by Pam Uphoff
Captain Janic walked past the General. "Sir. I think we can. . ." his toe hit something, then his forehead. He touched the air in front of him, running his hands over nothing at all. Damien choked back a laugh. He'd nearly forgotten about mimes.
The god sighed. "I met a couple of your people who were quite amusing; you lot are just tedious. Even the women. Begone."
The general must have given a signal. The crossbow bolts flew, and the soldiers charged. The god wasn't even jolted as they all hit his personal magic force field.
Damien pulled out the laser pistol and fired.
Chapter Ten
Early Fall 1387
Karista, Kingdom of the West
The shot was invisible in the bright afternoon sunlight, under the statue's arm to barely clip the man's belly. The man spun, caught the second shot in his left eye. He stiffened and Damien dropped the pistol and drew his sword as he leaped up and thrust.
A katana wasn't meant to be a stabbing weapon, but he put the point in Sigma's burned eye as the god's muscles started to loosen, twisted and drew back and slashed twice across the other burn, and then drew back as the soldiers closed in and made absolutely certain Sigma was very very dead.
Damien sat on a convenient bench and wiped down his katana carefully, then walked around the statue to pick up the wooden case and slid it home. He palmed the laser and pocketed it, as he continued walking around the now gory scene.
"I hope you didn't mind my interfering, but he seemed so focused your direction, I thought I had a chance."
The General eyed him thoughtfully. "No problem. We'd have had to kill him sooner or later. We haven't the ability to control a god. Anyone who doesn't see other people as people, who has a history of murdering people, not to mention rape, can't be allowed to roam freely. No. I'm glad he's dead. Thank you, Mr. Malder." General Ruffi looked down the hill behind Damien and frowned. "The statue that got up and walked used to be right down there. Maybe he really is gone."
The General turned back to the body and Damien walked back to the boat, and spent a pleasant hour watching the waves and sky turn colors as the sun sat behind the island. When the rest of them came down, no one said anything about any odd burns. The boat's commander produced an oilcloth; after some time the sailors returned with it wrapped around a heavy burden. The boat was heaved off the sand and sailed and rowed back to the navy docks.
Damien was thanked for his assistance, and given a carriage ride home. The Captain accompanied him to order his troops home. Lily and Deena bid everyone farewell and saddled their horses.
As soon as they were gone, the family pounced on Damien.
Once the clamor died down he told them about what happened on the island, leaving out the laser, and implying that while he'd gotten first blood, the troops had cut the man down.
He palmed the laser and handed it off to Andrai, which was all she needed to be told.
He received in return an account of how nasty, sticky and dangerous the basement cleanup had been and how many supplies they were going to have to replace.
All the boys had been impressed. "Who'd a thought a girl could throw that much stuff? And bean a god!"
Code and his two middle daughters arrived home the next afternoon, accompanied by two women. Vani's letter had arrived in Ash before Code had gotten his daughters packed up and ready to leave, so they had accompanied him home.
"It was the God of Vice, Edmund Sigma. He was killed just yesterday by the King's Own. General Negue has the remains, if you wish to inspect them."
Never—dear heavens, the spy who'd spent several weeks on Earth—and the old woman with her, Gisele, both nodded. They got, in a rather chaotic fashion, the whole story.
"We'll speak to Rufi about it. I'm delighted to have missed the finale." The spectacular blonde looked thoughtfully past him, and at Cordelia. "If Edmund Vice really was your father, you may have inherited the witch gene. When Vani returns for more lessons, perhaps you should come as well. Get a few basic exercises to practice."
Both Cordelia and Andrai looked shocked at the suggestion. Andrai gulped and straightened her shoulders. "I am certain she would be honored."
"The Pyramid in Ash is a bit, umm, disapproving of the Pyramid of Karista Bay." Never sighed. "Well, I dare say with cause. But once you've got a solid grasp of the basics, there's no reason you shouldn't practice with them, and just come to Ash now and then when, umm, Trump doesn't seem to be able to help you get further."
