tea master pulled open a small side door and led them in. Altin was immediately struck by the rich, earthy aroma of Goblin Tea, albeit struck nearly blind with it for the magnitude and overpowering degree to which it filled the air. It was so strong that it seemed to have a solid quality, as if it weighted down the air.
“Good lord,” Altin said, his eyes watering. “I hadn’t expected that.”
The tea master laughed, as did Roberto. “You get used to it,” Roberto said, beating the plantation manager to the punch. He’d been told the same thing the first time he arrived.
“Well, I should think there’s no need to drink it in this place. Do you simply come in here and take it right in through your skin? I will be shocked if you tell me your people ever sleep at all, Master Tea.”
“It’s not quite that strong,” the tea master said, “but I admit it takes some adjusting to.”
“It smells like money to me,” Roberto said. “Speaking of which, where’s my crates?”
“Over here, Captain.” The tea master led them down a narrow space, just wide enough to walk through one at a time, the space made by the stacking of wooden crates that were a full span higher than Altin’s two-span height, and equally as wide all around. They rose high above them, stacked four high, nearly to the roof, and evenly across. They turned left and right and left again, weaving through the maze of them until they came to the far end of the building. They emerged abruptly and found themselves in a clear space some twenty feet away from a simply massive set of double doors. Without word or visible signal of any kind, the doors swung outward, opened from beyond by two of the men that had accompanied Sormand Fallowfield to the base of the Glistening Lady’s ramp. Altin sent a glance Roberto’s way, accompanied by a single raised eyebrow, but the stocky Spaniard simply shrugged. It had been like this last time too.
Altin had to resist the urge to cast the magic detection spell he’d memorized last night, one he’d learned expressly for the purpose of this trip. He had a feeling an unseen diviner somewhere had attempted to have a look through both their minds as they went weaving through the stacks of crates, the real purpose of an otherwise unnecessary detour. He was sure the blocks he had in place gave whoever might be watching very little to read from him, if they had tried. And he actually hoped that, were there any untoward intentions, the mind-sifters could fathom in some degree the trepidation on Roberto’s part, trepidation that had led to his requesting the presence of the Queen’s Galactic Mage. They should know that both he and Her Majesty were watching too.
“Bring the team,” Master Fallowfield ordered one of the men, who turned immediately and disappeared around the side of the building. Spinning around, he indicated the stack of crates to the left of where they’d just come. “All those with the blue marks are yours,” he said. “Ten in all. Shall I have Fleck open them for you?” He inclined his head to his left, indicating the man still waiting by one of the open doors.
“That’s all right,” Roberto said. “We’ll weigh them out before we put them on the ship and let the particle analyzer do the rest. No sense breaking the seal and letting air get in.”
“And you’re still sure you don’t want my transmuter to meld wood on it? I can make them solid as you please, even dip them in wax like we do for shipments traveling by sea. There’s no extra charge for it, as I keep mentioning.”
“I appreciate your concern, Master Fallowfield,” Roberto said. “But we got it. Save the cost of the labor and materials. Call it a tip.”
“It’s more out of concern for quality, Captain. My name is on those crates, you know. I should hate it if your people’s first taste of our wonderful coffee is a stale one.”
“Don’t worry about that. They’re in cold storage all the way, and we’re not going to be long getting there anyway.”
The tea master nodded, but Altin could tell he wasn’t pleased. Altin counted that a good sign and decided in that scrutiny that the man was genuinely concerned. Nothing untoward in his manner at all.
Soon after, the jingle of large harnesses could be heard, and the dull thud of heavy footsteps became tangible beneath their feet. The tea master led them out of the building and off to one side, making room for the massive flatbed wagon being pulled into place.
Two mammoths, their red hair shaved down to short bristles to give them reprieve from the heat, plodded past the doorway. The driver, ensconced in a covered wicker howdah upon the right-hand beast, turned the team as the titanic creatures moved beyond the doors, directi
ng them away from the opening for fifteen spans. He urged them sideways with practiced skill, then, when the wagon was straight enough, he had the team back it up until a half span of it was through the door. That was all, though, and he stopped them there. The work of loading was to be left to one of the plantation’s sorcerers.
A woman, clad in brown workman’s trousers and a dusty brown tunic, jumped down from the back of the long wagon, nodding to the tea master and his associates as she went past. “Blue, right?” she said over her shoulder, to which Master Fallowfield said, “Yes.”
A young man dressed similarly to the woman pulled a long three-legged ladder off the wagon and followed her in, the two of them setting it up against the stack of blue-marked crates. She climbed up it soon after and put her hands on the topmost crate. “Clear,” she called out loudly; then she began a chant that Altin recognized immediately, a production-level teleport, a spell written for magicians with power no greater than an H or I. A moment after, the crate vanished with a hiss, then reappeared a half second later on the wagon with another loud huff of air. The wagons springs creaked under the sudden addition of weight, and the leftmost mammoth protested with a rattling snort and shifting of its feet.
The woman, obviously a teleporter despite not wearing guild colors as she worked, moved down a few rungs on the ladder and began again. Once more she called, “Clear,” and once more cast the spell, loading that crate onto the wagon bed.
“This would go faster if they’d just let you do it,” Roberto muttered to Altin as they waited for her to make her way to the ground. But Altin shrugged. It was true, but everyone had need of work, and this was a fair use of talent for a woman of her youth and ability. It was good experience, and the wealth of the plantation would likely see to her comfort for many years.
Eventually it was done, and Altin and Roberto were invited to climb up onto the wagon for the ride back to the ship.
It didn’t take them long to arrive, and soon the teleporter was moving the crates one by one onto a wide, flat gravity sled, which one of Roberto’s crewwomen operated. She powered it down before each teleport, so that the magic would not disrupt it and cause some unfortunate, unforeseeable, and unnecessary accident, and then she’d power it back up once a crate was in place. Before moving it anywhere, she would tap up a set of readings that gave the total weight. “Two thousand five hundred twenty-five pounds, eleven ounces,” she called out for the first. The second was nearly as much, shy by only forty pounds, and the one after that was twenty pounds heavier than the first. The fourth and fifth were close enough to the expected twenty-five-hundred range, but the sixth crate was off by two hundred and nine pounds, on the short side, which made Roberto frown. However, he kept his opinion to himself and let the weighing continue, at which point he discovered that the seventh crate was over by one hundred and twelve pounds. When asked, the tea master explained it away as “bean density,” which varied between younger and older plants.
