The World Awakening

by Dan Koboldt

  “What about you?” she asked.

  “I’m the prisoner, so I don’t need much. Just for you to tie me up.”

  Her eyebrows shot up, and she put on a pensive expression. “This begins to offer some appeal.”

  Bright and early the next morning, they stalked down the avenue toward the mill, looking like two completely different people compared to the day before. Quinn wore a dirty cloak he’d borrowed from the innkeeper. Its only redeeming feature was a hood that concealed most of his face. It gave him no peripheral vision, but as a presumptive captive in chains he probably shouldn’t be looking around much anyway. They’d bound his wrists together in front of him with a length of cord, and secured it with a complex-looking knot.

  Jillaine had pulled back her hair into a tight bundle, held in place by two slender bone-pins as long as pencils. The leather shirt was about a size too big, but she’d cinched it tight over the leggings with Quinn’s sword-belt. Sword on one side, dagger sheath on the other. She rested her hand on the sword’s handle as they walked like it’d been there her whole life.

  Quinn gave her another side look and fought to keep from smiling. She looks like a badass biker chick.

  She caught him looking. “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, what?”

  “It’s a different look for you, that’s all.”

  “I feel strange wearing all this.”

  “You look good,” Quinn said. “I kind of dig it.”

  “Dig it?”

  “Like it, I mean.”

  “But only kind of,” she said, with an air of accusation.

  “Yes, kind of.” He couldn’t resist a little dig. “As in, we’re kind of together.”

  She shushed him. “You’re going to ruin our scheme.”

  He clamped his mouth shut, because she was right. The mill lay fifty yards distant, windows still shuttered, the door still shut tight. Only the waterwheel showed any signs of movement, spinning slowly with the ever-present rush of the current. Quinn affected the reluctant shuffle of a three-year-old being sent to the bath. Really got to sell it.

  “Gods, how can you do this?” Jillaine whispered.

  “Do what?”

  “Pretend to be something you’re not when it might very well get you killed.”

  “I have a lot of practice. Don’t worry. It’s going to be fine.”

  “Unless we’re discovered, and whoever’s in there decides to put a crossbow bolt in each of us.”

  “There is that. But listen: when people want to believe things, they do. Especially when it means getting paid.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Time to change the subject. Quinn nudged her with his shoulder. “How much do you think they’ll pay for me?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Undoubtedly more than you’re worth.”

  They lapsed into silence as they stepped up onto the wooden entryway. The boards creaked underfoot with each step. The noise made Quinn’s shoulders tense. He kept his eyes downcast in what he hoped was a hangdog expression. Jillaine pounded on the door three times with a mailed fist. It occurred to Quinn that maybe they should have invested in head-to-toe mail, or even armor. It would have been heavy as hell, but offered her more protection if this went south. At least he had the flexsteel suit on beneath his cloak. Push came to shove, he could put himself in the way. And I would do it, too. She’d saved his life at least twice. He’d be damned if he let anyone hurt her.

  Boot steps echoed softly from the other side of the door, moving closer. They stopped, followed by the soft whisper of leather against wood. What was that sound? A peephole cover being removed, perhaps. Whoever stood on the other side stared at them a long moment.

  “Go away,” a voice said at last.

  “I will, the second you pay me the ransom,” Jillaine said.

  Attagirl.

  Another pause. “Who you got there?”

  Jillaine jabbed Quinn in the side with her elbow. “Stand straight!” She yanked back the hood so that the man inside could get a decent look.

  Almost immediately, metal clinked on the far side of the door. There’s the lock. Wood groaned against wood. And the heavy bar.

  The door slid open easily, soundlessly. The man behind it could have been a heavyset monk, were it not for the thick leather apron wrapped around him. His skin folded over itself on the neck and jowls, giving his head a frog-like appearance. Quinn took that image in with a glance, but dropped his gaze almost immediately. The man’s eyes . . .

  They were the kind of eyes you didn’t want to look at for long.