Then babies started crying and Damien hustled to help feed and change the triplets. Almost seven months old and starting to wiggle around. He was going to be in trouble when they started crawling. And he was going to have to talk to Code about becoming a trader instead of just a hauler. Really, he'd do well, buying in Ash and Wallenton, and shipping it here. Damien had plenty of contacts for selling oh, say, that fancy wool. He could cut back his own driving, spend more time with the kids . . .
Oh. And keep spying. Accumulate more information on the local "magic." Not that anyone on Earth would believe him, should he ever have a chance to turn in his reports.
Christmas
Chapter One
18 December 3505 current era
The last few days of 1388 post exile
"I'm worried about Prince Staven." General Rufi Negue kicked back in his chair. Somehow, despite the calloused hands, the worn spots on his uniform and the casual pose, the tough old man managed to overwhelm the polished desk, the sophisticated wallpaper, the expensive artwork. He looked real. The beautiful office looked like an inappropriate stage prop.
"Actually I'm worried about all the young Princes. But right now, I need to figure out what to do about Damien Malder. A good influence on a child is one thing. A major security risk so close to the adult Spear Heir worries me."
Bert Howard tried to slouch in his fancy chair. He'd known the general since Rufi was an arrogant green puppy. Now Bert was semi-retired and enjoying it. Spying on spies. "Staven thinks the sun rises and sets on the man. It's going to hurt to tell him the truth." He scowled. "Maybe Damien'll take off for Verona for a year again. Is that where he actually goes?"
"Yep, and then usually on into Fascia. Well." The general waved a dismissive hand. "Four trips in . . . has it really been twenty years?"
"That I've been watching them. I think they'd been there a couple years, before then. They were settled in and accepted, even with pinto horses." He sniffed dismissively . . . although he had to admit they were damn nice horses.
"Two of them went and poked around Fascia for a bit, the first time. The second trip, years later, Damien went alone, came back in a hurry, riding that pinto stallion of his. They'd had a brush with Auralian slavers, and he picked up some intel he needed to get off to his superiors right away. Then a year after the comet, he went down—don't know how widespread the knowledge is, so don't mention it—the Amma and the God of Peace mixed it up with Earth. Final results, the Earther's gate isn't working anymore. But a company of Earth soldiers wound up in control of Fascia and the surrounding territories. I'm surprised our spies haven't travelled there more often, since. What are they doing right now?"
"Huh." Bert digested that for a long moment. "I don't quite know what's going on now. Well, I know what, I just don't know why. They do it every year. A couple days after the Winter Solstice they cut down a little pine tree, drag it inside, decorate it up like cheap whore and have a party. Give each other gifts and such. They just laugh and say it's an old custom. Don't know why they don't just give gifts on the Solstice, like sensible people. Apparently they tell stories crazier than yours, just to their own kids. Flying reindeer and such. I get it second hand, from the kids, who think the adults' old customs are amazingly stupid."
Rufi grinned. "I'll bet they don't turn down the presents, though."
Bert snickered. "Hey, want me to get a better account of it all? After the Solstice, mind you. There's a batch of teenaged girls, neighbors and those witches little Mihaela trains with. Eight t
otal. And they all managed to get invites to the Royal Ball. They get together every evening to work on their dresses and accessories and change their minds three times a day about how to do their hair. It's scary over there."
Rufi snickered. "I know all about it, having way too many young female relatives."
"After the ball, things should settle down." Bert sounded hopeful. "Then I'll see about getting a first hand account of their holiday stories."
"Knowing their customs wouldn't hurt. But don't blow your cover over it." The general grinned. "All right, don't openly blow your cover. Pretending we don't know about them, and them pretending they don't know that we know is more comfortable all around."
Bert snorted. "Spies. Insane, every one of them."
"Don't you mean us?" Rufi's tone dripped innocence, but his eyes twinkled.
"Me? Spy? All I do is sit on my porch and gossip with the neighbors."
***
"You're holding up well, Damien." Bert glanced across the street. The main house of the company compound was brightly lit.
