by Dan Koboldt
The moment Quinn got back to his chambers, he shut the door and put his comm unit on burst mode. “This is Bradley, checking in.”
“Two days in a row. Well done, Bradley,” Kiara said. “Hold on, and I’ll patch in Chaudri and Mendez.”
The delay lasted longer this time. “Hello, Quinn,” Chaudri said.
It was good to hear her voice again. Quinn would probably never admit it to Mendez, but he’d enjoyed his brief stint as a third wheel. “Hey, Veena, how’s tricks?”
“They’re five by five, according to Julio. But I looked into Dr. Holt’s notes for you. There’s a Caralissian noble by the name of Anton. A wine baron. He’s sixteenth in line for the throne of Caralis.”
Of course he is. “That’s him. Give me something I can use.”
“Well, I’m not sure if this helps, but his family’s vineyards are in disputed territory near the border with Valteron.”
“What does that mean, exactly?”
“It means that two generations ago, those were Valteroni vineyards, and some in Valteron feel that they still should be.”
That might do. “Very interesting. Thanks, Veena. You’re a gem.”
“Happy to help. How’s the Enclave treating you?”
“Rough, but I’m working on it. Keep an eye on Mendez for me.”
“Hey, I’m linked in, too,” Mendez said.
Quinn grinned. “I know.”
“As much as we’re all enjoying the chitchat, Holt could still be monitoring our communications,” Kiara said. “Any new progress to report, Bradley?”
“Not yet. Maybe tomorrow,” he said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
“Roger that. Kiara out.”
Chapter 24
Divinations
“Keep your friends close, and your fellow magicians closer.”
—Art of Illusion, March 18
The common room of the Enclave’s Caralissian tower was by far the most opulent place Quinn had seen in Alissia. He walked in and blinked, because for a moment he thought he’d been transported to the Venetian. Or maybe one of the high roller rooms at the Bellagio. His boots clicked on stone tile as he walked past the long line of torchlit sconces. The floor was polished to a high sheen. It reflected the torchlight like a mirror.
He paused at a little alcove in the wall, a shrine with a half barrel as a centerpiece. Deep red stains in the wooden staves made it a wine cask. He could still smell the faint, light scent of fermented grapes. Four oil lamps marked the points of a compass painted on the back wall. They were shaped like little wine bottles, and embossed with gold. Business must be good.
The hallway opened into a broad dining room with six long rectangular tables. White tablecloths, porcelain settings. It looked like the dining room on a cruise ship. Anton sat at the head of one of these; he was the only person in the capacious dining room.
“Evening, Quinn.” He rose and gestured to the seat at the far end of the table, which had a full place setting. “I’m glad you got my invitation.”
“It was a bit of a surprise, I’ll admit.” He ignored the chair Anton offered, and instead pulled out the one right beside him. A dash of casual impropriety, as if he were a hayseed and didn’t know better.
Anton’s smile never left his face. He raised his hands and clapped twice. Two men in dark livery appeared out of nowhere. The fourteen-piece place setting got a quick airlift to Quinn’s new spot beside Anton.
“Oh, thanks,” Quinn said.
The men said nothing, but bowed and withdrew into a dark alcove to one side.
“Have you been in the Caralissian tower before?” Anton asked.
“No. But then again, I don’t think I know any Caralissians.”
Wait for it. Three, two, one . . .
Anton touched his palm to his chest. “Now, you can say that you do.”
Quinn smiled. “I take it that Caralis is doing well. This might be the fanciest place I’ve ever seen.” In this world, at least.
“Not many outsiders have the opportunity to be our guest in here. You might consider this a special privilege.”
“Well, let’s see how good the food is first.”
Anton pressed his lips together. “Just so.”
The servants appeared again, and slid silver-domed dishes in front of them. They shone like mirrors. The servants withdrew into the shadows.
Anton made a two-fingered gesture and a servant lifted his dome away.
Quinn copied the gesture, not even looking to see if anyone saw it. If this was anything like a five-star restaurant, he had his own personal attendant waiting to cater to his every whim. Sure enough, a white-gloved hand reached out and pulled the dome away.
I could get used to this.
Then he got a look at the plate, and changed his mind. Berries, grapes, and small oranges nestled in leaves of sea lettuce and spinach. Definitely a five-star arrangement, but there was no meat. Unless you counted the clams, which made an odd contrast to the rest of the ensemble.
The empty wineglass in front of him was another disappointment. He’d been secretly hoping to try some of this Caralissian wine that everyone raved about. He sighed, and armed himself with one of the three-tined forks that rested beside his plate. It had the heft of pure silver. He managed to stab one of the round fruits. While he tried it, he made sure one of the spoons made its way into his sleeve.
The fruit was firm and sweet, like a grape, but somehow less refreshing. All flash and no real substance.
Just like my host.
“I thought a meal might help us get to know one another better,” Anton said. He worked the fork and knife as he spoke, slicing the lettuce into efficient squares without so much as glancing at it. “I’m curious to learn more about the Enclave’s oldest student.”
“What would you like to know?”
“I understand you’re working with Sella.”
More like, she’s trying to beat the resistance out of me. “I’m in her advanced class.”