  “Get moving.” Jillaine shoved him across the precipice.

  He stumbled and almost fell. Jesus. He managed not to shoot her a dirty look.

  Long timbers and massive wooden gears cramped the interior of the millhouse, making it seem much smaller than it had from the outside. The semidarkness no doubt added to that. Sunlight streamed in from small windows overhead, but their narrow beams did little to cut through the gloom. The gears rotated at a speed that matched the flow of the waterwheel outside. Well-oiled though it was, the wood creaked and groaned in cacophony. The air smelled of sawdust and mildew.

  It was mesmerizing, watching those great chunks of wood in motion. They both stood staring at it for a bit while the miller re-barred the door. Then Quinn turned to check on him and found himself facing the business end of a heavy crossbow. He hissed and held up his hands, tied as they were. He’d have backed away, but there was no room to maneuver past the millworks. Shit.

  “The name’s Mott,” the man said. “Who the hell are you?”

  Jillaine did a double take at the weapon, as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “I’m a friend of one of your . . . associates.”

  “Which one?”

  “One of the Caralissians. Big fellow, bearded, carries his grandfather’s dagger around with him.” She shook the wanted poster. “Where do you think I got this?”

  Mott lowered the tip of the crossbow. “Who are you?”

  “Someone who wants to get paid,” Jillaine said.

  “Very well.”

  He still seemed on the fence. Quinn watched his shoulders as they followed him around the wheelworks to the back of the building. There was definitely a hunch to them. We need to sell it more. “Listen, I’ve got money. Whatever they’re paying you, I’ll double it.”

  “Save your breath,” Mott said.

  “I’m talking about gold.”

  “Don’t care.” He drew out a key on the chain around his neck. Beside it dangled an angular stone pendant with a familiar shape.

  Son of a bitch. Quinn nudged Jillaine and nodded toward it. Her jaw dropped, which meant it wasn’t his imagination. A wayfinder stone. Well, this was getting more interesting by the minute.

  He’d kill to know how this guy managed to get a hold of one of those, but some instinct warned him against asking. Better to see how this played out first.

  Mott opened a heavy steel lock on a strongbox that rested on a table against the back wall. The grating from the largest mill wheel was louder here. Distractingly so. Quinn had to remind himself not to look at the wheel, or he’d think too much about the stains on it.

  Mott extracted a black-dyed leather purse. It was smaller than Quinn had hoped. If there’s a bounty on me, I at least wanted it to be a decent one.

  Mott shook out the purse into his open palm. A single, heavy object tumbled out. Too dull to be coins.

  What is that? A small statuette in an animal shape. He couldn’t make out the details.

  “I didn’t think anyone would collect this bounty. Been saving it.” The miller held it out toward Jillaine.

  She reached for it . . . and he let it tumble to the floor. Where, naturally, it shattered into a hundred pieces. And less naturally, gave off a flash of green fire. Something changed in that moment. Quinn’s skin tingled with electric fire.

  “A summons!” Jillaine hissed.

  Uh-oh. T
hey had to get out of here. Quinn tugged loose a certain line in the bindings at his wrists, and the knots fell away. He grabbed Jillaine’s arm and pulled her toward the door, ignoring her indignant squawk. A summons probably meant the Enclave, or at least someone powerful enough to call in favors with them. Whoever it was, he didn’t want to meet them like this. But his flight with Jillaine seemed to slow down as the air in the millhouse thickened. First it was like trying to move underwater. Then he might as well be pushing through Jell-O.

  “What’s happening?” he shouted to Jillaine. Even his words came slowly, and took nearly all his breath to force out.

  “Enchantment,” she managed through gritted teeth. “Tied to the summons.”

  “Can you do anything about it?”

  “I’m trying.”

  Quinn tapped his own well of power, or tried to, but it slid aside from his grasp. Not that he had a plan for using it, even if he could take hold. No matter how he tried to tap into that ball of warmth, it eluded him. It was no use. If Jillaine couldn’t break this enchantment, he had no shot anyway.

