Sleight of Mind (Rise of Magic Book 2)

by Stefon Mears

  Chief Goldberg had his ship’s watch file out in groups, between the various factions, as though he expected a bunch of executives to start a brawl.

  Donal amused himself with that mental image, ridiculously expensive ties used to turn faces purple. Hands without a hint of callous bruising and tearing knuckles on finely shaven chins.

  Magister Machado tipped an imaginary hat to Donal as he made his own meandering way out of the restaurant, the last of the crew to do so, leaving Donal alone with his dessert. One of the nymphs offered to pack the slice of cake into a box so that Donal could take it with him, but he declined. Donal believed that restaurant desserts always tasted best in the restaurant that served them.

  So Donal savored forkful after slow forkful, the smooth, thick chocolate further enhanced by rich, South American coffee. As he neared the final bite, he saw approaching the sinuous, smoky form of Pinyin Lung, Li Hua’s spirit dragon familiar.

  “Is she on the Observation Deck already?” asked Donal.

  Pinyin Lung bowed the top half of its serpentine form and said, “Tai Shi Li Hua offers her sincerest regrets, but has asked me to inform you that she will be unable to meet you tonight. Pressing business matters will require her attention into the late hours. She does offer her promise to make this up to you.”

  “Then please tell her I look forward to that and hope that her night does not become arduous.”

  “I shall do so.”

  “Thank you, Pinyin Lung.”

  That got a second bow out of the spirit dragon before it departed. But the arrival and departure of Li Hua’s familiar made Donal realize his own was no longer forbidden to his company. After all, it wasn’t as though he had anyone else to spy on in the empty restaurant.

  Donal called forth his cú sidhe. Fionn assessed the room with a glance, then sniffed the air, flicked its ears, then circled Donal’s table once.

  As Fionn did this, Donal said, “Li Hua had to cancel our date.”

  “That is probably for the best.” Fionn looked over at where Magister Machado had been sitting, then back at Donal. “Did you learn anything of substance during your dinner?”

  “Save that for the room,” said Donal in words pitched only for Fionn. “Why do you keep looking over there?”

  “A spell lingers. I believe you are under observation.”

  “Well, I can’t very well argue with the ship’s mage.”

  “You are a paying passenger. If he continues to do this, it could constitute harassment.”

  “Studying law on the side?”

  “It is a simple matter of tactics. He is in a position of protective authority, but such actions could violate the trust of his position.” Fionn snorted with a shake of its head. “I will mention this to Saravá later.”

  “What do you familiars talk about among yourselves?”

  Fionn said nothing in reply to that. The fae deerhound merely gave Donal the best attempt at an innocent canine stare that Donal had ever seen from his familiar.

  Donal knew better than to believe it, but he knew that look meant he would get no answers to that question.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jacobs sat at his desk in only the yellow light and kerosene smell of his archaic oil lamp, and waited. His depictions of all the crafts he had served on or commanded had been returned to their proper places on one wall, but he did not regard them. The bookshelves behind him were once more organized with his library of seamanship, airmanship, and spacemanship (a term he hated and used as little as possible), but he did not consider their contents while he waited. Not the more modern refillable volumes, nor the more plentiful older books that could only ever contain a single set of words.

  Jacobs did not drum his fingers as he waited. He did not pour himself a glass of whiskey. He did not run down to the gangplank to meet his men when the shuttle landed.

  He considered doing all of these things, but chose none of them.

  He knew the pictures and still illusions well enough that he felt no need to look them over, any more than he needed to pore over books he could have gone through and corrected.

  Drumming Jacobs’ fingers would have reminded him of Fredrickson and her insistence on rhythmlessly tapping her fingers whenever she thought through a problem. And having had a glass of whiskey before dinner and a glass of wine with dinner, another glass of whiskey now might have distracted Jacobs from the questions he would need to ask as soon as his men arrived.

  And Jacobs did not rush down to the gangplank, because that was the act of an inexperienced captain.

