by K. Gorman
She was still stuck on the whole antibody concept. “So you’re a virus?”
He stared at her through the fire. “You know, I’m starting to think that I used the wrong analogy to describe this.”
“A body will develop antibodies for anything that it doesn’t recognize,” she offered. “It’ll even kill the wrong type of blood.”
The firelight pronounced the shadows on his face. His eyes held hers steadily.
She curled her sleeves around her fists.
“What now?”
“That’s up to you,” he said. “By decree of the Council in Mersetzdeitz, I’m duty-bound to look for new magic users—but my duty ends once you’re registered. It’s up to you whether you’d like to or not. There is an apprenticeship program—I know, I know, ‘apprentice’ is an old, really formal word, but the Council is a bit stuffy and traditional and insists it’s the only one that translates properly—that I can offer you. Since I’m also a crystal engineer, your particular abilities happen to match my specialty more than they match others. We could find out more about your talents.”
Her jaw loosened.
Okay, this is so not what I was expecting to do today.
“It’s a bit sudden,” she started.
“You don’t have to decide today. But I do have to keep an eye on you. Magic, as you’ve seen, is dangerous.” He waved his burned hand. “We can’t have a rogue magic user running around—in case your powers manifest in other situations.”
She winced, a picture forming of how that could happen. What if someone happened to have Fire magic?
“How many other people are there like me?” she asked. “People with magic—besides Mages.”
“A decent number. There’s one who trains with Sophia, the Water Mage here, and another one’s in Terremain.” He paused. “There are several hundred in Mersetzdeitz, but then, everything’s in Mersetzdeitz, isn’t it?”
She smiled at the joke. That was what they said about Mersetzdeitz. Pretty city, bigger than Ryarne, and untouchable on its plateau. The two used to be twin capitals, a long time ago. Nowadays, Mersetzdeitz was a self-governing city-state and, currently, Ryarne’s ally, bordering the mountains to the north. Several train tunnels connected the two.
And yes, everything was in Mersetzdeitz.
She shifted where she stood. The edge of the wall had dug into her back.
“Is there anyone else in Ryarne?”
“Besides Sophia’s man? I don’t suppose there is.” Aiden shifted, too, sitting more upright. “Your guess is as good as mine. The only way I can track magic is by sending Buck out with the detector.” He eyed her. “You don’t have to decide now, but I’ll need an answer within the week. I really am short on time.”
“I’ll talk to my dad. Will I miss school?”
“Any more than you are now?” He snorted. “No. I won’t wreck a perfectly good Ryarnese education. But there is one thing—I need to put a tracking spell on you. As insurance. Hard to keep track of people these days.”
She froze. More magic?
He must have seen the look on her face, because he quickly added, “Don’t worry, this won’t hurt.”
She wrinkled her nose, but held still as he lifted his hands, runes glowing again on his skin.
Yeah, but that’s what you said before.
Chapter 7
“Yes, yes. Have it sent to him. It’s—” Hugh Kauffmann, CEO of Cyprios Pharmaceuticals, turned his wrist up to check the silver-plated veneer of the watch that he wore snug against the underside of his arm, the same way his wife Laura did. “—too late tonight. We’ll contact him tomorrow, mid-afternoon. That’ll give him time to look things over.”
He paused for a moment, listening as the logistics manager rattled off a time and method.
“Yes, that’ll do. Make him sign for it. Yes, thank you. Bye.”
The receiver settled back into its cradle with a click. The black curve of its body shone with a subtle, expensive gleam in the dimmed-down light of the room. He stared at it, aware of the silence.
He’d done well for himself. Not a typical rags-to-riches entrepreneurial story like some of his colleagues had, but he’d moved into this company, inherited its management, and built it up quite well—they’d been in the top twenty in the last fiscal year. The expanse and luxury of his office showed that, as did the company’s premiere Uptown skyscraper, which, while nowhere close to the enormity of the Tatenham International Bank or Viscene Pharmaceutical buildings, both of which were visible from his office windows, stood out by design. A smooth, oblique building that pierced the sky like a black fang, it had been commissioned from the French architect, Jacques Ferneau.
He was proud of that.
The office itself was also unique—as much as an office could be. Expensive as well as expansive, it was separated into two parts both by lighting effects and a freestanding glass fireplace that stood in the middle. In the daytime, the work side of the office held a warmer color, with the other side—which held an entertaining lounge with two couches, a coffee table, and a wet bar built into the wall in ornate wooden cabinetry reminiscent of early Transition styles—cast in a subdued, blue-toned hue. At night, or whenever it was needed, the lighting switched places. A small touch sensor on the underside of his desk, as well as one hidden away in the wall around the corner to the restroom, controlled the switch.
He hadn’t switched it yet, despite the dark sky outside. He didn’t switch it now, either. Instead, he let the conviviality drop from his face, leaned back in his cushy, leather-backed office chair, and let out a heavy breath into the quiet room.
What is treason, anyway?
