Trials (Rogue Mage Anthology Book 1)

by Faith Hunter

  “It’s late,” Liran continued. “You’re all tired. Select sleeping accoutrements and find a place on the floor to rest.”

  Katara came in last, barely ducking her head inside the room. “My name is Indira and I’m taking you where you’ll finally be safe. Once we make it past the checkpoints, I’ll return to answer all questions.”

  “Liar!” Chopra shouted, springing to her feet.

  Liran blocked her path, clamping his hand on her shoulder. “Stay calm.”

  Feeling suddenly tranquil, Chopra stared at him in disbelief, “You too?”

  Liran nodded once and removed his hand.

  “My daughter,” Katara explained to the group, motioning toward Chopra. “She’s mad at me. Early teens, you know how that is. Excuse me a moment.” She carefully maneuvered through the women as they grabbed mats and blankets. With an arm around Chopra’s shoulders, Katara led her across the small room. “I’m sorry about Miku.”

  Chopra fought tears. “Liar.”

  Katara’s eyes, the same golden brown as Chopra’s, narrowed. “I didn’t have time to get amulets on her. If you two had held onto one another, she might have been protected. I tried, Chopra. I really did.”

  “You’re saying this is my fault?!” Chopra shouted.

  Katara placed a hand over Chopra’s mouth. “Shush! No. We’ll revisit this later. Right now, I need to get these women to safety. I’ve helped build an underground railroad to free as many of Jet’s sex-slaves as I can. Yelling at me could scare them. If they run, we’ll get caught, probably killed. You’ll never save Miku if you’re dead.”

  Chopra stood speechless as Katara handed her off to Liran before stepping over to the rolled mats, grabbing one, and laying it out on the floor.

  “Though many believe we hand women over to Jet and let that stand, we do not,” Liran quietly explained. “By being in Jet’s employ, we have free rein to sail where we please without anyone questioning why we are there or looking into our activities. Jet has more than just the Persephone buying and kidnapping his slaves. Indira and I are the only ones who also work against him. Do you understand?”

  Chopra nodded, then shook her head.

  “You will. Indira will train you. You’ll see.”

  “Indira?” Chopra asked.

  “Katara’s real name. We’re rogue mages doing our best to fight the Darkness. Thing is, that takes money and connections. This job creates both,” Liran led Chopra to the mat Katara had set out. “Now stay put.”

  Chopra nodded and sat, too shocked to resist.

  “It’ll be all right,” someone said.

  Chopra turned to examine the Amazonian young woman with red hair and gray-blue eyes. “No, it will never be all right. Nothing is what I thought. I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  The tuxedo cat came over and the woman smiled, petting the feline. “I believe we all have a reason for being. I was meant for Indira to find me.”

  Chopra lay down. “She goes by Katara.”

  Laying down as well, the woman smiled as the cat curled up beside her. “Katara? Is that her ‘captain name’?”

  “I think so.”

  “I like it. A name says a lot about a person.”

  “Well, I’m Chopra. What does that tell you?”

  The woman laughed. “You are stubborn but your energies are honor and loyalty.”

  “I don’t feel honorable.” Chopra paused, “What’s your name?”

  She sighed in disgust. “I don’t know. My owner called me Frances. I hate that name. Actually, he referred to me as, ‘Frances the mule’ because I am a—”

  Chopra shook her head and quickly touched the woman’s arm to stop her from admitting she was a child of a mage and a human, properly known as a ‘second unforeseen,’ or a ‘mule,’ if one was crude. Once the woman nodded in understanding, Chopra said, “What should I call you?”

  “Arcadia.” She smiled. “We all have a purpose, and that name will fit mine.”

  “And what is your purpose?”

  “I don’t know,” Arcadia admitted. “Only time will tell. But like you, I am meant for great things.”

  Chopra heard the anchor coming up and thought of her new purpose. “I hope you’re right.”

  Eight Years Later: July 21, 103 Post-Ap – George Town, Penang

  Katara stood on the quarterdeck of her new brigantine, also christened Persephone, as they docked in George Town, at the northeastern tip of the island. Staring out at the early evening hustle and bustle of Fort Cornwallis Market, a stone fortress built by the British, centuries previously, she saw little. Her mind was elsewhere.