Damien closed the gate and crossed the street. "It helps to work as late as possible. Tomorrow's the big party, and then I can take a few days off."
Bert snickered. "Oh, you think those girls won't be back?"
"I'm not that optimistic, but the whole house won't be afloat with ribbons and teenage girls' pre-party nerves. Not that I mind the ribbons, it's the squeals and giggles and . . . "
Bert laughed out loud.
"And they're all drop dead gorgeous and call me Uncle . . . and I'm glad."
Bert whooped and laughed himself breathless. "Oh," he gasped. "And with your reputation. Next you'll be marrying your duchess."
"My duchess has much too much sense—and knows me way to well to actually marry me."
Bert got his humor back under control. The spy actually looked like he regretted his paramour's common sense. He stomped on a twinge of sympathy. Damien and the other two were the enemy, he must never forget that, no matter how much he liked the man, no matter if he'd possibly saved Rufi's life once, and helped the police deal with a murderer . . . Old Gods damn the man. If he were just the Traveler and businessman he pretends to be, we'd be delighted to have him affronting high society by marrying Duchess Nicole and raising the Spear Prince.
Chapter Two
21 December, 3506
Winter Solstice 1389
"Staven! I didn't know you were in town."
Prince Staven Negue, second in line to inherit command of the military forces of the kingdom, looked up and spotted his uncle crossing the nearly empty ballroom. Since Garit was six months younger than he was, the avuncular relationship was generally ignored. They'd spent a lot of their respective childhoods in each other's company. Like it or not.
"Garit, likewise. I thought you were on your two-year rotation?" Huh, he's old enough to have the family glow, now.
"I am. We just got here, posted with the King's Own. Ugg! Back under the parental eyes." The young man grinned suddenly. "Gee, maybe I'll get to be your body guard."
Staven exerted control and did not spray wine. Managed to swallow it without choking.
Garit's grin faded as he glanced out over the ballroom. "Oh drat, they're organizing the line up. Are you in it too?"
"Of course. Old Gods forbid they should let any of us escape our princely duties." Staven abandoned his wine glass and followed the shorter man toward the entrance. "Just think of how tedious it must be for most of the guests."
"Ha! I'm old enough now for the unmarried women to think I'm interesting. I feel like a horse at the auction."
Staven snickered. "Better the stallion than the bull. At least you know you won't be eaten."
Garit threw a grin over his shoulder. "Depends. I remember some young women from last year who were downright hungry looking."
"I can handle hungry."
"Wait till you meet them. Much safer to run for your life."
The king's fussy staff shooed them into position, a bit of juggling, as relative ranks were adjusted for maturity and in his case, being the Spear heir and currently serving, he was chivvied up next to Colonel Fossi, the Spear Prince.
His grandfather, King Leano was first in line, of course, with Grandmother, Queen Nez at his side. The Spear, General Rufi, was next. He'll be sixty-seven this year. Never married. A couple of illegitimate daughters. Will I be like that, too? And is that good or bad? Crown Prince Rolo was next. Dad's looking good. And Amilie. Not a bad stepmother . . . but overindulgent. Rebo's mother spoiled us both, but I went home to a mother who tanned my butt when I misbehaved. Uncle Fossi—Spear Prince Fossi Fizroy—was the Crown Prince's illegitimate older half brother, and still not as well accepted as he ought to be. And another unattached bachelor. I'm doomed!
Prince Mirk, another uncle, the king's third son, stepped up to Staven's other side, his wife fluttering along after him. Not escorted, not touching. Another fight? Why not bite the bullet and just divorce? There are worse things than never marrying, and she's it. Garit stepped up beside her—a careful foot away from his waspish sister-in-law. Then the five Princesses. Rolo, Mirk and Garrit's sisters, Staven's aunts. All older than Garit. Staven wondered if being lower than their little brother in official rankings irritated them. All but one them was married, the husbands were all in tow. Princess Demitri was so huge she looked like she was expecting triplets. Funny how the girls never glow like the men of the family. I could identify the men in the dark. The women are just dull not-dark patches. Like most people. I ought to ask Rufi about this again. He seemed to think it was normal.