  Worse, he sensed something approaching. A wave of overshadowing presence drew near. They were trapped in this damn mill, unable to flee. He reached for his sword-handle on Jillaine’s waist, but his arm wouldn’t even respond. The room grew dark. The roar of the approaching thing filled his ears. Then blinding white light flashed, and a man walked out of thin air right into the middle of the room. He was tall, gaunt, bald, and immediately recognizable.

  “Father,” Jillaine whispered.

  Oh, shit.

  Chapter 6

  New Perspective

  “Bad luck and criminal activity seem to go hand in hand.”

  —R. Holt, “Understanding Alissian Ethics”

  Even when the enchantment dissipated, Quinn couldn’t move. Some deep, primal survival instinct kept telling him that if he kept absolutely still, Moric wouldn’t see him. Jillaine must have had the same thought. She remained behind him, clenching his hand tightly with hers.

  Mott had retreated to the far side of the mill when Moric arrived. He lowered his crossbow to the floor with exaggerated care. The motion drew Moric’s eye.

  “Well-done, Mott. May I have a private word with these two?”

  Mott nodded and fled out the door, leaving it wide open with a slash of bright sunlight. Moric flicked a finger and it slammed shut. Not a good sign. Quinn had to look at the magician—there was no avoiding looking at him—but for the first time in recent memory, could not think of the right thing to say.

  Jillaine, though, had no such interdiction. She pushed past him. “Where have you been?”

  Moric blinked, and then scratched his chin. “Where have I been? Now there’s an interesting question.” He walked over to study the spinning waterwheels, his arms behind his back. The casual air was an act, though. His tone had the undercurrent of a spring ready to snap. “I have been at the Enclave, trying to understand what in the name of the gods happened when I left for Valteron.”

  “That’s where you were?”

  “Yes. For a few days only, to render assistance to the Valteroni Prime,” Moric said. “Imagine my surprise to hear that most of the Enclave thought me missing or dead. And that during my brief absence, my daughter took my place on the council, casting the deciding vote to break our alliance with the world’s most powerful leader.”

  Whoops, Quinn thought. Well, he was going to have to pay the piper sometime for helping make that happen.

  “But that was not the only surprise,” Moric continued. “Apparently someone saw fit to tie up our dear harbormaster and make her a prisoner in the boathouse.” He continued his wandering inspection of the mill, not looking at either of them. “She wouldn’t tell me who’d done it, of course, but I can’t help but notice that my daughter, the Valteroni Prime, and the harbormaster all have one thing in common.”

  Gulp.

  Moric came over at last, and put the full weight of his gaze on Quinn. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  Oh, but Jillaine was not done with her piece. She stepped neatly between them. “He doesn’t need to say anything. I did those things.”

  That made Moric’s brow furrow. “You did?”

  She stood up straight before him and lifted her chin. “I took your place on the council, cast the final vote, and tied up the harbormaster.”

  “Why in the name of the gods would you do that?”

  “I’m allowed to have my own opinion, aren’t I?”

  “You are. I’d just like to know how you arrived at it,” Moric said.

  “And I’d like to know what Valteron has ever done for us,” Jillaine said.

  “They patrol the seas around our island.”

  “Except for when the Valteroni Prime recalls his entire fleet.”

  “He had no choice in that,” Moric said. “There were . . . extenuating circumstances.”

  “If the Prime can recall his fleet, I see no reason why we can’t recall our protections,” Jillaine said.

  “There’s far more to this than you realize.”

  “I’m sure there is, but how could I have known? You never tell me anything.”

  She scored a point with that one.

  Moric flinched as if struck. He gathered himself, and said, “Perhaps you’re right. I haven’t been as forthcoming as I should have. Particularly now that you’re representing Pirea on the council.”

  “I’m not anymore, now that you’re back.”

  Moric snorted. “Don’t be so sure. More than a few people were glad to see someone other than me on the council for a change.”