  It would be the act of a younger man too.

  What Jacobs tried most not to think about as he waited was the head rush. In those moments that he could not help himself but consider the topic, he tried to tell himself that he needed more cardio in his workout, though he included at least fifteen minutes of such work every day, and thirty minutes more days than not. He tried to tell himself that the heavy reindeer steak had drawn all the blood down to his stomach, and even the doubtful voice in Jacobs’ head — which always spoke the tones of Dr. Ramirez — had to admit that it had probably been a factor.

  No, the idea lurking in the background of all the thoughts Jacobs’ mind danced around as it waited was this: even in his seventies a run from Ambrosia to the bridge — with two bubble rides along the way, for rest — would not have left Jacobs on the verge of passing out.

  It was one thing for Jacobs to know it was time to retire. It was another to have the facts of it shoved down his throat.

  Jacobs also did not think about the fact that he should bring the incident to Dr. Ramirez’s attention.

  Besides. He knew he did not have to. Either someone on the bridge crew would tell the doctor of the incident, or they would report it to Tunold, and he would run to the doctor with the information.

  On some level Jacobs knew that such signs of worry from his people were a good thing, that it demonstrated loyalty to their captain. Perhaps even affection. This was certainly true of the bridge crew, and Kris was a good enough friend that Jacobs knew, knew deep down, that his worry was sincere.

  But still Jacobs could not quite shake the feeling that Tunold was trying to steal his command.

  Why had he tried to go to the officers behind Jacobs’ back?

  The door shook with a thunderous knock, and its timing gave Jacobs a wry smile. Poke the bear and you’ll wake him up. Aloud he said, “Come.”

  Tunold entered followed by Cromartie, and Jacobs wondered if it were coincidence that both men were so tall, or if the human race had begun growing again. Tunold had the clamp-jawed, ruffled look he usually had after an irritating shift, but Cromartie’s dark skin looked wan, and his steps less certain.

  The two men took their seats as greetings were exchanged, but before Jacobs could bring them down to business, Tunold said, “Captain, may I ask why we are sitting here half in darkness?”

  “It suits my mood.” Jacobs leaned back in his chair. “So tell me about this gargoyle.”

  “It’s a ship all right,” said Tunold, rubbing that massive jaw of his. “Only saw it for a split-second when the lightning flashed, but clear enough. Big enough to threaten us if it can use those massive arms as a prow.”

  “Any chance it’s reporters?” asked Cromartie, even his voice a little weak, unlike his usual deep, resonant tones.

  “No,” said Jacobs. “I checked before we left. No one has filed to follow our route, and there’s no percentage in the press doing it without making a big announcement in the process.”

  “Think it’s pirates, Captain?” said Tunold.

  “Stupid pirates, maybe, if they think we’d be worth hitting, but stupid pirates aren’t anything to worry about.” Jacobs shook his head. “No. These people have bad intentions, no doubt about it, but they’ve got to be chasing us because of our passengers.

  “That’s not the right question anyway,” said Jacobs, and he saw Tunold grip the arms of his chair at Jacobs’ choice of words. Well maybe he
’s sick of my lessons, damn it, but he still has a lot to learn. “The question is, are they operating alone?”

  “If they weren’t they are now,” said Cromartie. Jacobs looked a question at the young magician, and Cromartie continued, “My repertoire of illusions is pretty small beside Magister Machado, or even Journeyman Cuthbert, but I hit that section of space with everything I could think of: hazards, monsters, and lots of false signals.”

  “If we assume they have magicians on board—”

  “Then how long it takes them to work through my spells tells us something about the level of competition.”

  “Good man,” said Jacobs, the depth of his approval infusing his tone and making the assistant ship’s mage smile with weary pride. “What did you two figure out about the shimmer?”

  “I’ve got some theories,” said Cromartie, “but I want to run them past Magister—”

  “We think they’re trying to conceal themselves,” said Tunold, “but the spells are messing with their lacunas, so either they’re glitching or they have to surface occasionally.”