  “Have I ever mentioned how much I love this place?” Katara’s quartermaster said, inhaling deeply and letting it out with a satisfied sigh. When Katara didn’t respond, Arcadia continued, “I think it’s the exotic spices in the air.” With still no reply, she wrapped a green hijâb around her short, red hair. “Mostly I’m looking forward to a three-way with that royal guard and his goat.”

  Katara held the grin at bay for a second before it ticked at the corner of her mouth. She shook a finger at Arcadia. “You think I don’t hear you, but I do.”

  “Uh-huh. What did I say?”

  Katara fastened a specially made abaya over her usual attire to hide her weapons, falling past her black leggings and knee-high leather boots. “Something about sex with a goat. And if you fly that way, hey, who am I to judge?”

  “Nice try, but you’re distracted. You need to stay focused.”

  Katara exhaled heavily, adjusting the hijâb that concealed her chin-length, dark hair. “What if she’s not here, again? Or this is a trap? Or we’re not prepared? Or—”

  “Stop! She’ll be here. The intel from Jassima is good and this plan is solid. We’re ready.”

  Katara, a mere five foot three in her two-inch-heeled boots, looked up at Arcadia, still nearly a foot taller than her. “What do you mean, this plan?”

  Before she could reply, Katara’s boatswain and navigator—Liran’s twenty-year-old son, Gamon—raced over. He came to a halt, shoved his black hair out of his dark, almond-shaped eyes, and said, “Gangplank is down, Captain.”

  Ignoring him, Arcadia rolled her eyes at Katara. “I mean our fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants ‘plan’ in Ranong with Conrad. Who, I might add, is the reason the trip resulted in six dead, a destroyed bar, a duel to exit the country, and your nose being broken for the third time. Remember that?”

  Katara pulled a map and key from her pocket and waved them at Arcadia. “Don’t rag on poor dead Conrad again! He gave us these, didn’t he?”

  “Is that blood?” Gamon asked, pointing at spots on the paper map.

  “Yes,” the women replied in unison.

  “Conrad, my contact in Ranong, gave us these, right before a blade went through his throat,” Katara explained, “Not my blade.”

  “Ooh, I’m impressed,” he said, winking at Arcadia.

  “Shut it, Little Liran,” Katara said, as Arcadia laughed. “Both of you can blow it out Jibreel’s horn.” Shoving the map and key into her pocket, she picked up her satchel, and headed down the gangplank, “Arcadia, grab your things and let’s go. Gamon, purchase the supplies and return quickly. Do one last walk-through to verify Persephone is battle-ready.”

  “Aye, Captain.”

  “And get a haircut, for the love of Mika’il, or I’ll cut it myself.”

  The half-Thai young man’s face showed sincere fear as his hand rushed to touch his hair. “You wouldn’t.”

  Arcadia slung the strap of her sword case around her body and shouldered her armor bag. “Trust me, she would. And you really don’t want that.”

  Katara chuckled. “No, he really doesn’t.”

  Entering Fort Cornwallis Market from the east, Katara caught sight of the xiangsheng players performing on a round stage at the center of the fortress. An amphitheater’s stone risers spread like a fan from the performance space up to the north wall and were filled with market-goers as
they ate and talked; some even watched the performers. Others wandered and shopped in the remaining space filled with tables and booths offering fish, fruits, vegetables, fish, grains, clothing, ship supplies, and more fish.

  “Define irony,” Katara said.

  “A market for pirates, run by ex-pirates, in a fort originally built to keep pirates out of Penang,” Arcadia proudly stated.

  “At least someone listens to my history lessons,” Katara said. “Early dinner?”

  “Sweet seraph, please!”

  They purchased food from one of the many vendors and sat on the risers to watch the show as they ate. They were just finishing their meal when a Malaysian woman approached.

  “Ladies, might I interest you in some bunga rayas, our national flower?”

  Katara looked up to find Jassima staring down at her. “Why yes. We’d love some.”

  Jassima carefully handed Katara a bouquet of red, five-petaled flowers. “Do not untie them until it’s necessary.”

