by Steven Brust
“He’s got a shield up,” said Marci.
“Oh. Right. Sorcerer.”
Vasilyev shrugged. “I’m sorry you had to waste your time coming. I could have done it myself. I believe your Mr. Becker was trying to prevent the embarrassment of me dying on your soil, yes?”
“Mr. Becker doesn’t get embarrassed,” said Donovan.
“Ah.”
“But you’re right anyway. So, where we headed?”
“West. Almost straight west, a little north.”
“How far?”
“Sixteen and a half kilometers.”
“What’s that in miles?”
“I don’t know.”
“About ten-point-three,” said Marci.
“Math Girl,” said Donovan.
“What—oh, is that my name now?”
“Unless I think of a better.”
Marci and Susan exchanged eye rolls. Team building, thought Donovan.
“Come up with a different one,” said Marci. “That makes me think you’re saying ‘Meth Girl,’ and I don’t do that anymore.”
“Okay. Can’t stick you with a nickname you hate.”
Hippie Chick snorted.
“Someone have a map?” said Donovan.
“I have a phone,” said Susan. “Welcome to the twenty-first century.”
“Um. Right.”
“Okay,” she said a moment later. “Veterans Memorial Maywood Park.”
“Good,” said Donovan. He turned to the Russian. “Thank you for your help, Vasily. You’ll be heading back now?”
“Back? No, no. How can I miss the last act of the play? Besides, I have not yet had the famous Chicago pizza.”
“There is no Chicago pizza,” said Donovan.
Vasilyev started to speak, but Hippie Chick cut him off. “No,” she said. “Don’t argue religion with a fundamentalist; don’t argue pizza with a New Yorker.”
“I’m from New Jersey,” said Donovan.
“A distinction without a difference, in this case,” said Susan.
“Use your superpower,” said Donovan. “Find us a cab.”
Chicago traffic reminded Donovan of home; it took a lot longer than he’d have expected for a midwestern city. But they reached the park. Donovan paid the cabbie and got a receipt, which he carefully tucked into his wallet next to nine others he hadn’t yet turned in.
There was a van parked there that said: “Maywood Police,” and a Dodge Charger, and another cop car; he looked around and spotted the PO-lice station across the street and down the block. In the park itself, there were a few kids playing on the swings with a few bored parents watching them.
“Okay,” said Donovan. “Let’s start with the pavilion.”
They had taken three steps toward it when Donovan’s cell phone beeped the 911 beep.
“Hold, everyone,” he said.
He answered the phone. A few seconds later he said, “Everyone stay alert. Marci? Check the area.”
He continued speaking into the phone for another minute, then disconnected. He looked at Marci.
“Something,” she said. “The pavilion.”
“Hostile?”
“No, someone or something is blocking me. I can’t get a read on what’s inside the building.”
“Well, shit,” Donovan said, and pulled the bag of marbles from his pocket. Susan was scanning the area. Vasilyev had the look of a greyhound before the bell; he was leaning forward a little, shoulders up, his hands clenching and unclenching, eyes straining toward the pavilion door as if he was trying to see through it, which was quite possible.
“Fill us in,” said Hippie Chick. It was always astonishing how she could look so relaxed and feel so full of tension.
“The whole thing is a trap,” said Donovan. “The Burrow figured out that they’d been meant to find the artifacts, which means someone wants us to be here looking for them, and it probably does not indicate they want to invite us in for tea and borscht.”
“So,” said Marci. “Does that mean we leave, or that we go ahead?”
“I vote for going ahead,” said Susan.
“When did this turn into a democracy?” said Donovan.
“All right,” she said. “Then what do you say?”
“Same as you.”
“I hope,” said Vasilyev. “We can avoid trouble. Have you a plan?” Maybe it was tension, but his accent was noticeably stronger than it had been a minute ago—that was definitely a “w” sound in “avoid,” and the “r” was rolled, and whatever vowel sound made the “a” in “plan” didn’t occur in English.