  “But,” said Cromartie with a sour stretch to his lips, “a brief glimpse like we had makes it tough to say for certain. Magister Machado will help me work it through.”

  “I look forward to the full report.” Jacobs turned back to his ex oh. “What else can you tell me about that ship?”

  “Recent model,” said Tunold, “no more than five years old. Didn’t look like it was straining, so I’d say it has more speed yet. Probably retrofitted with a Deception Drive, since we’re known to have one. Worse, I’m betting that they went with the gray, gargoyle look because there’s more carterite in their hull than ceramic.”

  Jacobs stared out his immense porthole at the passing stars as he considered that. A mostly carterite hull would respond better to the lacuna, making it faster and more maneuverable than the Horizon Cusp.

  “They know what our resources are,” said Jacobs. “And we have to assume they know which passengers we’re carrying. And while I’m confident in your spells, Mr. Cromartie, they wouldn’t come after us unless they think they have someone who can stand against Mash.

  “No, we have to assume they’ll cut through your deceptions pretty quickly. And we have to assume they have the other half of that spell in our safe.”

  Jacobs rubbed his hands, a slow, thoughtful motion. “The only real question is: are they on their own or do they have someone coming to meet them from the other side.”

  “Want to pick up speed?” said Tunold. “If the shimmers are a response to their lacuna’s needs, they might have to drop their hiding spell entirely. We could force a confrontation before they’re ready.”

  “I’ve got a better idea,” said Jacobs. “Let’s hail them.”

  ◊

  On the walk back to his cabin, Donal chatted with Fionn about all the various ways he could think of to disrupt their flight. If Magister Machado intended to keep him under surveillance, Donal might as well give him something worth listening to, even if he never intended to complete any single action he mentioned. Especially not trying to contact a trakhaa, a creature only rumored to exist based on evidence that implied that something out there could hunt and kill zuglodons.

  Donal even joked about trying to lock the Horizon Cusp into perpetual Venus orbit based on the thaumaturgic landing technique required by larger spaceports.

  He could do it too. All he would need was...

  Donal stopped two steps shy of his room, excitement lighting up his face.

  “I’ve got it!” he said and snapped his fingers. “Fionn, go find Magister Machado. I’ve got to talk to the captain.”

  When Fionn appeared to hesitate, confused at its master’s sudden shift of mental direction, Donal yelled, “Go!”

  The fae deerhound phased downward through the deck, and Donal jogged back down the hall to the bubble and its nearby audio-only comm pad, activating the latter with a light pat.

  “This is the bridge,” said a woman’s voice.

  “This is Donal Cuthbert. I need to talk to the captain.”

  “The captain is in the middle of something very important, Mr. Cuthbert. Could I link you through to our chief of security?”

  “No, it has to be the captain.” Donal began thumping his fist against the bulkhead to control the urgency in his voice. “Tell him I know how to stop the package from pulsing.”

  ◊

  Jacobs sat at his station and rubbed that spot between his eyes.

  Today had been a very long day, and it was only their first day out. He hesitated to consider what tomorrow might bring. That way lay madness.

  But sitting there surrounded by the half-painted canvas of space beyond the transparent bulkheads, Jacobs was half-tempted to go ahead and hail that gargoyle ship and be done with it. He hated cat-and-mouse games when he sailed the seas, liked them no better in the skies above Earth, and now, at space, he liked them even less.

  Better to confront the problem head on and deal with it.

  That thought made him smirk. How many problems had Jacobs literally face head-on, breaking noses with his forehead in barroom brawls?

  Jacobs shook his head. No, this was a fight to avoid if he could, for the sake of his crew, his business, and yes even for the sake of his passengers. Although he felt sure that this pursuing craft was the direct fault of one of them. And if it wasn’t then the reason for its presence likely came back to Mancuso. The man might not be the source of all ills, but he had proven himself a pain in Jacobs’ backside many times over.

