Mages at Large (Wine of the Gods Book 18)

by Pam Uphoff

"Oh, sorry, Miss. I thought you were a witch. You're about old enough for the bird names."

  Dobs looked confused. "I am. My pyramid was doing breeds of domesticated animals."

  "Marvelous accent. You from Scoone?"

  "We were in Scoone for a while." Marcus said. About five minutes.

  The driver from the second wagon walked up in time to hear that. He looked to be in his early twenties. Korbin Kettson, as introductions circled around again.

  "We may have to move the corridor closer to Gemstone."

  Val eyed their clothes. "And you heard about the gold rush? You don't look very well prepared."

  Drei snorted. "They lost everything. Now, can you take them all?"

  Korbin cast a look back at the other wagons. "The farmer girls probably have room too."

  "Nah, We've got plenty of room, c'mon up." The twins extended helping hands from above and below and they all climbed awkwardly in. "We're carrying a bunch of iron hardware, so we can't fill the wagon too full." He clicked to the horses as they found seats on the crates.

  Dobs sighed in relief. "Thought we were going to have to walk the rest of the way. I, er, I don't know anything about." She swung an arm around to indicate the region.

  Trust a girl to chatter. But that was all the encouragement the boy needed, and he chattered along getting dragged from the local geology to history, she even asked him when he'd been born—spring of 1378.

  “Err.” Her eyebrows rose. “We use the old calendar. Umm. . . “

  The boy leapt on the hint. “Just add 2117.We count from, well, even the Old Gods get a bit confused about just what happened then. I think it was probably the Comet Fall. Did you guys learn about that in school?”

  “Of course.” Max scowled at the boy, jealous.

  Ha! About time he learns about witches, and their total lack of loyalty to any man.

  “Sorry, but you wouldn’t believe the stories they tell about Scooners, on this side of the New Lands.”

  So, choosing an easy number, if the boy was twenty, this was . . . 3515. They'd been frozen in those shields for over a thousand years. Long enough that they didn't know what the dates dated from, which was obviously The Exile. Damn. Well. They were going to be starting from scratch, but fortune had apparently dropped them into the middle of a Gold Rush. If it was like anything he'd ever read, there'd be so many newcomers they wouldn't get a second look. And if they came out rich in an amazingly short time, that was the way it was. Mages weren't very good with gold, but he just happened to have a witch along. And there were always other ways to get money as well.

  He eyed the young man. "I haven't heard any details about how mining claims are legally established. Do you know how it works?"

  All the drovers explained it to them exhaustively over a campfire dinner.

  They pitched in and helped with the horses and a broken spoke on a wagon the third day, and rode with their new friends all the way into Lucky Strike.

  Chapter Four

  Early Summer 1393

  Lucky Strike, Gold Rush Territory

  Falco wandered the streets of Lucky Strike, feeling like he'd stepped back a century, instead of forward a millennium.

  Until he spotted the arch of rock. It was like he could look through a foggy window and see a tropical paradise. Or at any rate, a street with white plastered walls, palm trees and flowers.

  A laugh behind him. Val, in his wagon. "It's a corridor. It goes to Havwee, a big gold exchange city. Hop in, I'll show you."

  Falco climbed up beside him. And watched a team and wagon drive toward them on that street, through the arch and out onto their street. Then Val clicked to his team and aimed straight for the arch. A queer twist and shiver . . . and they were trotting down the street of palms. No fog. Falco looked back. Brown dusty Lucky Strike, in a fog, framed by the arch.

  He turned back to the street in front of him. "I'm almost afraid to ask how far away we are from Lucky Strike."

  "Oh, I dunno, eight hundred miles, maybe?"

  Falco boggled. Cleared his throat. "Are there many of those corridors? Where do they go?"

  "Only a few. The army put them in to stop all the bandit raids on the gold shipments." Val turned his team into a side street and slowed in front of what looked like a small fortress. "This is a bank, they just do gold shipments here, not, umm, the ordinary kind of banking."

