by Ari Marmell
“Kind of you,” Kallist offered, reaching out with a foot to hook the door and draw it near enough to slam shut.
“You just remember this on my birthday,” Jace found himself saying, more than a little stunned at his own composure.
The other chuckled softly and then drew Jace into a small side corridor, where they’d be at least momentarily hidden from anyone coming up the stairs or from the room. They both half expected the door to come flying open, but apparently the guard within was content to wait for reinforcements. “All right, Jace. Do we start hunting for her? It’ll be a lot harder, now they know we’re here.”
Jace didn’t know why Kallist was deferring to him, but he shook his head. “No. I have no idea why we haven’t heard the tromp of running guards already, but they could be here any second. Better we get word of what’s happened back to Paldor. He can arrange for her to fall off a bridge or something some other day.”
And he can get someone else to do it!
Though his expression remained too bland for Jace to tell if he agreed or was simply following along, Kallist nodded. “All right. Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
They stepped from the corridor, and the swordsman took a moment to draw his largest blade—a nasty broadsword, serrated along the length of one edge—and drive the pommel hard into the bedroom’s doorknob. The crystal shattered, and Jace heard the crunch of the mechanism within.
In response to Jace’s questioning look, Kallist shrugged. “One guard stuck in the bedroom is a guard not standing between us and the door.”
They were off, moving along the hall, down the stairs, hugging the walls and shadows in what both recognized as a feeble attempt to remain unseen. Jace felt that every step they took, every breath, every heartbeat was a gong announcing their presence to all and sundry.
At the bottom of the stairs, Kallist instantly dropped into a crouch, broadsword in one hand, long poniard in the other. Jace froze for a split second, wondering what his companion had heard. And then the guards were on top of them.
There were three of them, appearing from doorways near the base of the stairs: a man and two women, all of whom looked enough alike to suggest they were related. Chain hauberks, short-handled axes, close-cropped black hair, and vicious scowls were identical across all three, and they moved with an expert precision intimating not merely a high degree of skill, but long practice fighting as a unit.
They fanned out, the man and one of the women moving to each side of the stairs; the third came up the middle, axe weaving a hypnotic pattern in the air.
Jace threw a writhing, razor-finned eel in her face.
It wasn’t real, but against an untrained mind, its phantasmal nature made no difference; fear was fear, and pain was most assuredly pain.
She screamed and fell back, thrashing at the phantasm and just about braining herself with her own axe in the process.
Her comrades hesitated, torn between rushing to her aid and carving her attacker into stew meat. Kallist hesitated not at all. With a leap he was between them, lashing out with both blades. Jace, who had just drawn breath to cast another spell, found himself frozen in stunned amazement as he watched his companion work.
Kallist seemed constantly in two or three places at once. He lunged to his right, forcing the male guard to raise his axe in a desperate parry. Steel grated on steel and Kallist was facing the other direction, using the momentum of the axe on his sword to aid his spin. In the midst of his turn, his dagger came up to intercept an overhand slash from the woman behind him, and Kallist lashed out with a kick. The guard’s leg folded beneath the impact, dropping her into a painful crouch, and Kallist was once again facing the man he’d attacked first, broadsword coming around for a second strike.
Again and again he flickered between them, parrying to one side, attacking on the other. Sword met axe, axe met dagger, fist met armor, foot met flesh. The man moved in on Kallist to pin him in a flank with his comrade. Kallist gave him a dagger through the thigh for his troubles, sending him toppling to the floor even as the woman rose. Hurling herself from the path of Kallist’s crushing broadsword, she teetered backward, momentarily off balance long enough for Kallist to turn back around and knee her brother in the face just as he began to rise. Cartilage folded, blood flowed, and this time when he hit the floor, he didn’t seem liable to rise any time soon.