  Still, Machado would know if Cuthbert’s idea had merit. And if it did, then it needed to be done. Anything Jacobs could do to hinder the efforts of the pursuing craft.

  And if it happened to force their pursuers into a confrontation before they lost track of the Horizon Cusp, so much the better. A rushed attack would lead to mistakes.

  But, Lord, Jacobs was ready to go to sleep. The day had been so very long.

  Jacobs put his hands on his knees and forced himself to a standing position. He took a deep breath, and let one hand use the rail to steady him as he descended the steps.

  Has this staircase always had so many steps?

  Jacobs did not even look at the crew members manning the bridge stations. He did not have to. He could feel their eyes, feel them wondering about their captain’s weakness, wondering if Old Man Jacobs could manage this last demanding flight.

  He covered by issuing orders his whole way to the passage door. Nothing unusual, just his standard push for attentiveness to duty. When the bridge door closed behind him, Jacobs let himself slump against the bulkhead for just one moment, before making the slow walk down the sloping passage to his office.

  He felt so very, very tired.

  ◊

  Donal’s security escort to the captain’s office was a giraffe of a man, so tall and thin that in places his joints looked too large for his body. But Donal remembered him from escort duty the last time a delivery had brought Donal aboard the Horizon Cusp, and the guard treated him like an old friend: asked after family and developments, shared his successes in correspondence school, and generally behaved so comfortably that he forgot to introduce himself.

  Four times the man had escorted Donal someplace secure on the ship, and Donal still didn’t know his name. Worse, the man seemed so at ease that Donal didn’t have the heart to ask him this time either.

  Still, Donal arrived at the captain’s office, Fionn trailing behind as rear guard. Donal wondered if the cú sidhe expected the Romanov woman to step out of the shadows and try to assassinate him.

  He decided against asking. The answer, Donal felt certain, would only make him more nervous.

  And Donal felt nervous approaching the captain about this idea. It went beyond the scope of anything he had tried before. But he found the possibility of success so exciting that he had to check himself from skipping down the hall. Magister Machado would never forgive me.

  The watchman stuck around
while Donal knocked, but gave Donal a smile and a thumbs-up when the captain’s voice called, “Come!” The watchman walked away, and Donal opened the door.

  Inside the well-lit office, the captain sat at his desk, as Donal expected, but the only other person present was Magister Machado, who reclined on the well-loved couch under the porthole. Donal had half-expected the entire command staff to be waiting for him, or at least the chief and Initiate Cromartie, like the last time they had asked him about the package.

  “Have a seat, Cuthbert,” said the captain, “and tell me how you can cut off that damned signal flare of a package.”

  The captain held himself straight as ever, and his voice sounded strong and clear, but something in the man’s eyes made Donal think the captain felt exhausted.

  But Donal didn’t have time to waste wondering about that. He hustled into a guest chair on the other side of the desk, and said, “I can’t really cut off the signal, per se, but I think I’ve figured out a way to ... shunt it, so it’s coming from somewhere else.”

  Magister Machado shifted on the couch, and despite a lack of any outside signs of increased attention, Donal had the feeling that the Magister’s full attention was on him, a feeling he remembered from taking oral exams from his professors in Thaumaturgy courses at U.C. Santa Cruz. Old fear gripped Donal’s stomach that he hadn’t studied enough, hadn’t prepared enough, had wasted too much time having fun, and now he was going to fail in front of...

  But this wasn’t an exam, and Donal managed to contain that fear with a deep breath.

  “I have to travel so much that I keep a memory circle in my apartment—”

  “You brilliant bastard!” cried Magister Machado lurching to his feet, practically vibrating with excitement. “Of course! I live on the ship, so I never need one, but—”

  “Would someone tell me what a memory circle is?” said Captain Jacobs, and the speed with which the ship’s mage locked down his own eagerness assured Donal that he was not the only one who heard warning in the captain’s tone.