  A man examined them. Frowned at Falco. But he waved and the gate behind him opened. Val drove in and swung around, backed up to a loading dock. Big men unloaded the small crates in back, straining under the weight.

  "They make the gold crates heavy enough to be awkward, to slow down thieves." Val held out papers and a foreman ticked off the crates and signed the papers.

  "Thanks, Mac." He clicked to his horses and drove out. "The short trips like this are a pain, but they pay well enough." He steered the horse back to the arch and back into Lucky Strike.

  Falco looked back at the pretty street. "That is slick. I'm surprised there aren't corridors everywhere."

  "Eh, they can be a problem. We had one from Gemstone to Rip Crossing, but the miners here would come and cause trouble. We finally moved it five days north and told everyone it was gone."

  "So . . . none out to the mining areas?"

  "Not yet. There's talk about putting in a bunch to the little boom towns. Which will be really handy for the miners."

  "No kidding. We'll be living on rabbits for awhile. Just out to the active areas and back is a month round trip."

  "Longer. You guys be careful. The bandits are thick on the ground out here." He dropped Falco off at the Mining Claims Office and drove off.

  Their combined collection of coinage had assayed out to enough local money to buy about a month's supply of beans and rice and a used gold pan.

  The local government had had so much trouble registering random mining claims that their army had finally surveyed and staked a ten mile grid over the whole of the territory from about two hundred miles north of the town to a thousand miles south. Fifteen hundred miles to the east. Almost two million square miles. A prodigious task, apparently still ongoing to the south. Mining claims were registered or bid on in "quarter sections," square plots a half mile on each side. For a minimum bid of forty royals, anyone could try to claim any open quarter, with the bids in sealed envelops. Multiple, equal, bids were chosen by drawing. Quarters with no declared findings (and taxes not paid) for three years were considered open again. Auctions every Friday.

  The Office of Mining Claims, was run by a collection of old men, under the authority of the local marshal. The big open room had a map on the back wall. Names written on the claimed quarters, some blank squares of paper glued over relinquished claims. All dated. It was clear where the mining was headed. South and east, toward a big canyon, labeled "The Rip" on the map. Generally following what were probably streams . . . well, here, dry gulches, panning for alluvial gold. But a lot of claims were in long north-south lines.

  Once we get out there, the reasons for that will probably become clear.

  Dobs dug a notebook out of her backpack and started a sketch map of the active area, noting legal claims versus the areas where they could prospect.

  The Claims clerk looked at them, clearly appalled. The expression deepened as he looked at Dobs. "Game is scarce, but you ought to be able to catch rabbits . . . Snare them, since you don't have a bow . . . the usual procedure is to pan enough in unclaimed areas to be able to bid to buy a claim." He failed to subdue his horrified expression. "Good luck."

  Dobs smiled and thanked him.

  They picked up their loaded backpacks and started hiking. South, first, to pick up the first ten mile survey marker, then they followed a fairly well marked trail east. It wobbled a bit, but returned to the survey line regularly enough that they could check their location, every ten miles.

  They gave up and camped at the third one.

  "At thirty miles a day, it's going to take us a week to get to the band of successful
claims. The new ones, not old exhausted ones." Dobs frowned down at her map. "We'll get to the old ones tomorrow, and I can try to listen for gold."

  Paul brightened. "I'll start hunting."

  Marcus nodded. "Good. We'll get an early start in the morning."

  The sun was barely up when they finished a pot of boiled oats and broke camp.

  An hour later they were staring at the swords of three scruffy men on horseback.

  The Archmage stepped out in front of them and waved his hand.

  Falco could feel the flash of power.

  "Oh, hey, it's you. Sorry about that!" The leader looked embarrassed and contrite.

  Wow! That was some spell! Falco eyed the suddenly friendly men.

  Three of them, five horses, the last two loaded with packs. Stolen? There was an Army post back there, we could turn them in, might be a reward . . .

  "Yes, how good of you to bring us our gear and horses. Dismount and give us your weapons." Archmage Marcus was smiling, but his eyes were cold. The way he hefted the sword the first man handed him . . .

