by Dan Koboldt
“Recalling his fleet, and buying more ships from Pirea. Rebuilding the wall around Valteron City.”
Anton gave him a side-look. “You’re remarkably well-informed.”
“Well, you’re not the only one who has useful friends.” And my friends knock out messengers just to get the news. Quinn couldn’t keep the smirk entirely off his face.
Anton chuckled. “Indeed.” The smile faded. “Even so, one might argue that it’s merely a new leader consolidating his power.”
“Hmm.” Quinn replayed Kiara’s intelligence update in his head. What else did she say? Oh, yes. He adopted a casual tone. “He’s buying horses.”
“How many horses?”
“As many as he can get his hands on. How does that lend to his power?”
“It doesn’t.” Anton drummed his fingers on the table. “It prepares him for war. And he thinks Caralis is a plum ripe for picking.”
Actually, he’s working toward an alliance. That’s what Kiara seemed to think, based on their intercepted communications. But if Anton saw it differently, Quinn wasn’t about to correct him. “You do have pretty nice roads, I’m told.”
“Thank you.”
Quinn rubbed his chin and looked to one side. “All the way to the capital.”
Anton kept his cool for about two seconds, then pounded his fist on the table. Somehow, even that was a kingly gesture. “This agreement with Valteron cannot stand.”
“I’m not sure what we can do, though. The Prime has everything he needs from us,” Quinn said. Please, tell me I’m wrong.
Anton dismissed this with a wave. “Enclave magicians can be recalled. Wards can be removed.”
“How?”
“With a majority vote on the council.”
“Will we ever get one?”
“Given what you’ve told me, maybe so. I believe I can convince enough members that the risks are too great.”
“That sounds promising.”
“But only if Moric is not around,” Anton said. “They won’t dare to oppose him openly.”
“I think I might be able to do something about that,” Quinn said.
Anton smiled, and for the first time, it looked genuine. “I knew you’d prove yourself useful. Come, let me show you what sort of luxuries lie in the wings.” He clapped his hands. The butler reappeared with two bottles in hand, one hunter green, the other dark red. They were corked and sealed with drops of wax. Anton gestured at the dark red bottle. The servant produced a two-pronged tool and pried out the cork with a single, elegant motion.
“I really shouldn’t,” Quinn said. His legs felt hot to the touch. He only wanted to go to bed.
“Have you had Caralissian wine before?” Anton asked.
“Never.” Even with the coin and jewels CASE Global had equipped him with for this mission, it would have been too expensive.
“This is going to be quite an experience, then.”
“That’s the rumor.” We’ll see if it holds up.
The butler filled Anton’s wineglass, and then Quinn’s. Not even two fingers’ worth. Barely enough to fill the bottom of the glass. Then again, it did sell for its weight in gold, so it wasn’t the type of thing you comped to strangers very often.
Quinn followed Anton’s lead in letting the wine air out for a moment, then sniffing it. There was almost no scent at all, just a faint, fruity aroma that touched his nose only once. He tried to inhale it, but no dice. The scent eluded him like a cocktail waitress after the tip.
Anton took a sip, so Quinn did the same. It was cool on his tongue. Chill. Crisp. The coldness flowed outward, as if he’d dunked his head in water.
He smelled smoke next. Not the char of burning wood, but the dry, pungent odor of a smoke machine. He heard the sound of applause—distant, at first, and then it rose to the thunder pitch. He felt the blast of air as the audience cheered, and rose to their feet. His first standing ovation. He remembered the feeling of elation. The way it rose up in him, and set him on a path to the Vegas Strip.
All of those sensations came and went in a heartbeat, in the time it took him to savor a sip of the Caralissian wine. Sweet Jesus. Now he understood why it cost so much. It took all of his willpower not to down the rest of the glass right then and there.
He made himself wait until Anton took his second sip. Then it came again, the applause, the lights, the heat . . . all of it. He looked down at the empty glass as it faded. The disappointment felt like it would crush him into nothingness.