  “It was only meant to be temporary.”

  “What’s done is done, at least for the moment.” Moric glanced back at Quinn. “And no matter the reason. But I will need you to come back to the island immediately. Both of you.”

  Jillaine shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Beg pardon?” Moric asked.

  “I’m not going back so that you can keep me there another twenty-five years.”

  Oh boy, here we go. Quinn really wished someone had taught him the disappearing spell—he had little desire to come between a father and his daughter. And yet, the worst part wasn’t how their little domestic drama would play out, but how much time the whole thing was wasting. Having solved the mystery of who’d put a bounty on his head, now he had to face the music: the most important threat right now was the mercenary army CASE Global had brought to this world.

  Even so, he wasn’t quite ready to garner Moric’s attention. Luckily, Jillaine still had all of it.

  “You left quite a mess behind at the Enclave. They want answers,” Moric said.

  “If you want us to go back there, you’ll have to bind and gag us,” Jillaine said.

  “I can arrange that.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’d love to.”

  Well, this had spiraled out of control nicely. The noise didn’t help. Something about the mill’s many moving parts and their creaky wooden cacophony put Quinn on edge. It provided a tense backdrop to this argument, and it was probably distracting both Jillaine and Moric from what was truly important.

  I guess if I can’t be invisible . . .

  The power welled up inside, egging him on. He held out one hand, splayed his fingers, and clamped down on the great wooden turnstile with the strength of a hundred men. It screeched and groaned to a halt, fighting him. He clamped down harder. Drew more of the warm source inside of him, shaping it into an invisible fist. It squeezed the wooden wheel and held it fast. All of the wooden cogs and gears went still. Silence fell. He looked up to find Jillaine and Moric staring at him.

  “Gods, but you’ve come a long way,” Moric said. “How did you do that?”

  Jillaine made a dismissive noise. “He’s just showing off.”

  Ouch, talk about a mixed crowd. Quinn forced his pride aside. “We have a lot to talk about, and there isn’t much time. I’m sure I owe both of you apologies, so I’ll s
tart. I’m sorry for the mess we made when we left. It wasn’t ideal, and if I could go back I’d have done it differently.”

  Moric pressed his lips together, and gave a little nod. “That’s a start. I’ll add my own apologies, for keeping you in the dark when I should not have. For leaving when I should have stayed.”

  “I’m sorry that we thought you were dead, Father,” Jillaine said.

  “Thanks,” he said dryly.

  “But I don’t regret sitting for you in the council, or the way I voted. Quinn thought it was the right thing to do. Didn’t you?” she asked him.

  “Well, here’s the thing—” Quinn said.

  Moric hushed him suddenly, rudely.

  Jeez, don’t even let me explain or anything. Quinn released his hold on the mill wheel. Or started to, when Moric snapped his fingers and gestured imperiously for him to hold it fast. A noise intruded from outside—the pounding of many sets of hooves, followed by the shouts of several men.

  “What is that?” Jillaine asked.

  “Soldiers. Mott must have sold us out, hoping to double his fee.”

  “To whom?”

  “Her Majesty.”

  Jillaine’s eyes widened so much, Quinn could see the whites around them. The effort of holding the mill wheel fast taxed his will, as if he were holding a heavy sack in an awkward position. “I can’t do this for much longer. Someone please explain.”

  “The Caralissian queen is not one of the Enclave’s most ardent supporters. If she’s gotten wind of our presence here, we could be in danger.” Moric drew a palm-sized circle in the air in front of him, whispered something, and caused it to turn opaque. One of his scrying windows, no doubt. Quinn leaned around for a look, and caught a glance of several horsemen, armed with lances and swords. Their bright yellow cloaks against the dark gray armor gave them an odd honeybee appearance.

  “They’ve got some colorful outfits, don’t they?”

  “Goldcloaks,” Moric said. “Caralissian royal guards.”

  “Are they as bad as the wine caravan guards?”