“Don’t worry, Artus. Everything is under control.” Tyvian kept his smile pinned to his face, more for everyone else’s benefit than his own. He hadn’t quite anticipated this part of the plan going this way. They hadn’t gone halfway across the plaza that lay before the gates of the Theliara compound when about ten Defenders had popped out of nowhere, ordering Tyvian and Artus to their knees, their firepikes tucked under their arms and blazing with power. They acquiesced, of course, and Myreon had given the smuggler a smug little grin as she reapplied the same shackles she had removed just moments before. They were now surrounded, kneeling in the snow with their hands on their heads. They took away Jaevis’s hurlant from Artus—their only weapon—and patted them down for anything else. Artus, it turned out, had nicked the Hanim’s gold necklace (for which Tyvian made a mental note to congratulate the lad later—he was a real talent in the thievery department, that was for sure), but they had nothing else of value, besides a pretty ordinary-looking bottle of perfume with a glamour enchanted upon it—fairly standard fare for perfume.
Myreon crouched in front of Tyvian, grinning broadly. “So, Reldamar, did you have a contingency plan for this?”
Tyvian decided only to give the mage a wink and a smile. “You’ll see.”
Myreon’s smile dropped into a sneer. “I am really going to enjoy putting you away.”
“Myreon! I see you’ve made it out in one piece—well done!” The voice was a full, deep baritone, frayed slightly with age and fatigue. A tall, broad-shouldered Mage Defender strode through the snow with the confidence of a man long used to being invulnerable.
Upon seeing the mage, Myreon dropped to one knee. “Master! I . . . I didn’t expect to see you here.”
Tyvian blinked, unable to contain his surprise. “Master Tarlyth? Of Galaspin Tower?”
The old mage pulled himself to his full height—Tyvian noted a bit of a gut pushing out under his mageglass breastplate. “And you must be Tyvian Reldamar. You’re a shame to your family name, boy.”
“That’s very kind of you.” Tyvian nodded. “And may I say that you, sir, are about to cause a diplomatic incident.”
Myreon rose and made a show of brushing off her filthy robes and smoothing her ragged hair. “He’s right, sir. You shouldn’t be here. We’ve got to get out of Freegate before the Watch spots us. I imagine the Hanim is calling them . . .”
Tyvian snorted out a laugh. “Oh, I doubt it. A wealthy, powerful enchantress being waylaid by a thirteen-year-old ragamuffin with a talent for hair-pulling? I imagine she will prefer it if no one ever speaks of this event again. There isn’t enough real gold in that entire palace to keep the Watch from gossiping about that one.”
Myreon looked like she wanted to kick Tyvian in the face, but the presence of the venerable Master Tarlyth was enough to keep her anger bottled into a single, withering glare. “Well then, good for us,” she said to Tyvian. “We’ll be out of here with you in chains in no time at all.”
Tarlyth nodded. “I have taken care to conceal our arrival from prying eyes. No one knows we are here. You, Master Reldamar, better get used to those chains—your little tricks have run their course.”
A frown crossed Myreon’s face. No, Tyvian corrected himself, a different timbre of frown crossed Myreon’s face. “Forgive me, sir, but why did you come personally?”
Tarlyth held up a hand, “I’ll explain later, Myreon—for now, we’ve got a spirit engine to catch.”
Tyvian peered between the cordon of Defenders toward the streets and alleys feeding into the plaza. It was dark, the snow was falling, and the light from the firepikes was enough to virtually blind him. He could see no sign of movement, but that didn’t mean there wasn’t any.
A pair of Defenders grabbed him by each arm and hoisted him to his feet. Two others did the same for Artus, and the rest of them began to form a column to march out of the city. Tyvian’s mind raced for a way to stall them. “Wait!”
Tarlyth and Myreon looked at him with dour faces. “What?”
“There’s one thing you didn’t anticipate—I’ve hidden Magus Alafarr’s staff. If you don’t release me, it will be handed over to the Lord Mayor’s office at sunrise! They’ll know you were here, in violation of Freegate’s neutrality ordinance.”
Tarlyth nodded. “Ah—that reminds me.” He reached into his cloak and, by some trick of Astral transmutation, pulled Myreon’s magestaff out of it. “Here you are.”
Tyvian was genuinely surprised. “Wh . . . but I . . .”
Tarlyth delivered Tyvian a small grin that he probably used on his grandchildren when explaining how he knew they’d been raiding the cookie jar. “You don’t become a Master Defender, sir, without knowing a few tricks yourself. That was quite an impressive hidden compartment, by the way—just not impressive enough.”
Tyvian sighed. “Well, worth a try.”