“Do you like it?” Anton asked.
“It’s . . .” He shook his head, because the words failed him.
“No two people have the same experience,” Anton said. “Often it’s a vivid memory, or a hint of a dream. It depends on the drinker.”
“What was it for you?”
Anton cleared his throat and looked down at the table, perhaps the first crack in composure he’d shown. “I’m not sure I—”
“Sorry,” Quinn said quickly. “I just realized what a deeply personal question it was.”
“Something rarely shared, even among intimate friends.”
Now that he thought about it, Quinn wasn’t eager to tell Anton his own experience, either. “Please, forget that I asked.”
Anton nodded, and waved off the faux pas with an elegant gesture. “How soon can you get Moric off the island?”
“I’ll get back to you on that,” Quinn said.
Because despite what I said, I really have no idea.
Quinn left the Caralissian tower in a woozy kind of haze. His entire body felt light, like a cloud drifting across the green spaces. He settled into a new walk he’d been working on, the slow, rolling gait of a sailor just off a ship. He added a confident swagger to it. Half sailor, half rapper. Railor. That might be the right name for it.
Nah, not smooth enough.
Even better than his taste of Caralissian wine was the possibility that Anton could sway the council to revoke Holt’s magical protections. Quinn didn’t know how he’d get Moric off the island to make that happen, but he’d think of something. If he pulled it off, Kiara and CASE Global would have to acknowledge how valuable it was to have him here. They might even consider letting him stay long term. Now there’s an idea that I’m warming to.
He probably should have waited until he sobered up before checking in with Kiara, but this news couldn’t wait. He tapped on his comm unit, but the thing didn’t come on. He had to fiddle with it for a while to get the thing working. Maybe I’m not in the best shape for this. The comm unit beeped before he could change his mind.
“This is Bradley, and I’ve finally got something.”
“Go ahead, Bradley,” Kiara came back. “I’ve got Logan looped in, too.”
“I’ve learned that the Valteroni Prime not only gets the magical protections from the Enclave, but also a full-time retinue of magicians to back him up. You’ll want to watch out for them.”
“Thanks for the heads-up,” Logan said. “But maybe try and get us some fresh intel next time.”
“What Logan’s saying is that we encountered a magician in Valteron City on the last mission,” Kiara said.
“All right, well, here’s something you probably don’t know. The Valteroni Prime’s arcane protections can be removed.”
“How?” Kiara asked.
“By the same magicians who set them up, I’m guessing. All it takes is a decision by the council, and Anton’s going to help me get that.”
“What about that friend of yours, the one who looks like . . .” Kiara trailed off.
“Mr. Clean,” Logan offered.
“Right,” she said. “I thought he was in Holt’s corner.”
“He’s the opposition. I need to get him off the island before we vote.” Quinn paused. Here goes nothing. “That’s where you come in.”
“Oh, I can’t wait to hear this,” Logan said.
“I’m thinking that if Holt knew you were in Valteron City, he might summon his favorite bald magician.�
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“It would also compromise our own security,” Kiara said.
“That’s why we call it a covert mission,” Logan said. “Emphasis on the ‘covert.’ ”
I knew they’d hate this idea. “Well, if you want Holt’s magical protections revoked, that’s what I need.”
It took almost twenty minutes to hear back, which suggested a vigorous debate on Kiara’s end. Finally, she came back on. “We’ll see what we can do, Bradley. But you’d better make sure the vote goes the right way.”
“Yeah, go out and makes some more friends,” Logan chimed in. “You’re always saying how you’re good with people.”
“I don’t know that many people here,” Quinn protested. “I mean, there’s Jillaine, but . . .” He caught himself, but a second too late.
“Who’s that?” Kiara demanded.
Shit. Shouldn’t have brought her up. “Moric’s daughter. She’s not a council member, but I think she carries some weight.”
“Work on her,” Kiara said.
