The Palace Job

by Patrick Weekes

  "Well, any time you lose a ship," suggested the griffon, "you have to wonder whether things are being done prop—"

  "Silence!" steamed the dragon, driving the griffon back with alchemical flames, and the crowd applauded. "We're here for a civilized discussion!"

  "But I think that this event, when taken within the context of the earlier escape, points to an overall lack of performance by the Learned," shouted the griffon from the edge of the stage, hiding from the flames.

  "Wait, now, you can't play politics with national security!" The manticore jumped onto the griffon, its stinger flashing, and the griffon howled and tried to buck it off. "And I'll have you know that the leader of the task force, a justicar with a shady past and a reputation for playing loose with the rules, was appointed by the Skilled. They're the ones who should be answering for this."

  "But that isn't true!" cried the griffon. "Justicar Pyvic has an excellent reputation and —"

  "Let's not get off topic!" the dragon proclaimed, belching a puff of fire that stopped both of the other puppets in their tracks. It raised a claw toward the manticore, and the griffon took the opportunity to run to the other side of the stage. The crowd laughed derisively. "What do you have to say about Warden Orris's resignation yesterday?"

  "Totally unrelated," the manticore said promptly, "and if you listen to what he has to say, you'll know that." The manticore yanked on a leash, and a goat puppet was reluctantly dragged onto the stage. The crowd hooted.

  "...proud of what we've accomplished," said the goat in the whiny whistling voice that signified a cheap recording crystal, "but now is... and now I intend to spend more time with my family. I know that others will continue this important work." The goat broke off as the manticore's jaws clamped down on it and tore off its head. The manticore then snatched up the body and shook it violently, throwing small candies out into the crowd.

  "There you have it!" declared the manticore with a burp.

  "But the timing," protested the griffon, only to be knocked down by the manticore's giant bat-wings.

  "I honestly don't know why we're even having this discussion!" boomed the manticore. "This is the Skilled Party's fault for putting this Pyvic fellow in charge, and if you want to play the partisan blame game, Warden Orris has already resigned. Why can't you people let a good man retire in peace?"

  "Strong words!" boomed the dragon. "We'll keep you informed of any updates on this fast-breaking story!" It threw more candy out to the crowd while intoning the ritual words. "Remember, everyone, it's your republic!"

  "Stay informed!"

  "You're clever," said the man behind the golems, "and have gone to a lot of trouble. I appreciate that. Just a few years back, that pass phrase would have gotten you inside undetected. Sadly for you, the inner wards on my household were upgraded recently. Now, I could order my large metal friends to spray your liquefied organs across this very nice sitting room... or you could tell me where you learned the word."

  "From my father," said Loch, stepping to the front of the group and staring past the golems to the man behind them. "He told me on my thirteenth birthday, in case I ever needed to speak with his friend, Lord Cevirt."

  "Kill," said the man, and the golems clanked forward, swords raised.

  "What?" shouted Tern.

  "I'm just a university student!" cried Hessler weakly from the couch.

  "It's the truth," said Loch said, voice level as the golems advanced.

  "I very much doubt that," said the man, "since I am Voyant Cevirt, and I only told one man that phrase. And his daughter is a beautiful blind girl who does not much resemble you."

  The golem nearest Loch lifted its sword overhead. Loch could see herself reflected in the shining crystal of the blade. She didn't move, but instead asked, "And his other daughter?"

  "Hold."

  The golems froze in place.

  From around them stepped a small man, Urujar in complexion with closely cropped hair. He was wearing the traditional robes of the Voyancy, which snapped around him as he came past the golems to Loch.

  "My friend's other daughter," said Voyant Cevirt, "is dead." Loch smiled crookedly. "I very much doubt that."

  It was the smile that convinced him. He stepped back, his eyes wide, then moved in with a darting birdlike movement. "Isa?" he asked softly, looking at her as though searching. "Aitha, is that you?"

  "Uncle," said Loch, "I need your help."

  "Anything!" he cried, and lunged forward to pull her into a hug. "Isa, you're alive! You don't know how I've... Have you talked with Naria yet? We can set you up with—"

  Loch pushed him back gently. "Uncle, I need a way into Archvoyant Silestin's palace," she said flatly, "and access to your private vault and security room."