“So is it safe to say you’re not a full magician yet?”
Quinn stopped eating and looked at his face, to try and get a read on whether or not that was a slam. There wasn’t an open sneer, but this guy had masterful self-control.
“I’m getting there,” he said.
Anton smirked. “Magical power is a gift of considerable consequence. And like anything of consequence, it can only be possessed by a chosen few.” He touched two fingers of his right hand to the table in front of him and slid them forward. The hackles on Quinn’s arms rose. The knife beside his plate floated up into the air. It hovered about a foot above his plate, glinting in the candlelight.
“Either you have it,” Anton said, and he moved his fingertips in a tight circle. The knife spun slowly around, like the hand of a clock. “Or, you don’t.” He tapped his fingers once. The knife dropped point-first into the table at Quinn’s elbow. It stuck there in the wood, quivering.
Quinn credited his stage training for the fact that he didn’t flinch. “Maybe that’s true. But not everyone with a certain skill likes to show it off.” He put his hands together, palms inward, and rubbed them against one another. “Some of us prefer to keep things . . . hidden.” He parted his hands, revealing the spoon he’d palmed earlier.
Anton smiled in a predatory way. “If you do have an ability, I hope it’s not too far hidden. Otherwise some might wonder if you should even be here.”
Oh, that was definitely a slam. Quinn smiled anyway. “As I recall, that question was asked and answered by the council already.”
“Ah, yes, your delightful Landorian snow.”
“I like to bring a bit of home with me, wherever I go.”
“Where is home for you, in Landor? I hope you don’t mind my asking.”
He goes too far. Moric had taught Quinn that much. Quinn had volunteered Landor, but such a bald question was practically an insult. Maybe it was a test, maybe it wasn’t. Didn’t matter. He had to show some spine. He set down his fork, and gav
e Anton a level stare. “I do mind, actually.”
The man inclined his head. “My apologies.”
Quinn let the awkwardness hang for a moment, then waved it off. “It’s fine.”
“I only asked because we ship wine to many parts of Landor. The capital in particular.”
Quinn kept silent for a moment. He’d pushed back once; now it was time to offer a carrot. “I’m from a tiny village you’ve never heard of. Wyndham Down.”
“Thank you for sharing that.” A light flickered in Anton’s eyes. He was good with his face, but he gave something up.
He already knew. It wasn’t too surprising; Anton was on the council, so he probably heard it from Moric himself.
The polite thing here would be to ask something about Anton’s Caralissian origins. That would cement the intimacy of the conversation, and put him at ease. And the man would obviously so love to tell him.
Quinn found it far more interesting to gamble instead. “So, why do you think Moric’s star is falling?”
Anton’s hands froze mid-cut, and he cleared his throat. “Are all Landorians so direct?”
Quinn shrugged. “Perks of being a northerner.”
Anton put down his silverware and steepled his fingers. “I should think it’s pretty obvious.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Moric lives in the past, in a time when the Enclave relied on secrecy and caution to survive.”
“Those both sound pretty good to me,” Quinn said.
“They’re unnecessary. We are hundreds strong. Why should we hide ourselves, and our power?”
“What do you want to do, send out a letter?”
Anton laughed. “You’ve a sharp tongue, do you know that?”
Quinn allowed a little smile. “I have been told that on occasion.”
Anton looked at him a long moment, and then picked up his knife and fork again. “So, I understand you know the Valteroni Prime.”
Oh, what a riposte. Quinn had just forced himself to take a bite of sea lettuce, and barely managed not to choke. The leaf was far more tender than Earth lettuce, and had a faint salty taste. He chewed and wondered how to answer. Something told him it was better to be cautious. “We have some mutual friends.”
“Besides Moric?”
“I think the Prime and Moric are more like business partners.”
“So you’re aware of the Prime’s cozy little arrangement with us, I take it,” Anton said.
“I’m really not. Moric was tight-lipped about it,” Quinn said, hoping to pry a little information out of him.
“Really? I thought you two were close.”
“As close as a student can be with one of his teachers.” His relationship with Moric was a little more than that, but he needed to see where this was going.
“What if I told you that not everyone agrees about the special consideration that the Enclave gives to Valteron?”
“I guess I wouldn’t be surprised. But there’s not really a choice, is there?”
“There is a choice. Independence. Freedom from the agreements that bind us to certain nations.”
Might as well play dumb. “Don’t those agreements grant us protection by the Valteroni fleet?”
“Take a look around, and you’ll see just how much protection they’re offering us. There’s not a Valteroni ship within a hundred leagues of this island.”
“Is that all we get out of the deal?” Quinn scrunched up his brow. “Doesn’t sound very fair.”
“No, it does not. Particularly given the concessions we’ve made in return. Arcane protections for the Prime, and a retinue of magicians.”
“He gets a retinue?” Quinn asked. That was new information. I wish I got a retinue.
“Some of our most talented members do his bidding. All for what, an absentee protector?” Anton shoved the plate away and shook his head. “I’ve lost my taste for it.”
Thank God. Quinn pushed his plate aside, too. Now he could make a play on what Chaudri told him. “That’s just like Valteron, isn’t it? Always trying to grab what isn’t theirs.”