He loved his family. His wife, Laura—well, their marriage had plateaued, as things like marriages did. They both worked, both were distracted, but they both got along, and, yes, they loved each other. And they both loved their son. Andy was nearly seven now, starting second grade at Wilcott Elementary. Loved to sing and dance, but didn’t care for baseball or ice hockey. If his grandfather—Hugh’s father—had heard that, he’d have thrown a fit, but that particular unpleasantness had passed from this reality before Andy had been out of diapers. Only his grandmother, Elizabeth, remained.
She was the reason he was doing this. They all were.
A buzz sounded in his desk drawer. He checked his watch.
Eight o’clock. They were never late.
He pulled the drawer open and picked it up, answering before it got to the third ring.
“Yes, I’m here.”
As the person on the other end—a Swarzgard military general—started up some formal, commiserative phrases that Hugh only half paid attention to, a soft knock sounded on his office door before it opened.
His gaze went to Gerard Smith, a man in his mid-forties who was the commander in charge of this particular mission, and, he suspected, had more than a dipping in black-ops experience, and he gave a quick tick with his head to indicate the chair on the opposite side of his desk.
“Thank you, General, I appreciate your kind words. I would like to get down to business, if you will. My son has a concert coming up.”
Not true, and they may know that—with this sort of operation, Hugh suspected they’d pulled out the most extreme surveillance they could on him. If he had a change of heart, their entire operation would be bust—but he doubted they’d be pulling that card out of their sleeves just yet. He was still cooperative, after all.
He glanced back to Gerard as the man settled down. “Yes, the new men have settled into the lower levels—” It was a good thing that Westray and Swarzgard spoke the same language, with roughly interchangeable accents, or this operation would have never worked. “—Gerard will see that they’re looked after. The, ah…” Here, he hesitated. “The first occupant has not tried to escape. Gerard and Garcia think he recognized the material.”
He had not been around when they’d brought Michael Seif in. In fact, he’d taken great care for him and his family to be at the opposite
point of the city, taking in the wintry lakeside views.
The early Transition violence wasn’t so long ago that he’d forgotten it. As much as they tried to cotton-ball and sugar-coat it, he remembered what Mages were capable of. And Michael Seif, their first target, was supposed to be the most powerful Mage in the city.
Just think of it as renting out space.
A seagull flew by his window, a quick, blurred flash of a white body and black-tipped wings. His thumb worked the underside of the desk.
“We plan to take Sophia Laforet tomorrow,” Gerard spoke with a quiet certainty, leaning back in the guest chair with his eyes closed and his legs crossed at the knees. The long scar that curved around the outside of his left eye ran in a jagged gash down his cheek. “No delays. We take them out, quick as we can. Before they know what hit them.”
Before they potentially grouped together, he meant. From Hugh’s understanding, the device they had was able to transport Mages—but only one at a time. If they encountered two…
Without a word, Hugh passed the phone over to Gerard, who opened his eyes as soon as his hand passed the halfway point on the desk. The commander took it, easing even further back in the chair.
Hugh’s gaze turned back to the windows. Outside, Ryarne sat glittering under a dark, cloudless sky. Somewhere between him and the stars, the city’s shield sat, invisible.
What is treason, anyway? he thought again. I’ve never sworn an oath to Westray.
Somehow, he didn’t think a court would buy that.
But he was in too deep now to stray from the course.
Chapter 8
Mieshka let the apartment door close behind her, reducing the hallway’s light to a gold crack at the bottom of the frame. Sunset was long past. From the far side of the dark living room, light from their neighbor’s television flickered through the vertical blinds.
The pizza boxes mounted high in silhouette. She didn’t breathe as she passed them. They were a war of attrition she was losing with her dad.
Down the bisecting hallway, a pale sliver of light was the only other sign of life.
Anger stirred like old, dark blood. He never came out of his room.
She shook it off, flicked on the main light, and walked to the door.
“Dad?”
There was a muffled sound on the other side.
“What is it, Mieshka?”
His tone was sharp. Had the school called already?
Something scraped the other side of the door. At the bottom, the crack of light flickered. When a shadow moved across it, she backed off a few steps.
The door dragged as it opened. As her dad’s face appeared in the gap, she suddenly doubted the wisdom of coming to him.
But he’d been a researcher before Mom had died. Surely, grief hadn’t killed all his skills.
He rubbed his eyes, which looked even more bagged and lined than they had last night. She wondered if he’d been crying.
“School called. You missed class?” His voice was rough and grating.
Mieshka had planned to snap off something about administrative clerical errors, but thought better of it.
Truth was always a good place to start.
“Yeah. There was a… problem in class. So I left. I’ll tell you about it later, and you can get angry at me or the school or whatever. There’s something else we need to talk about.”
Seeing him this close, he looked old. Lines carved close to his eyes. He was thinner than she remembered him being, despite his pizza intake.
He finished rubbing his eyes, and, perhaps seeing something in her expression, dragged the door farther open. Mieshka led the way to the living area, where they faced each other under the dim bulb. A quick glance at the pizza boxes made her shun the couch. Instead, she leaned on the wall to the kitchen.
“I met the Fire Mage today.”