“Marci, see if you can pick up anything at all. Is there a spell waiting for us when we open the door?”
“I’m still not getting anything,” said Marci. “Except the sense that I’m being blocked.”
“All right. Marci and I will check around the back. You two wait here.”
Donovan took them a long way off to the side, past the playground, almost to the baseball diamond before curving back.
“Think they know we’re here?” said Marci.
“Best to assume they do.”
“Yeah.”
They reached the other side of the pavilion.
“Well?” said Marci.
“Well what? What are we going to do? I figured we’d stand here like idiots for a while. Is anyone staring at us?”
“Uh, not that I can see.”
“Good. You do have a shield up, right?”
“Of course.”
“Good. I don’t expect anyone will shoot at us, but I’d feel pretty silly if I was wrong.”
Marci’s eyes were fastened on the door; Donovan looked around, at the kids on the swing set, the trees blowing, cars going by, the parking lot. It was a trap. You don’t walk into a trap. Ah, shit. There, some soccer mom holding a toddler’s hand. Ten to one they’re heading for the toilet. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
His phone rang. He glanced at it. “Hippie Chick,” he said, and answered it. “Hey. Getting bored over there?”
“You see the civilians.”
“Yeah. I see them. All right. Go on in.”
“Just like that?” she said.
“Yeah. We’ll go in this way.”
“Just walk in the door?”
“If we blow it up, it’ll get noticed. So just go in, only a little more carefully, and stand to the side.”
“All right. Going now,” she said, and disconnected.
Donovan nodded to Marci and started forward. He reached the door and took hold of it. It wasn’t locked.
* * *
Donovan opened his eyes. “Where am I?”
“You’re in a hospital unit in the Madrid headquarters building, Mr. Longfellow.”
“Mr. Becker? Where are you?”
“I’m right here, Mr. Longfellow.”
Donovan opened his eyes. He kept his voice even as he said, “I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr. Becker.”
“You’ve been unconscious for nearly a full day, Mr. Longfellow.”
Donovan opened his eyes. “How’s my team?”
“There were no fatalities on your team, Mr. Longfellow, although it was close. The Foundation has some excellent sorcerous healers, however. You should regain your sight fully, though it may take a few days.”
“How’s my team, Mr. Becker?”
“Ms. Sullivan was struck by the same sort of spell you were, Mr. Longfellow, but not so hard. She remained conscious, and she will also recover her sight, but there were burns as well. The prognosis is for a full recovery. Ms. Kouris received only superficial injuries, and was released after treatment.”
“And Vasily?”
“Mr. Vasilyev was killed, I’m afraid. He was gone by the time we reached him.”
Donovan was silent for a while, staring at black and purple crisscrossing patterns. “I’m on drugs, aren’t I?”
“A relatively mild pain medication. I can find out which, if you’d like to know.”
“It doesn’t matter. My h
ead’s a little fuzzy is all. Tell me what happened.”
“First, I must inform you that I took the liberty of telling your team that you would want them to report to me. They were reluctant to report to anyone but you. I hope I have not crossed a boundary, Mr. Longfellow.”
“It’s fine. Tell me what happened.”
“There were four of them, two shooters, two sorcerers. You and Ms. Sullivan were the first ones through the door, and, according to Ms. Sullivan, struck with a spell intended first to strip away magical defenses, then to simulate a high-intensity explosion directly in front of you. As you may be aware, neither of these spells is simple, both can be blocked, neither was entirely successful.”
“And then?”
“There was something of a melee. The shooters were ineffective, as both Mr. Vasilyev’s and Ms. Sullivan’s defense spells remained at least somewhat intact. I am told the matter went on for a long time—nearly twenty seconds as Ms. Kouris described it. Eventually, Mr Vasilyev’s shield went down, and he suffered a fatal gunshot wound to the forehead. Immediately thereafter, Ms. Kouris disabled the remaining sorcerer and the gunmen.”