  Katara counted out a small stack of coins as Jassima covertly scanned the area for anyone watching them. Handing the money over, Katara said, “Is she here, the one they call Havâ?”

  Jassima’s lavender-blue eyes returned to her supposed customer. “Yes. Let me get your change.” Putting her head down, she murmured, “No one’s seen her in days. Not since Saval’s supposedly psychic advisor told him a dark power was coming to take what he holds most dear.”

  “Keeping up the façade to hide his true sexual preference is dearer to him than Havâ,” Katara pointed out.

  “Yes, but she’s part of that façade.”

  “Dragon bones,” Arcadia muttered. “Has Saval canceled the event?”

  Jassima squatted, handing Katara a change-bag. “He cannot. Tradition commands he must open the palace to all citizens for the Feast of Tithes day each month. Your pass into the event and tithe coins are in here.”

  Katara took the bag, a wicked grin on her face. “Thank you for the flowers. They will look lovely donated on the Wall of Royal Decree.”

  Jassima chuckled, and then walked away, yelling about flowers for sale.

  Arcadia stood. “I’ll get into my replica royal armor and activate my Glamour. See you in the throne room.”

  “Be careful.”

  “Aren’t I always?” Arcadia grinned.

  “No, you aren’t,” Katara muttered.

  Arcadia headed west, toward the Royal Palace. Katara waited a few moments, then slowly followed her with a small satchel in one hand, a flower bomb in the other, and a silent prayer on her lips.

  Employing a Mindslip spell so the guards would neglect a weapon-check for her, Katara entered the palace early in the evening. Untying her bunga rayas, she triggered the time-delayed spell, and inserted the stems into one of the many designated holes on the etched, marble Wall of Royal Decree. Following protocol, she bowed to the seven-foot-tall stone statue of Jet, proud of herself for not spitting on it, and followed the masses into the blue and white throne room.

  The potent smoke of burning incense filled the chamber as the line inched toward Saval, Jet’s human brother-in-law of one of his many wives, who sat in a golden chair on top of a two-level platform. He looked down his nose at the people gathered to pay their tithe, even those wearing traditional Muslim attire in honor of the monarch.

  Approaching the platform, Katara worked a tiny weapon from the lining of her abaya. Concealing it between her fingers, she climbed the stairs to the level below Saval, and knelt before him. Reciting the Royal Creed for atonement, submission, and servitude, Katara ceremonially poured water over his well-manicured feet. She reached for a towel just as the Wall of Royal Decree exploded, rocking the palace.

  Debris and flower petals flew everywhere. Screams erupted as citizens and guards ran in all directions. In the distraction, Katara stuck Saval’s foot with a poison-tipped needle, so slim he didn’t feel it, before dashing off like the rest. As Arcadia now appeared male, Katara only recognized the quartermaster by the slightest difference in the craftsmanship of her blue steel armor, and ran to her in feigned terror.

  “Why, my lady, art thou scared of a little boom-boom?” Arcadia whispered in her ear.

  Katara laughed. “Shut up and let’s go.”

  Taking advantage of the mass panic to hide their exit, they raced down a hallway. Following the map Conrad had given them, they stopped at a pair of bolted doors.

  Katara performed a mind skim of the room beyond. “This is it. She’s here. But something’s wrong.” She slid a steel pick into the lock, using a hint of elemental power to glide the brass mechanism open, unlocking the door.

  Entering the elegant sitting room decorated with colorful satins, artwork, and gemstones, Katara let out a low whistle. “Wow, this room’s worth more than our whole ship.”

  “Don’t take anything!”

  “Too late,” Katara said, sliding a handful of gems into her pocket. “Don’t give me that look. We are pirates, ya know. We steal things.”

  Arcadia rolled her eyes.

  Katara motioned toward a tapestry hanging on an inner wall. “According to Conrad, she’ll be behind that.”

  Arcadia pulled back the heavy cloth to reveal a locked steel door radiating energy. Blocking Katara from it, she said, “It’s spelled. Likely against mages.”

  “That must be why Conrad gave us this key,” Katara said, handing it over.