  Falco eyed the bandits, butterflies in his stomach. Not about what the bandits might have done, because they were actually rather pathetic. But rather about what the Archmage might do now. "Should we keep them, Sir? Maybe they can hunt, and do any hard digging?"

  Marcus looked at him in approval. "Now that's sharp thinking. All right friends, we're going to go up on the thighbone ridge and find some unclaimed space. Why don't you show us the way?"

  The gray haired one frowned. "Not much gold left there, buddy."

  "I know," Marcus said, soothingly. "But you've got stolen gold in your packs, that we'll need to account for. So lead on."

  Falco swapped alarmed glances with Max and Dobs.

  "Lord! Do you kids actually think we're going to get rich mining for gold. You'll learn soon enough that life is better the further up the food chain you get yourself. Dirty tricks down at this level is the way of life. Once you have enough money, society considers a rough past dashing. Exciting."

  Falco shot a look at Max. Appalled. Dobs. Horrified. Paul. Nodding agreement.

  "Sometimes you just have to get your hands dirty getting there."

  Great. The man they say is, was, the most powerful mage in New Tokyo, is a criminal.

  Chapter Five

  Summer 1393

  Gold Rush Territory

  They stopped for the night on a survey corner with still valid claims on all four corners. No people there, though. Mined out.

  But the pattern is interesting. We just dropped off one of these ashstone ridges, as the bandits call them. The lines of claims are along both sides, double and triple deep. Then open sections until you get to within a mile or so of the next ridge.

  In the morning, Falco watched in awe as Dobs sat down and "listened" as she called it, to the Earth.

  And pointed, off to the side and down. "It's pretty deep, though. Maybe we should try elsewhere?"

  Paul loomed over the girl. "Losing your virginity would make you stronger. I can help you with that."

  Falco could see Max's fists clenching.

  Falco swallowed. We can't fight with each other! We need to stay together, establish a place where we can bring all our families. "How far to the side is it? Maybe you should listen for it from right on top of it."

  Dobs looked relieved and took Falco's proffered hand to get to her feet.

  "Can you walk and listen? Enough to tell when you're right on top of the gold?"

  "Waste of time. We have gold." Marcus growled. "All we need is a claim to make it look good."

  "Dayaaam, Yer perty smart fer a city boy." Henry the Bandit—he hadn't offered his new friends a family name—was hardly an expert on intelligence.

  "No point in giving half your profit to a fence. I'd rather be the fence, myself. Maybe you boys ought to go find your gang and bring them here."

  Falco kept half an ear on the Archmage's plotting, while following Dobs. Keeping track of her direction and counting paces.

  Max strolled along after them, trying to get his indifferent expression back on his face. They'd all agreed that pretending that Falco and Dobs were close, and Max disinterested, would avoid a whole lot of trouble with Max's dad. Max wasn't happy with it, and Dobs had threatened to punch Falco when he'd suggested they kiss where Marcus could see them. But Marcus seemed pleased enough. Now if Paul would just leave Dobs alone, they'd be fine.

  Falco glanced back at the trailing string of horses. He'd made the mistake of asking where they'd gotten the gold, the horses . . . they may look scruffy, but they are cold-blooded killers, with at least three murders in their recent past. I ought to have let the archmage kill them.

  But now Dobs' steps slowed, and she pointed downward. Swept her hand from side to side. "There's a vein running through. Not as deep as it felt, from far away, and right here there's a thread that's only about ten feet down. Let me check my map . . . I think we're a hair north of the established claims."

  "We're two miles north-northeast of the last marker."

  They walked it out on the map. Empty, unclaimed. Looking around at the flat black stone, Falco wasn't surprised. "No streams to erode down to it, without magic, who would guess there was any gold there?"

  Marcus nodded. "We'll set up camp, then spend a few days figuring out how best to get to a deep vein." He walked off, waving the bandits off to the side.

  Falco rubbed his hands and cast a glance over his shoulder at Max. "I want to try something. Stand back."

  Slice. They say it's dangerous. I've never actually done it, but it's just a variation on a physical shield. Just, very, very thin.