The woman dived, rolling beneath the circle of Kallist’s whirling steel, and drove the haft of her axe into his groin. Kallist folded like an origami stork, but even through the pain he lashed downward, the blade of his dagger punching through her leather gauntlet and pinning her hand to her weapon. Her mouth opened in a sudden gasp, and Kallist drove the point of his broadsword between her teeth.
Both hit the floor at the same moment. Only Kallist rose. Limping and wincing, he reached out and slashed the throat of the guard still struggling with the phantom eel, and also, for good measure, the unconscious soldier on the floor.
“All right,” Jace gasped when he could once again gather his thoughts. “You have got to teach me how to do that.”
Kallist grinned, though his face remained pale with pain. “It’s a deal.”
They swiftly found their way to the foyer, and just as swiftly found that getting there had been the least of their problems.
“That,” Kallist said, peeking out a front window from between two curtains, “is a lot of guards.”
Jace could only nod. This, then, was why they hadn’t faced more opposition inside the house: The bulk of Hesset’s warriors were gathered in the yard outside, blocking all possible paths to the outer wall of the estate, and they appeared more than content to wait there until the stars burned out.
It made a certain amount of sense, really, and Kallist cursed himself for not anticipating it. In the house, there were far too many tiny rooms, closets, nooks, and crannies in which to hide. But outside? Somehow, neither of the intruders thought that hiding behind a bush would suffice this time around.
“All right,” Kallist said, “since you hate my plan so much, why don’t you come up with one?”
Jace blinked. “You haven’t suggested any plan.”
“I know, but trust me; you’d hate everything I’ve thought of so far.”
Jace snorted, but then his brow furrowed. Kallist grinned. “You’ve got something?”
“I might.” Jace turned to him. “Please tell me that you’ve met Ronia Hesset personally.”
Kallist nodded. “Once or twice, during her dealings with Paldor, but only in passing.”
“It’ll do. I need you to do two things for me. First, I’ve been ordered in no uncertain terms not to read the minds of anyone working for the Consortium without permission. So I need your permission.”
“Um …” Kallist looked sick.
“I promise I’m only looking for one thing.”
“And what’s that?”
“That’s the second thing I need from you. Picture Hesset, as thoroughly as you can. The details of her face, the way she moves, her posture, the sound of her voice … Everything.”
Kallist smiled broadly in sudden understanding. “Not bad, Jace.”
“Tell me that after it works.”
A few moments’ concentration, to ensure that Jace had her face and her voice as accurate as Kallist’s memories could make them. A few moments more, and the guards outside saw one of the upper windows of the manor come flying open. Ronia Hesset leaned out, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth as though she’d been struck.
“Get up here!” she shrieked, voice tinged with desperation. “Now!”
From inside the coat closet, Jace and Kallist listened as boots pounded past them. It would take only minutes, if even that, for the real Hesset to hear the sounds of her soldiers returning, to meet them and order them to resume their posts outside.
Jace and Kallist darted back into the hall, taking one final look out the window. There in the yard stood a dozen armed men; only half the guards had gone
running at their “employer’s” call.
“Think we can take them?” Jace asked.
“We’d better, since there’s going to be twice as many in a few minutes.
Kallist all but flew through the front door, blades weaving intricate patterns in the air. Jace followed a step behind, casting even as he ran; a trio of small drakes appeared in the air around him, razor-edged claws raised to shred. And like a small but determined tide, the Hesset household guards surged forward to meet them.
When he and Kallist had limped their way back to the Consortium complex, bleeding from a dozen small wounds, Jace had hoped that would mark the end of his involvement with the Hesset affair.
It hadn’t.
He sat now to Paldor’s right, behind a long table in a room in which he’d never been. A heavy ledger sat open before him, in which he made constant scribblings with a feather quill that never required ink. It didn’t matter what he was writing, and in fact he’d long since ceased doing anything more than random doodles. He just had to look like a secretary.