“Disabled. Where are they?”
“Three of them are here, Mr. Longfellow, being questioned. One of the sorcerers was killed by Ms. Kouris.”
“Poor Hippie Chick.”
“Ms. Kouris seems to be holding up well, Mr. Longfellow.”
“I shouldn’t have gone in.”
“I disagree, Mr. Longfellow. It is unfortunate about Mr. Vasilyev, but it was still a good decision. You recovered the artifact, which we can now use to get a better idea of its source. We now know considerably more about who we’re up against. We have three prisoners to question, any of whom may give us a valuable lead. And a very immediate threat was contained.”
“Excuse me, threat?”
“Mr. Longfellow, that was a pavilion in a public park, with civilians and children present. There were two gunmen there. Yes, they were waiting for you, but have you considered the potential for something to have gone wrong, for someone to have made a catastrophic mistake?”
“Mr. Becker, this is the first time I’ve known you to be concerned with the lives of innocents.”
“Mr. Longfellow, there is little that I care about more.”
Donovan grunted. “I want to see my team.”
“Please rest for a while. Perhaps when you wake up, Ms. Sullivan will be able to speak with you as well; right now she is sedated.”
Donovan exhaled slowly. “All right. But, Mr. Becker.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t like your interrogation techniques.”
“Yes, Mr. Longfellow. I am aware of that.”
“We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“Two days from now, Mr. Longfellow. Tomorrow I must travel to Odessa to attend a funeral.”
* * *
The pilot’s name was Berghoff, and Matt couldn’t believe how many dirty jokes the man had never heard. I mean, had he been living in Antarctica before he enlisted? By the time he set the C-27J Spartan down at Whiteman Air Force Base, there were a lot fewer Berghoff hadn’t heard, and Matt felt like if he’d wanted he could have drunk free for the next week.
But he had other things on his agenda.
He caught a shuttle to Kansas City, arriving in the early afternoon. He found a cab and gave the address, getting out in a low-income residential neighborhood not far from the river. He felt a little naked without his weapons—he’d ditched them in what he hoped was a secure hidey-hole in Journal Square—but he figured he could probably handle any trouble unarmed.
He knocked on the door, and it was answered by an elderly woman in a flowered housedress who made Matt suddenly, for the first time in years, nervous about his appearance. She didn’t seem frightened or upset, though; she just asked what he wanted.
Wishing he had a hat so he could take it off, he said, “Good afternoon, ma’am. I’m Matthew Castellani. I’m looking for Victor Everson.”
She nodded and turned her head. “Victor!”
Victor appeared, about Matt’s age, very long hair with a cupid tattoo on his cheek and grease under his nails. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey. Matt Castellani.” Matt held out his hand.
Victor took it. Victor’s grip was limp. “So, uh—”
“You don’t remember me,” said Matt.
“No, sorry.”
Matt wasn’t surprised that Victor didn’t remember him, seeing as they’d never met. “That’s okay. It was a long time ago. You got a car?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Take us someplace you like. I’m buying.”
“What’s this about?”
“You know stuff I want to find out about, and I’m going to ask you questions, and keep buying as long as you answer.”
“What sort of questions?”
“Auto and small-engine repair.”
Victor nodded. “Drinks or food?”
“Let’s start with drinks and see how the conversation goes.”
“Let me get my coat. I’ll see you in back.”
Victor’s car was a 2002 Mazda with a cracked passenger window and a front bumper held on with wire, and it smelled like oil, but it ran smooth (which was worth noting—most auto mechanics Matt knew had cars that barely ran) and got them to a place called the Stardust that wasn’t terribly busy at this hour. Victor didn’t bother locking the door. They found a quiet corner. Victor ordered a Miller; Matt went along with it.
“So, what do you want to know?” said Victor.
“You got a nice place there,” said Matt. “Is that your mom? You’re taking care of her. That’s pretty cool.”
“Uh.”