  Arcadia inserted and turned the key, drew her sword, and carefully toed the door open to find a pure white bedroom. Sheer white fabrics draped the canopy bed, billowing in the breeze from large windows. Sitting in a rocking chair was the beautiful woman the Malaysians called Havâ. She, too, was dressed in white, her long, ebony hair so glossy it appeared wet.

  Katara rushed to stand before her, but Havâ didn’t react.

  “Is she alive?” Arcadia murmured.

  Heart in her throat, Katara knelt in front of Havâ and carefully took her wrist, as the Asian woman stared past her at nothing. “She has a pulse, so maybe she’s drugged or in some sort of trance. Either would explain why I couldn’t contact her.”

  “I’m so sorry, Captain.” Arcadia placed a hand on Katara’s shoulder. “What’s in this?” She tried to open a drawstring bag attached to Havâ’s waist but was unable to. “Appears to be spelled closed.”

  “Leave it for now.” Katara paused, hand on chin, finger tapping her lips in thought. “My concern is this white outfit. It’ll be a bull’s eye.”

  Arcadia made a quick search of the room for some color other than white, but found nothing they could use to hide Havâ’s clothing.

  “What about the colorful silks and satins in the other room?” Arcadia suggested.

  “And do what? Roll her in them so she can suffocate? Or maybe use the drapes to make her a dress? This isn’t the Sound of Music. We don’t have that kind of time.” Standing, Katara said, “Stones and blood, I didn’t risk my life, yours, and our crew for nothing. Plan A won’t work. Plan B definitely won’t work . . .”

  “So we go to Plan C.”

  Katara snarled. “We don’t have a Plan C.”

  “I have an idea,” Arcadia mused.

  Katara pulled a white niqâb from her satchel. “Whatever it is, she’ll need to wear this.”

  “You just happened to have one that matches her dress, so it appears genuine?” Arcadia asked, assisting the captain in fitting the headdress on Havâ.

  “I brought three; one happens to be white. We got lucky.”

  “I don’t think luck had anything to do with it.”

  “Don’t start talking about ‘one’s purpose’ and a ‘higher plan.’ Focus. What’s your idea?”

  “Closing time.”

  Supporting Havâ between them like a drunken friend after a night at the bar, Katara and Arcadia moved quickly down the hallway toward a side exit that had been marked on the map. Halfway there, medical personnel ran past, barking orders.

  “Angel snot,” Katara whispered. “That m
an just—”

  “I heard, he demanded they fetch Havâ for medical assistance.”

  “Guess your poison worked on Saval after all.”

  “I hope it kills him,” Katara said as they turned the corner.

  The exit now in sight, they hurried down the hall and out the doors into the side courtyard without being seen.

  “That wasn’t so bad,” Arcadia bragged—and an alarm sounded.

  “You were saying?”

  “Seraph bones!” Arcadia said, and scooped Havâ up in muscular arms. “Plan D! Run!”

  They made it halfway across the Great Lawn between the palace and the fort before Saval’s guards spotted Havâ’s white gown and began pursuit.

  Stopping in a stand of trees for cover, Katara panted, “The shortest route to Persephone is through the fort.”

  Arcadia agreed, and they picked up the pace again. Running through the arch of the west entrance, they found the fort deserted, save for a large gathering of Muslims kneeling on the stone risers, facing west toward Mecca in observation of the sunset prayer to Allah.

  As Katara reached the empty amphitheater stage, sentries blocked the east exit. Turning, she saw the palace guards approaching the west entrance. “Wrath of angels!” Waving Arcadia to follow her, she sprang onto the stage. “Leave her up here.”

  “Over my dead body,” Arcadia replied.

  “I prefer not.” Katara removed her satchel and the abaya, revealing her weapons and armor. Tossing the bag and cloak to the ground below, she left her niqâb in place to hide her face as the guards filed in through the west entrance, trapping them.

  “Surrender the woman!”

  Katara pulled a small, metal box from a pocket. “Set her down. We fight or we die.”

  “Then we fight,” Arcadia said, laying Havâ center stage before drawing her broadsword.

  “Drop your weapons!” yelled the guard leader.

  “Stall them,” Katara whispered to Arcadia before kneeling beside Havâ and placing a feather and bird-bone bracelet around the young woman’s wrist.