Her dad wobbled to a stop, looking dazed in the light. He frowned, suppressing a yawn. She wondered what his sleep cycle was like now.
“The Fire Mage?” He pronounced the title slowly, as if he hadn’t heard it right.
“His name is Aiden. He offered me an apprenticeship.”
He leaned his shoulder against the wall, copying her. The light cast a sickly yellow on his oily skin. With his gaze withdrawn, he took a long, quiet moment to think, one of his fingers tapping against his leg. The kitchen clock ticked in the interim.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because his machine told him I had magic.”
Another quiet moment.
“Magic?”
The tone made her smile. The gravelly quality of his voice had lessened. He sounded more like her old dad.
“You don’t have magic.”
Nice support network. She didn’t take offense. Hell, she still had a hard time believing it herself. If she hadn’t seen the Phoenix, felt its touch…
“I told him that, but his machine insisted. He’s going through the data right now.”
She decided not to tell him about what had happened in the ship. It would only worry him. Besides, it was hard enough explaining the rest of it.
“Magic.”
“He wants me to be his student.”
Her dad raised a hand to his face as if to rub his eye again, but thought better of it.
“What kind of magic?”
“I don’t know. I thought you could help me figure that out. Aiden will want an answer within a few days.”
“On whether you’ll study magic or not?”
“Yes.”
“Does it cost money?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Are you sure he’s the real Mage?”
“He showed me his spaceship.”
He was silent, fixing her with a stare.
“I suppose you aren’t doing drugs. If you were, you wouldn’t be telling me any of this.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“What? You’ve been in the big city for two months now. A parent’s got to wonder.”
“They’re easier to get in Terremain.” She was lying, of course, but the look on his face was worth it.
He changed the topic.
“So, magic.” Apparently, magic was easier for him to believe than her doing drugs in Terremain’s gutters.
“Yeah. Magic. I thought I’d go ask the Internet about it.”
He began to pace. Slowly. A ponderous step here, the next a pause. In those small moves, she saw the return of her father.
“Magic,” he said again, and turned back to his room. His hand reached out, fingers curled as if to type while walking.
“I’ll grab us some dinner, then?” she asked his retreating back.
Something that wasn’t pizza, she decided. She took the rotting boxes to the garbage on her way out.
She came back with Chinese and set the takeout boxes on the kitchen counter. Roused by the noise, her dad emerged from the dark, scooped some into a bowl, and went back. She took his preoccupied look as a good sign and took her dinner to her room.
The Internet, as it happened, did not have much. There were a lot of theories, formulated on forums upon great and dubious speculation. Conspiracies aside, the common agreement, which followed what she remembered of the official history, went something like this:
The Mages had arrived into this world when their old world had become uninhabitable, their black ships slicing through the dimensional boundary. With them had come knowledge, advanced technology, and magic. Their magic had an Elemental base, which had less to do with chemistry than with the old definitions of the word; the Greco-Roman element wheel and its four divisions was mentioned frequently. On one forum, the five Chinese elements surfaced.
There were more Elements than mythology provided—Terremain had an Electric Mage, if she remembered right—which had people speculating on how many Elements there were, exactly.
Ryarne had three Mages: Fire, Water, and Earth. That agreed with the setup at the memorial: the fountain, the trees, and the burning names.
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Mersetzdeitz had a whole lot more, but she had trouble making sense of it. There were pictures of a large, white building, a flowering tree inside it, and symbols for eight elements—but only five, Fire, Earth, Air, Water, and Electric, were explained. The other three, represented by white, black, and purple sigils, remained a mystery. Famous Mages were listed in an online database, but only with their elements and biographies. Nothing on how their magic worked. Other incidents were listed, as well. Early Transition-era violence from both sides.
She chewed her chow mein, thinking, then searched for video.
Bingo.
Except for the occasional news coverage, most video was taken from cell phones. One showed a teleport: a man walked up a street in the rain, backed by a lighted boutique’s display. He looked up, stiffened, and vanished.
Right. Very convincing. She played it again, watching the reflection.
If it was edited, she couldn’t tell.
Her chair creaked as she leaned back. She swiveled it back and forth with her toe.
She didn’t feel very magical. If she did have magic, the Mage would have his work cut out teaching her. How did one train in magic, anyway? Would she have to learn the Mages’ language? Granted, she’d never tried to set things on fire with her mind. For that, she’d opted for a more traditional approach. Usually, her mom had given her the metaphorical matches—when she’d been back from base duty, anyway.
She turned back to her food before it cooled. Cold bok choy was just gross.
Several hours later, there was a quiet knock on her door. Her dad poked his head around and shambled in. Her chair sank as he leaned on it, reaching over her shoulder—much as the Mage had done earlier—and pointed at a video link.
“This one’s pretty cool.”
She clicked on it. They watched as a car splashed water over a crowded curb, but the water appeared to freeze in mid-air. A second later, the water shot back and splattered the back window of the car. Nine of the ten people at the curb had jerked back. Only one, a man in his late forties, had remained calm. As the video zoomed back, he appeared to have realized his error. With a glance to the side, he stepped back and disappeared into the rest of the crowd.