“Here’s the thing, Victor. You don’t have a job, and you’re paying the mortgage on that house, and supporting your mother.”
“Hey—”
“Relax and drink your beer, Victor. I’m not planning to do anything to you, or threaten your income. I’m just explaining how I know enough to ask the question I’m about to ask.”
“Wait, what?”
There were two guys at the bar, both white, both probably retired. The bartender was almost certainly the owner’s son, or nephew. He’d rather have been working somewhere with flashing lights and loud music. Matt looked back at Victor. “Just work with me. Now, you have no income, but you spend a lot. So, where are you getting it? Drugs? Oh, hell no. Not you. That is so not your scene. I don’t think you want to have anything to do with anything that might involve violence. In practice, it isn’t that easy to turn magic into money, is it? I’ve figured out that much. You can’t change probabilities; you can’t predict the future. All the easy, big ways of using it to make a living come with risks, don’t they? So, what’s left? You fix things. Cars, small engines, lawn mowers. Sorcery could help with that, since you were good at it anyway, right? Fix things fast, cheap, maybe save a lot on labor, even more on expensive equipment you don’t have to buy. The only advertisement you use is word of mouth, and you’re paid in cash, so no taxes. Did I call it?”
“How—?”
“Good. I don’t mean to interfere. So let me start with one question: Mystici or Foundation?”
Victor stared at Matt. Matt waited.
“We never really met before, did we?”
“No, I made that up to get you here. So, Mystici or Foundation?”
“I don’t know what—”
“No, no, Victor. There’s no need for that. Yes, I know, it’s supposed to be secret and all that. But I already know about the two groups. I just need to get a few details straight.”
“You a reporter?”
Matt shook his head. “Nothing like that. This is for my own use.”
Victor shook his head. “Look, I—”
“Okay, you don’t want to talk about the Mystici. Or the Foundation. Whichever it is. But you can tell me this, right? How many sorcerers are there who aren’t in either group?”
Victor just looked at him, forear
ms on the table, shoulders hunched.
“Okay, seriously, Victor. It can’t hurt to tell me that, can it? Just a general idea of how many, I guess you’d say independents—is that the right word?—are there?”
“Rogues.”
“That’s the term?”
“Yeah. Rogue sorcerers.”
“Ah, okay. So, how many are there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Not even a guess?”
“From what I’ve heard, not all that many. And the ones who aren’t in either usually can’t do much. It takes a lot of training.”
“Got it. Okay. And the two groups aren’t even in size, as I understand it. One is much bigger than the other?”
Victor nodded.
“So why did you choose the small one?”
“The big one, and I didn’t ch—. Fuck.”
Matt shook his head. “Don’t sweat it. Nothing bad is going to happen from you telling me anything. Trust me. Another beer?”
“Yeah.”
Matt got him one and brought it back. “I came across the Foundation by accident, and I’ve been sniffing around since then. But your group, the Mystici, I don’t know much about.”
“If they find out—”
“They aren’t going to find out, Victor.”
“And you aren’t going to jack me up?”
“For what? Fixing lawn mowers? Why do they train people, anyway?”
Victor was silent for a minute, staring down at the table. Matt waited. Whoever owned this bar sure liked the Royals.
Victor spoke. “Without training, you’re liable to hurt yourself. And that way, there are people who will, you know, stand up for your brothers and sisters if something comes up.”
“Anything ever come up with you?”
Victor looked startled at the idea. “Me? No. I’m not all that good, you know. I mean, I worked, but the things some of the others did were kind of amazing.”
“Yeah, I suppose. There’s—”
“Man, I really shouldn’t talk about this.”
“You haven’t told me much I didn’t know. And, like I said, nothing you tell me will go anywhere. I swear.”
“Shit. You still buying?”
“Yep.”
“All right.”
“There’s this thing I’ve heard about, where someone comes in and takes away your ability to use sorcery.”
Victor shuddered. “What about it?”