  Cevirt blinked.

  "Mister Hessler?" said Dairy. "Isn't the contact supposed to know he's the contact?"

  "I don't know, kid. I'm still picking up the fine points of all this."

  "Patrol," Cevirt called back over his shoulder, "standard formation. Recognize guests." The golems clanked off, swords sliding back into sheaths, and Cevirt looked past Loch. "I need to speak with Isa in private for a moment. There's a small bar in the next room. Please make yourselves comfortable."

  He walked off without another word. After a moment, Loch followed.

  She followed him to a much smaller room, where he closed the door after her, pressed a glowing red crystal on his desk, which hummed and turned green. He gestured at a chair, and she sat.

  "I forced an inquiry," he said, sitting. His arms rested on the desk, and his fingers were steepled, the index fingers tapping idly.

  "So I gathered," said Loch.

  "They determined that you deserted." The fingers tapped faster. "I refused to believe it."

  "That was awfully nice of you."

  "I refused to believe," he continued, "that Isafesira de Lochenville, who had snuck off to join the army against her father's wishes, would desert in the middle of a war."

  "So you pulled a few strings."

  "I protected your family name!" His palms slammed down on the table. "Your father and mother were dead! Your sister was blind and orphaned and didn't need her older sister's reputation as a deserter hanging around her neck! I assumed you had died," he grated, eyes flashing with anger, "and so, yes, I pulled a few strings."

  "And now," said Loch, "here I sit."

  "You okay?" came the voice as the darkness faded to a gray, and then to vague shapes, and finally to Captain Melich's ugly and concerned face.

  "No?" Pyvic tried. He sat up slowly, wincing as knives of pain stabbed through him. "No." He recognized the shabby drawing of a human body, complete with old graffiti, on the far wall by a shelf. "How'd I get to the justicars' infirmary?"

  "By stretcher," Melich deadpanned, sitting down on the edge of the bed and poking at Pyvic's shoulder. Pyvic winced at the sudden pain, and Melich made a face and tightened a bandage. "We found you out cold in the grass near the border. Apparently when the wind-daemon tore the ship to shreds, bits and pieces landed everywhere. You got lucky." Melich squinted. "Real lucky."

  "Wind-daemon?" Pyvic tried standing, caught his balance on the edge of the bed, and settled on leaning. "I thought there were magical protocols to stop them from getting loose."

  "Not enough, apparently. It had to be abjured by a cadre of local priests."

  "Oh, so it worked out fine, then." Pyvic let go of the bed and rolled out his shoulders. It hurt like a bitch, but at least the room had stopped spinning.

  "Pretty much had to back a wagon up to the treasury and fill it up, though."

  "I get the impression there's a report I should be reading."

  "There's a report you should be writing, Pyvic." Melich lowered his voice. "What went wrong up there? The prisoners are gone. The only other survivor is a helmsman who was knocked out cold early on."

  "Same thing happened to me," Pyvic said, and sighed. "My guess? We got played. Prisoner Loch wasn't Prisoner Loch. T
hey used me to get up to Heaven's Spire, which is where they wanted to be the whole time."

  Melich winced. "Might want to clean that up in the report."

  "It's the truth." Pyvic shrugged, then winced. His shoulder was going to be sore for awhile. "If Orris hadn't deserted, I'd have had an observer on the ground to confirm that it was Loch."

  "So the entire hunt was a wash?" Melich asked.

  "Well, I met a woman," Pyvic noted. "Where's my sword?" Melich reached under the infirmary bed and handed Pyvic's sword over. "The woman isn't Loch, is it?"

  "I wasn't sure at the time, but I wanted to feel her out. Anyway, she didn't look like..." Pyvic trailed off, sighed, and brought the sheathed sword up to gently knock himself on the head.

  "She didn't look like the woman you arrested, thinking she was Loch, who was most likely set up just like you as part of the plan to get up to the Spire?" Melich finished innocently.

  "I guess they did give you the captain's bars for a reason," Pyvic muttered. "By the way, how's the death-curse case going?" "Jyrre closed it." Melich smiled wryly.