“Yeah, Romeo. Work your magic,” Logan added with his usual helpfulness.
“Fine, I’ll make some overtures,” Quinn said. “Over and out.”
He stopped and looked around to get his bearings. A rustle of leaves from behind made him turn around.
He was surprised to see the two men coming toward him. Where’d they come from? He nearly waved, but something about them felt off. They moved with the crouched-low readiness of someone about to do violence. They rushed at him the moment he saw them, which only confirmed that impression.
“What the hell?” He backed off. His mind worked frantically. Who sent them? Their intent was clear enough. There was no one else around, and it was past dusk. His legs wouldn’t hold up if he ran. It was too dark to see if they had any weapons, but he had to assume they did.
He yanked his belt knife out of its sheath. He didn’t stand a chance at hand-to-hand combat against two opponents at once. Logan had told him that much. He slid the blade between his thumb and finger. When the men were ten paces out, he wound up and threw at the right-hand one. Moonlight glinted on the blade as it spun end over end. It caught the man somewhere in his torso. He grunted and fell. The second one jumped over his fallen companion and charged right at Quinn.
If there was ever a time for magic, it was now. No other choice. Quinn tried to dig deep into himself and find the power that had saved his ass from the river. Knowing that if he couldn’t, this guy might very well kill him. That desperation opened something in him, a crack into that tiny room of magic potential. The warmth started to flow out. Then the guy plowed right into him. They tumbled over one another onto the grass.
Knees and elbows. That was the only thing Quinn remembered from Logan’s hand-to-hand fighting clinics. So he jabbed out like a funky chicken as they wrestled, catching the man’s jaw with an elbow. He tried to break free and make a run for it then, but the guy hooked his leg and flung him backward.
Quinn’s head slammed against the ground. His vision blurred red. His ears rang with a high-pitched tone. He shook himself and cleared up just in time to see a boot coming at his face. Move! He rolled away onto his hands and knees.
Time to break out the hardware. He clawed at his belt. He got the buckle loose. Then his gut exploded in pain. The bastard had kicked him. He clung to the buckle with both hands. Managed to hang on to it. The guy wound back to kick him again. Quinn flipped off the latch and shot fifty thousand volts right into him.
“Gaaahhh!” The man shook like he was having a seizure. His teeth chattered, and he went down.
Quinn jerked the electrodes out of him and hit the auto-rewind on the buckle. They zipped back into it and out of sight. The guy he’d zapped was still on the ground, and now foaming at the mouth. His eyes had the far-off look of someone whose entire world was pain.
Serves him right. Quinn’s whole body hurt like hell. Especially where he’d been kicked. Well, now he could return the favor. With interest. He lifted his boot.
“Enough!” a woman shouted.
He halted mid-stomp.
A globe of light appeared over the green lawns, and brightened enough to cast everything in twilight. A woman strode toward him. The mop of white hair was unmistakable.
“Sella! Thank the gods.” Quinn had never been happier to see her in his life. Now, where was I?
“That’s quite enough!” She sounded out of breath. “What did you do?”
He put his boot down. “These guys just tried to kill me!”
She brushed past him and knelt by the guy he’d zapped. The foaming around the mouth didn’t look good, and he’d stopped shaking. Jesus, maybe I killed him.
“He’s unconscious,” Sella said. “You want to tell me how you managed that?”
“I don’t know . . . it all happened so fast.” He had to buy some time, and figure out a reasonable explanation. “How much did you see?”
“All of it.”
“Then you—wait, all of it?”
“Yes.”
He was still reeling from this bit of information when the first attacker appeared right next to him.
“Shit!” He stutter-stepped away. “He’s one of them!”
“I’m well aware of that,” Sella said. Her voice was infuriatingly calm.
She knelt, and put her hand palm-down on the fallen attacker. She muttered some words. Quinn was a few paces away, but he felt the chill of fey energy from it. A delving.