Rebo was the last arrival. Tall, handsome, blonde. Drunk. Sneering. He shoved in between Fossi and Staven. Third in line for the throne, Old Gods help us! And glowing as brightly as Grandfather or Rufi.
"Gee. Surrounded by pricks. Just my luck. And you're probably worse than Mirk. Dear Brother. My Spear." He reeked of brandy.
I snagged a glass of wine, first thing, so maybe I ought not judge. But Old Gods, at some time, way, way in the distant future, this half-brother of mine is going to be king, and I will be in command of the army and supposedly a check on his power. It's enough to give a man nightmares.
Staven had been vaguely aware of the orchestra warming up in background. Now they started an intricate number, deep and soft. The doors opened. He could hear the rattle of carriage wheels, the clink of hooves on stone, and high female voices. The guests were queued up on the doorstep.
For a major ball like this one, the greeting line dragged out for an hour. Rebo disappeared about halfway through. Nobody tried to get him to come back.
Towards the end Fossi snickered. "Brace yourself, the unattached women are starting to arrive."
Staven leaned to take a look. There'd been plenty of young ladies already, but mostly with young gentlemen in tow. Now the flood. "Four of us bachelors today who can put 'Princess' in front of their names, whether they like us or not. They all want to be the ones chatting with us when the line breaks up."
"Five. Some of them always go for Rufi. Gives me hope for my declining years."
"Rebo's the one I wasn't counting. They all know better." Fossi's . . . forty-nine! Yikes. He always seems so young, but then he's always around all those old generals . . . Oh no. They're giggling. When did they start looking so young? It can't be my age, my nineteenth birthday's still a few weeks away. So who let the babies in? Well, they'll mostly be after Garit. And he can have them.
He'd been shaking the few masculine hands, and bowing over the stream of feminine lace gloves when a batch of them with bright glows flowed through. Women with glow? A face suddenly clicked.
"Mihaela? Is that you? Old Gods, you look fantastic!" The daughter of one of Uncle Day's business partners, he'd known her for ages . . . hadn't noticed how gorgeous . . .
"Hi, Staven. I didn't know you were in town until I spotted you in the line up."
"I just got in, haven't had time to get by to see Uncle Day and everyone. So how
are the pintos?" He looked up and realized he was holding up the line—and attracting a whole lot of attention. "Hey, have you got an open spot left on your card?" Drat, they get invites and negotiate for weeks ahead of time . . . He hauled his out. "My Dad's social secretary filled half of mine in, with just a day and half to arrange things."
"Of course. Everyone leaves open spots, hoping to meet someone new. Third dance?"
"Absolutely."
The girl passed on, with her friends all looking impressed. "We didn't know you knew . . ."
Staven turned back to the waiting women, all cheered up.
"Stop grinning." Fossi's eyes were twinkling. "The gossips will have you engaged within hours."
"In my dreams. Mihaela's a witch, and they never marry."
But they did dance. Mihaela and her friends—the witches she practiced with and a few neighbors without magic, took up all his empty slots. Apparently this was the first truly high class ball Mihaela and the neighbors had ever been to, their invitations gotten through the network of the witches, who had some noble connections. The witches glow brightly, the non-witches are dull. Is that the secret? But . . . our family doesn't have and wizards or mages. Why do we glow? Why do some of us glow more brightly than others? Rufi's the brightest, Fossi's the dimmest . . . I wonder what I look like?
Garit danced with a few of the group of young women as well, cheerful and well mannered. Old Gods, I didn't know an obnoxious brat could outgrow an attitude. I remember him being a fairly nice boy . . . and a real snot of a teenager. They lingered until the last dance. Lord and Lady Hell scooped up the four other witches, and Staven walked Mihaela and the neighborhood girls out to be picked up by Mihaela's dad, who was driving a fancy carriage pulled by four matched pintos. He helped the girls in, shook Code's hand and patted Solstice; the old fellow looked as good as ever as he pranced off.