For the past hour, various Consortium employees who’d dealt with Hesset’s mercantile interests marched past them, one by one. Paldor, with his usual jolly expression, asked them a few questions about how things had gone, what they felt about the cooperation between the two organizations, and so forth. Each gave his or her own answers and was dismissed. Jace kept scribbling.
All he could think, in those moments when he was entirely inside his own mind, rather than partly within someone else’s, was Be innocent, be innocent, be innocent.
His head throbbed and his eyes blurred with exhaustion. Never before had he attempted to read so many minds in even a single day, let alone an hour, and he truly didn’t know how much longer he could keep it up. Even though all he sought was innocence or guilt, honesty or deception, the fact that he’d already managed as many as he had was nothing short of astounding. He credited his few training sessions with Tezzeret for teaching him such fortitude.
Still, Jace was on the verge of asking Paldor if they could continue the hunt tomorrow when he glanced into the mind of a skinny, uptight records-keeper whose name he could not recall, and he found what he sought.
Jace sighed briefly. He’d known it was inevitable. How else could Hesset have known the Consortium was coming after her, let alone exactly when? But still, he’d hoped.
In a predetermined signal, Jace ceased writing, lay the quill down beside the ledger, and firmly closed the book.
Paldor nodded and gestured with a pair of pudgy fingers. Only as a pair of guards clamped his arms in brutal, bone-bruising grips, did the archivist realize he’d been found out—and what must be in store for him at Consortium hands. He shrieked, screamed, begging and blubbering for mercy until his voice faded away down the distant halls.
Through it all, even as he contemplated many forthcoming hours with the traitor in the complex “discipline chamber,” the jovial expression on Paldor’s face never faltered.
“Write down anything you learned from his mind that might prove useful,” he said to Jace, raising his ponderous bulk from behind the table. “And then go get yourself a drink. You look like you could use it.”
Jace, who wasn’t sure he could ever stomach food or drink again, nodded dully and once again lifted the quill.
It turned out that stomaching drinks wasn’t as difficult as Jace had predicted. In fact, as the tavern turned fuzzy around him, he found rather that stopping might be the more problematic choice.
He could leave the Consortium, but he’d lose out on what might still prove the greatest opportunities he’d ever been offered. And even if he should ask to leave, they’d never let him go. He’d just sent a man to be tortured and probably murdered because of betrayal, and would almost certainly have to do so again. Jace knew they would never show him any mercy should he try to flee.
His thoughts turned around in his head like a serpent consuming its tail. But whatever he might consciously decide, in his soul he knew that he would stay, because he feared what might happen otherwise, or what might not.
And so, if he could not drown the fear, at least he could drown the guilt.
It took him a few moments to realize that someone was sitting next to him—surprising, even in his inebriated state, given the sheer amount of space that someone occupied.
“When I said ‘Go get a drink,’” Paldor told him, the chair creaking in panic beneath his bulk, “I sort of meant from the dining room back home. We’ve got a very nice wine cellar there, you know.”
Jace shrugged. “Gonna hafta be clearer ‘bout those things, Paldor. What’m I, a mind reader?”
Paldor chuckled. “It’s just as well,” the corpulent crook replied. “I really do need to get out occasionally. Reminds me why I hate getting out.” With a grunt, he drew a small bag out from the folds of—somewhere—and plunked it down onto the table.
“Wha’s this?” Jace slurred suspiciously.
“This is the good news, Beleren. A bonus. From Tezzeret, for rooting out the traitor. Tezzeret and I, we don’t like traitors.”
Paldor locked eyes with Jace, and even through his growing stupor, the mage felt the sudden urge to recoil. “Now here’s the bad news. You do not impress me. You’re supposed to be this great and powerful mind-reader, and maybe you are, at that. But you’re weak. You’re squeamish. The Consortium employs the best, and frankly, I’m not sure you remotely qualify. If your powers weren’t so bloody rare, I’d already be looking to replace your sorry ass.