  "Keep the politicians off me as long as you can," Pyvic said, hooking the sword scabbard onto his belt. "I've got to talk to the helmsman."

  "You're going out like that?" Melich asked, and Pyvic hooked his fingers into his belt and looked at him flatly. "I'll do what I can."

  "Thanks." Pyvic headed for the door, slowly but steadily. "And tell Jyrre good job."

  The small bar turned out to have every drink Kail, Tern, and Icy combined had ever heard of.

  "Nice place." Kail was behind the bar, pouring drinks. "Being a Voyant pays big. Hessler, ice?"

  "For my head, yes," said the wizard from where he still lay on the couch. "For my drink, never."

  "Should've figured you as neat. What can I get you, Dairy?"

  Dairy looked up from Hessler. "The woman who found me as an orphan used to give me hot milk sweetened with a little honey, Mister Kail."

  Kail pursed his lips. "I'll see what we've got."

  "No alcohol for the boy," said Desidora.

  "Kun-kabynalti osu fuir'is," muttered Ghylspwr.

  "Because he's sixteen," Desidora insisted. "Kail, you will not give him alcohol. Do I make myself clear?" Her hair darkened perceptibly.

  "You just had to play the death priestess card." Kail grunted. "Fine. Virgin for the kid."

  "Virgin," said Ululenia, smiling dreamily, her horn shining brightly on her pale forehead. "Mmm." Dairy blushed.

  "So," said Tern, sipping from a cocktail glass filled with something pink and fruity, "what's the deal with Loch and the Voyant?"

  "Got me." Kail topped off an ale for himself, then sat back on a barstool. "I just pour the drinks."

  "Dammit, Isa, give me something!" Cevirt stood and began to pace furiously. "Tell me your heartbreaking tale of being captured by Imperials and forced to serve in slavery until you heroically escaped!"

  Loch nodded thoughtfully. "Wow, Uncle. That's pretty good. Guess the Voyancy keeps you sharp."

  He turned and glared. "Always, Aitha. Give me something." "Why?" Loch stood and faced him squarely. "So you can assuage your conscience?"

  "Yes, dammit! I lied for you!"

  "You lied to keep your record clean," Loch said evenly, "so there'd be no little blots on your acquaintances' record when you rode Silestin's coat-tails up to this nice palace."

  The slap caught her hard on the cheek, snapped her head back.

  "Do you have any idea, little girl, what it's like to be an Urujar Voyant?" Cevirt asked coldly. "To try to convince this proud old brotherhood that the color of my skin doesn't make me a fool? Do you know what I have to swallow to get myself invited to the meetings where the real decisions get made?"

  "I gather," said Loch, "that it means falsifying records." Her cheek stung like hell. "The pay looks good, though."

  "How dare you judge me? While you've been doing Gedesarknows-what all these years, I've been getting schools built in poor provinces. I've gotten good sheriffs put in our towns, not the washed-up lordlings with enough power to beg a favor! I've got roads coming into Urujar towns that will bring them trade. Our people live better lives today because of what I do up here."

  Loch stepped back, circling around the desk and looking at the rich room. "So I'm not supposed to believe that you sold your soul for a little comfort?"

  He stared at her, eyes wide, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. "How could you ever believe that about me?"

  Loch sat down in his chair, rested her arms on the desk, and steepled her fingers. "Give me something, Uncle."

  He sagged as the breath went out of him. "I apologize."

  "I got caught behind enemy lines," she said. "It took me awhile to get back." He nodded, and she continued. "You were just trying to help Naria by covering it up."

  "I was trying to protect your family name." Cevirt sighed raggedly. "I never thought..."

  "You were sure you were right," Loch said, "that it hadn't happened the way the report guessed. You even checked with someone else before doing it, to make sure it wouldn't be taken amiss."

  "Silestin suggested it himself, actually," said Cevirt. "He thought it unnecessary to add insult to injury, and—"

  "And then he became Naria's ward, using Lochenville's resources to reach the Voyancy while keeping up the appearance of a progressive public figure," Loch finished.

  Cevirt stepped back as though she'd slapped him, then sat down in the other chair. "Loch, he isn't like that."

  "It's my inheritance." Loch's voice was even, not angry.