  He pulled a shield around himself, then—just like the book said—reduced the area it covered, until just his hand was shielded. Then he pushed the small shield out, off his hand and thought of it as long and thin. Thin, hair thin, molecule thin . . . He angled his maybe slicer at the ground, and swept it across . . . nothing. He knelt and swiped his hand across the ground. A line so thin he nearly had to imagine it followed his hand. He crouched and walked in a circle, three feet across, maybe, and wobbled to meet his starting spot.

  That's totally cool. Falco eyed his circle. Except that the stone hadn't budged. He sat down and tried again. This time angling into his cut. From closer and closer. He finally got a chip off.

  "Drat." Max sat down beside him. "You're only getting about an inch deep. Let me try . . . How did you do that?"

  "Stupidly." Paul swaggered up, glanced over his shoulder at the Archmage.

  Marcus nodded. "Circle up. I'll show you how to dig a hole."

  Falco watched the others and stepped into the vacant East position. Marcus produced a small knife and pricked his left wrist. Handed the knife to Max, who passed it to Paul, who sneered and deliberately dropped it as he handed it to Falco. Falco scooped it up, pricked his left wrist and gave the knife back to the Archmage. They reached out, gripped hand to wrist around, sticky with fast drying blood. The book says it's only symbolic. Ritualistic. Supposed to awe kids and fools. It's certainly focusing my mind!

  Falco took a flick of energy from Marcus, passed it to Paul, watched it circle around, the others adding power as they passed it. He pulled the heat from the air, and added it to the whole. Power flowed, whipping around the circle. Still dipping a bit when it passed him, but the main problem seemed to be Paul, raising it high, to crash into Max.

  :: This is not a competition. :: The Archmage's mental voice was tinged with parental exasperation.

  Paul stopped pushing so much power, and Marcus focused their attention on the rocks they stood upon. He mentally marked a grid, and pulled heat out of the lines. Pushed down a grid of cold. Falco could hear the crack and pop of the rock.

  :: And then levitate. ::

  A spell, a mental image Falco couldn't grasp. It slipped out of his mind. The circuit shattered.

  Gravel rained down on their heads, flew outward, dropped and scattered.

  Falco
caught Dobs' yip. The horses spooked and the bandits cursed.

  He reeled back from the hole in the ground, his head pounding. Then he edged forward and looked. Perfectly square, three feet on a side, perhaps ten feet deep.

  The gravel was . . . square. Rods of irregular length, rough broken ends, the sides mostly smooth, following crystal boundaries in the fine grained rock. Thermal expansion. Or in this case, contraction with the sudden cooling. Cracked the rock. Old Gods! That was slick!

  Dobs stepped forward and picked up a long rod. Black basalt on both ends, quartz in the middle, translucent, a bit milky . . . a thread of gold spider-webbing through it. "Good job. Now we just need to put in a claim."

  Marcus nodded. "Indeed. A mix of honest labor and . . . whatever opportunities arise . . . will work very well." His gaze dropped to Falco. "And with time you'll get stronger, and we won't have these sudden breaks of the compass. Go rest. Eat and drink."

  The bandits were put to work, searching through the gravel for the quartz and breaking it up to free the gold. Dobs sorted through the gravel, and kept maneuvering to avoid Paul.

  Mages always claim to get randy, after compass work. Guess my head hurts too much. But he pried himself off the ground and joined in the gravel sorting. Casually happening to get between Paul and Dobs as much as possible. Max, on Dobs other side, seemed to be inclined to get close as well. He and Paul were exchanging glares. The bandits had been sending leers her direction as well.

  Falco cleared his throat and broke an uncomfortable silence. "You know, we could set up a tent city here, go and get some more people out of the Museum."

  Dobs looked around. "There was a town marked on the map, with an X over it. One of the ghost towns, I suspect. It can't be more than ten or fifteen miles away. It would be great to get all our families out."

  Falco nodded. Yes! Get Dad out here to talk some sense into the Archmage! And his wife. And some of the other families and kids. Dobs is going to have trouble with one of these men, sooner or later. We need more women as a civilizing influence.