This didn’t make any sense at all. If she saw everything, why didn’t she help? She’s my goddamn teacher, for Chrissakes!
Then everything clicked at once: her casual demeanor, what she’d said, and the fact that she seemed more concerned about his attackers than her own student.
Oh, no way. “Did you set me up?” he demanded.
“You’re in the advanced class, Quinn. We’ll do whatever it takes to get rid of your block.”
“Including having two guys attack me in the middle of the night.”
“Would you have reacted the same way if this were staged?”
“I guess not.” He probably wouldn’t have shocked the guy.
“There’s your answer.”
“But I could have killed him!”
The other man, the one he’d thrown his knife at, held it up by the handle. “With this little pigsticker? I don’t think so.” He flipped it over, and offered it to Quinn handle-first.
“Well, I wouldn’t call it a pigsticker,” Quinn muttered. He took it and shoved it back into its sheath.
“They were well protected,” Sella said. “A normal weapon wouldn’t have harmed them.”
But the shocker sure as hell did. “Well, I could have had a heart attack. What about that?”
“You look healthy enough to me.”
“Gee, thanks.”
The unconscious guy moaned and started moving his arms. Sella sighed, and lifted her hands from him. “He’ll be all right. But I’d certainly like to know what you did to him.”
“I wish I could tell you.”
“Do you think you could do it again?” she asked.
Quinn shook his head. Don’t tempt me.
Chapter 28
Schemes
“Never believe anything a magician says. Especially in Vegas.”
—Art of Illusion, November 4
Quinn woke up the next morning with a mixture of strange sensations. The Caralissian wine left him with the smoothest hangover he’d ever encountered—not quite a headache, but a soft tightness at the temples that kind of said, Hey, you drank too much last night. The rest of him felt like he’d been hit by a truck, on account of the tussle with Sella’s teaching assistants. All of that pain lessened when he remembered his new marching orders.
Win his way back into Jillaine’s good graces.
She’d been cold the other day, but he could get past that. Besides, he had more than just a desire to see her again: he had a goddamn mission-critical justification. It just doesn’t hurt that she’s
pretty.
His advanced class with Sella didn’t start for another hour. That gave him time to lay some groundwork.
In keeping with the Enclave’s whimsical layout, there was a broad meadow about halfway between the residential towers and Jillaine’s little chandlery. Quinn had never noticed anyone tending it, but that meadow was home to the widest variety of wildflowers he’d ever seen. There had to be magic involved. How else could desert flowers bloom right next to something that looked straight out of a rainforest? He almost didn’t want to know the answer to that. Bottom line, it meant he could put together a bouquet whenever he needed one. Something any man can appreciate.
Chaudri had given a few briefings on the language of Alissian flowers—the subtle messages conveyed by one type or the other. Was it the most thrilling of her lectures? No. But he’d retained some basics. Better yet, he still had the scans of the book on Alissian botany that he’d taken on his last visit.
The sun was already pushing up into the sky when he got to the meadow. He felt a tad jittery because he’d had too much Landorian tea. Again. A young couple walked arm in arm down one of the paths a few hundred yards away, but otherwise he had the field to himself. Probably for the best. He hadn’t asked anyone for permission to cut flowers.
He started with the bluebells, because he knew he’d seen them before. According to some long-dead botanist, that one meant apology. They grew in little clusters that were easy to spot. He crouched beside one, and snipped off a little stem with his belt knife.
Next up was the starflower: five bright-yellow petals with a white center, whose unspoken message was thinking about you. He burned ten minutes searching high and low for one. Apparently the Enclave residents were a thoughtful bunch. He finally spotted one right at the base of a tall cactus tree. A handful of puncture wounds later, he managed to cut it free.
The third flower was easy to find. Light pink petals, dark purple center. Like a cross between a rose and an iris. Didn’t look like anyone had ever picked one, so maybe the message behind it was a little strong. Promise. He’d be putting it all on the line with this one.