  "Loch, do you know how powerful the Archvoyant is?"

  "It's mine." Loch leaned forward. "I don't care if Naria gets the rest when she comes of age. I don't care if Silestin uses her and you as proof that the Republic is fair and equal while spending my money and taxing my people. I don't want all of it. I just want one thing."

  Cevirt leapt to his feet again, came around the desk. "Gods, Loch, do you know what could happen?"

  "Would it be worse than being declared a deserter?" Loch asked. "Worse than finding out that your family is dead, that your sister is being used as political currency?"

  "Yes," Cevirt said, looking her square in the face. His eyes were full of things that probably kept him awake at night. "Yes, Isafesira, it would be." He sighed, looked away. "So be damn careful." Then he pulled her into a rough embrace.

  "Thank you." Her eyes stung, and she squeezed them shut as she returned the hug. The first time he had hugged her had been when she was six years old, showing him how she could swing her wooden sword when he had come to Lochenville to visit her father. "Thank you, Uncle."

  "You're foolish and headstrong, Aitha, and you never know when to walk away," he said hoarsely. "But if you mean to try now, you won't do it alone."

  Then he stepped away, chuckling and clearing his throat. "So why don't you introduce me to this gang of thieves and murderers you've gotten mixed up with?"

  Ten

  Tern listened.

  After a moment, she sighed and stepped back from the yvkefer-plated vault door. Voyant Cevirt spun the dial through the proper combinations, and the vault door clicked open.

  Icy poked his head out. "I was unable to detect the tumblers. Perhaps if I were in a meditative state—"

  "Hang on, dammit." Tern shouldered Cevirt out of the way and looked at the door. "Wait. Crap. These aren't even tumblers. These are... I don't know what these are. Who in Bynkodar's hell makes a vault without tumblers?"

  "Nobody," said Desidora the death priestess cheerfully from the other corner of the room, "that I know of." She and Hessler were working on auras or something.

  "Well, you are the one with working knowledge of Bynkodar's hell," Tern muttered, glaring at the crystal lattice set behind the combination dial. "Let me see... Cevirt, mind if I pop the dial off? I can probably do that while the vault is open."

  "Um..."

  "Good, good."

  Cevirt stepped back and wa
tched the little lockpicker go to work. The only other person in the room was Kail, who appeared to have no responsibilities beyond getting drinks. "They're disassembling my vault," Cevirt murmured, smiling through gritted teeth.

  "The captain really appreciates this," Kail said, handing him a beer. It had a lime in it. Cevirt had never told anyone about his favorite drink, and he looked over at Kail curiously. The younger man sipped his own beer absently while watching Hessler and Desidora.

  "What about altering the aural-recognition ward through a low-level daemonic conjuration across the lattice?" Hessler asked. Sparkling lights arced between his splayed fingers, and he was squinting at the sparkles intently.

  "Good idea!" said Desidora, rocking her weight from her heels to her toes and tossing her auburn locks. "The daemon would only have to remain stable for an instant to disintegrate the warding pattern!"

  "...disintegrate the warding pattern," Tern muttered in a slightly too-chipper version of Desidora's voice, climbing back into the vault and tapping the inside of the vault door with what looked to Cevirt like a golden tuning fork. "I am a death priestess," Tern's voice echoed out of the vault, "but I'm bouncy and I have pretty hair..."

  Kail coughed into his beer.

  "And if we have another ward ready to overlay the existing pattern..." Hessler said, still staring at his sparkles.

  "We can replace it before the entire field collapses and sounds the alarm!" Desidora finished, giving Hessler an impulsive hug.

  "She did not just hug him," Tern muttered from inside the vault.

  "I am certain that that is not the case." Icy poked his head out, glanced at Desidora and Hessler, and added, "And even if she did—"

  "Shut up, Icy."

  "Good team your captain picked out." Cevirt squeezed his lime into the beer, then took a sip.

  "Best of the best," said Kail, smiling vaguely at Desidora as she disengaged from a flushed and stammering Hessler.

  "It sort of sounded like they were going to summon a daemon inside my vault, Kail."

  "Well, we're not wizards, Voyant. Who are we to say that it isn't some completely harmless magical term—"