“So take a few days off. I’ll expect you in my office at the start of next week, and we’ll see if we can’t find you something a bit less distasteful to work on while you build up your intestinal fortitude. But Beleren—if you don’t shape up, you’re out, mind-reader or no. And make no mistake that when I say ‘out,’ I don’t mean by the damned door.”
Jace never saw Paldor leave, for he was too busy watching the bag as though it were some venomous insect. He didn’t want it, not a coin of it. The thought made his gut heave, and threatened to undo a substantial amount of the drunk on which he’d been working so hard. Hell, he didn’t even know what to do with it, really. He was living in the Consortium’s lodgings, eating their food, and already saving up his monthly fee. He thought briefly of taking the extra money and just running, but he knew damned well it was a foolish notion; he’d be in Paldor’s office next week, just as ordered. Maybe by then, he wouldn’t even be bothered by it.
But it would look strange if he didn’t do something with the money …
Emmara Tandris returned home from one of her infrequent outings, arms wrapped around a bag of old adventure tales written in the original Elvish, to find a large crate waiting outside her door. Curious, she lowered the bulky sack to the ground and knelt beside the box.
A wisp of scent reached her, and she couldn’t help but smile. She didn’t even need to open the box, now; she could identify, by smell alone, the exotic fruits within. She reached out and removed the note that was stuck between two of the slats.
Couldn’t help but remember our last conversation. Hope these’ll keep you until they’re back in season. You owe me at least one truly enormous dessert.
—Berrim
He’d joined the Consortium, then. There were precious few other ways he could afford this. Emmara stood, grateful for the generous gift, but a part of her couldn’t help but wonder what he’d done to earn that sort of wealth.
She hoped, as the smile fell from her face, that he was all right.
Jace caught the wooden sword, ignoring the sting as it slapped into his palm. The wood was worn smooth and permeated with old sweat. He glanced across at Kallist and awkwardly adopted a similar stance. He tried, and failed, to ignore the dozen other men and women of the Consortium who had backed away to the room’s walls, eager to interrupt their own practice long enough to watch the new guy get his head handed to him.
“Here beginneth the first lesson,” Kallist said pompously, a twinkle in h
is eye. “You ready?”
“More than,” Jace hissed through gritted teeth. “You’re going down, Kallist.”
“Only if I bust a gut laughing at you, Jace.”
“That was the plan, actually.”
It wasn’t quite the first time Jace had handled a sword, and he’d wielded both sticks and knives defending himself in his younger years, so at least he didn’t come across as ragingly incompetent. In fact, he managed to parry two of Kallist’s attacks, the clack of wood on wood echoing through the chamber, before pain and the beginning stages of a truly magnificent bruise blossomed across his left side.
Several of the observers winced in sympathy as the wood slammed home.
Kallist stepped in and extended a hand to help Jace back to his feet. “So,” he began, demonstrating a grip, then reaching out again to correct Jace’s attempt at imitation, “here’s why you missed that parry …”
There passed a few moments of discussion and demonstration (and bored shifting by the gathered audience), followed by another quick exchange of blows, and another ugly bruise for Jace. And again. And again.
And again.
But as the second hour of practice wound to a close, and Jace’s lungs burned as badly as his sides, fewer and fewer of Kallist’s strikes landed. True, he was using only the simplest techniques, and they were running at roughly half speed, but Jace was, at least, learning something.
Jace stepped in, slashing down with an overhand strike so clumsy it was laughable. Several of the observers snickered, and Kallist raised his practice sword in a contemptuous parry.
He felt nothing in the path of his blade but air, and it was finally his turn to hit the floor, gasping and clutching his aching stomach.
He looked up, just in time to see the illusion of Jace’s arm and sword fade away, and the real one—which had slammed rather handily into Kallist’s unprotected midsection—shimmer into view.
“Here,” Jace said, clutching at his battered ribs with his left hand, “beginneth the first lesson.” He dropped the sword, reached out a helping hand.