“My thoughts exactly,” Anton said.
“I’d offer to help, but like you said: I’m not a full magician yet.”
Anton gave him a side-look, as if measuring him anew. “Perhaps I spoke in haste. No matter your stage as a practitioner of our craft, there is always room for sound-minded individuals in our community.”
The compliment made his skin crawl, but Quinn tried to be gracious. “Thanks.”
“How committed are you to Moric’s cause?”
The question hit like a ton of bricks, which was probably what Anton had intended. A compliment to put him off guard, then a sharp inquiry. But if he thought he was the first guy to try and throw a performer off his game in the middle of a show, he’d never been to Vegas.
“I’m not sure I understand the extent of his cause,” Quinn said. “I’m more committed to the man, if I’m being honest. I owe him.”
“Even if he stands in the way of what’s best for the Enclave?”
Quinn paused. “That’s a harder question to answer.”
Anton clapped his hands three times, and the servants began clearing the table. Apparently the meal and the conversation had come to an end. “I suggest you think on it.”
Chapter 25
Price of Passage
“Give first, take later. This is the basic principle of developing human assets.”
—R. Holt, “Investment in Alissia”
The only good thing about the recall of the Valteroni fleet was that it bought Veena some time. The admiral was their best lead, but she and Julio could hardly collect intel this far north. Even if they found a berth on a southbound vessel, it would take a week or more to reach Valteroni shores. There were worse places to kill time than the Bay of Rocks. A brisk land and sea trade made the city a cultural hub. The seafood was outstanding. And you couldn’t pick a better place to begin rebuilding the Alissian intelligence network.
They could easily burn a month here. A month to rest and replenish their supplies. To bask in Julio’s attentions, which she couldn’t help but appreciate. Part of her felt guilty about that. Still, as long as they were waiting, there was no harm in enjoying it. Besides, there was no need to rush her decision about Holt’s invitation.
Two days later, Veena and Julio were sharing a casual breakfast on the balcony of their inn when he spotted the ship. She’d been working her way through a third bowl of winterfruit—a sweet citrus berry, damn near impossible to get this late in season—and had long since stopped watching the harbor. Ships came and went, but meals like this were meant to be savored.
“Looks like we’ve got a new arrival,” Julio said.
Veena didn’t even look up from her notebook, but she humored him. “What kind?”
“Deep-hulled two-master with a lot of sail.”
That perked her interest enough to borrow his field glasses. She saw the ship, marked the size and the construction. Julio was right about the sails. There were two jibs, a staysail, main, topsail, foresail, and a broad triangular sail behind the foremast that Alissians called a “fisherman.” Seven in total. She counted again to be sure, while the tension seeped into her shoulders.
“What’s wrong?” Julio asked.
The gods of this world are cruel. “That’s a Valteroni ship design.”
“Can you make out any colors?”
She tried, but the wide swaths of canvas were in the way. “Not at this angle.”
“Give it a few.”
She shrugged and went back to the winterfruit, but it had lost its pleasant tang. She didn’t need to see the colors.
Julio reclaimed the opera glasses, and gave her irritatingly frequent updates as the ship made anchor in the deeper part of the bay. “Looks like they’re lowering a couple of tenders. Huh. This is interesting.”
Veena managed not to sigh. “What?”
“Didn’t see any cargo come off. Just crew, so far.”
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“What do you think that means?”
“Oh, I know what it means. It’s shore leave time, baby!”
“Really?”
“Most definitely. Bay of Rocks has a bit of a reputation in that department.”
Now that he mentioned it, there did seem to be about twice as many dockside taverns as the population-economic models would predict, even for a port city. “How exactly does one get such a reputation?”
Julio shrugged. “Cheap booze, good food, and plenty of hook—” He coughed and glanced at her. “Uh, entertainment.”
“Ah, so you’re familiar with this kind of place, then?”
He shook his head a little too emphatically. “Me, no. Just heard a story or two.”
She sniffed her disapproval.
“You don’t think that I would—”
“It’s none of my business.”
He hunched his shoulders, and went back to the glasses. “At the rate they’re rowing, those tenders will be ashore in less than ten minutes.”
“Delightful.” She gave up on the winterfruit. “I suppose we should head down there.”
He stood, dropped a few coins on the table, and saluted the barkeep. “Ready when you are.”
She slid out of the booth. “What’s our plan?”
“Those sailors are looking for trouble.” He gave her his wicked grin. “Let’s make sure they find some.”
Veena was glad to be with Julio as they pushed their way into the crowd at the docks. The two Valteroni tenders were full to the brim with crewmen, and disgorged their passengers on the gangplank like there was a fire on board. From there, they scattered in a dozen different directions, making—she assumed—for the brewhouses or less reputable establishments along the waterfront.
Veena and Julio shadowed the largest group as they trooped to a large alehouse at a near-sprint. Most Valteroni ships had a sixteen-hour shore leave, during which sailors could pretty much do as they pleased. The only requirement was that they be back to the ship by the sixteenth bell. If they weren’t, the ship would leave without them. They didn’t have to be sober, but they had to be on board.