Artus groaned. “Is that all we got, Reldamar?”
The Sergeant Defender tapped the butt of his firepike against the snowy earth—it didn’t make the sharp crack that he probably wanted. “Company . . . move out!”
Then Tyvian heard it—harness bells, jingling closer. He grinned. “No, Artus—it seems I’ve got a bit more, after all.”
Tarlyth raised his staff and spoke a few words under his breath. The light from the distant streetlamps dimmed a bit, and the snow appeared to lose its midnight luster. All of them—everyone in the party—seemed to fade from notice. Tyvian had trouble focusing on the back of the Defender in front of him, as though he was just too boring to look at. He knew of this spell, of course—his older brother had used it all the time when he was an apprentice and wanted to sneak out of the house—but he’d never seen it used on such a large scale before.
Myreon was beside him, whispering, “Whoever it is, Tyvian, they’re just going to ride right by us. They’ll never notice us under this spell, in the dark, in the snow.”
Tyvian spoke at a normal volume. “If this is you gloating, Myreon, I have two things to point out. First, you again fail to understand the nuance required to deliver a proper gloat . . .”
Carlo’s coach, its wheels replaced with sleigh runners, slid into the plaza, pulled by a quartet of heavy draft horses, sweat steaming off their flanks. Behind it were trotting about two dozen figures, their padded leather caps and heavy blue cloaks ilLumenated by the darting spheres of light that followed them—the Freegate city watch, accompanied by their tattlers.
“ . . . and, second, your gloating is once again premature.”
Tarlyth and Myreon sprang into action then, working sorceries to confuse the simple tattlers or dispel them altogether. But it was too late. The magical constructs, insatiably curious and devoid of any notions or expectations of “ordinariness,” were immune to the Aura of the Ordinary, and quickly flitted over to shine their bright lights on the glittering helmets and glowing weapons of the Defenders of the Balance. The watchmen spotted them immediately.
“Company!” the Sergeant Defender bellowed. “Defensive formation, double-quick!”
Tyvian found himself dumped on his back as the Defenders rushed to form into a double line, the first line kneeling, their firepikes set against the ground, the second line standing, their pikes braced under their arms, prepared to fire. The watchmen barked orders of their own, and brandished a variety of maces, spiked cudgels, and mourning stars. They wore small target shields etched with some basic magical guards, and most of them were wearing two or three talismans of various sizes and descriptions around their necks. They encircled the Defenders on three sides, standing about ten paces away, shouting and jeering at the invaders of their city. The Defenders shouted back, so that the result was a cacophonous mess of men screaming various threats and commands.
Carlo’s coach-turned-sleigh pulled up just behind the line of watchmen and the door popped open, reveal
ing the squat, fur-wrapped form of Carlo himself, his crystal eye twinkling in the light of the firepikes. His coachman hopped down, fished him out a stool with a silk cushion, and Carlo slid out of the coach and deposited his backside on the stool, his hands folded neatly into a fox-fur muff. ‘Well, well, well—what have we here?”
“Let me handle this. You don’t need to be involved,” Myreon said to Tarlyth, and stepped forward. “I am Mage Defender Myreon Alafarr on special assignment from Master Tarlyth of Galaspin Tower. This man, Tyvian Reldamar, is in my custody. Saldor will make it worth your while to assist me in keeping him captured until we can get aboard a spirit engine and leave you in peace.”
A giggle escaped Carlo’s lips, gradually building to a gut-splitting guffaw that rocked him back and forth on his stool until he nearly fell off. He was joined by the snickers and jeers of the watchmen, who twirled their assortment of spiked, blunt instruments menacingly. Through it all, Myreon and her Defenders stood rigid and erect, their eyes never flinching, as though they were openly mocked every day of the week where they came from.
When they had all calmed down, Carlo steadied himself on his perch and called to Tyvian, “What do you say, Tyvian? Should the fellows here toss you in a dungeon?”
Tyvian pressed past the Defenders and stood next to Myreon. “Carlo, enough charade. Could you please remove these shackles from my hands? They are chafing me horribly.”
Carlo’s jeweled eye sparkled in the tattler-light, his face an unreadable mask. He snapped his fingers, and a watchman stepped forth with a set of skeleton keys and an assortment of enchanted oils for undoing magical locks. “Sorry I’m a bit late—had to put the runners on the coach, blasted snow,” Carlo said, his face breaking into a grin.
Myreon thrust her staff at the advancing watchman, knocking him sprawling with a blast of invisible force. “I’m afraid I didn’t make myself clear—this man is my prisoner.” Behind her the Defenders advanced a pace in unison. “Any act of force on your part would be foolish. You are not our equals, even if you do outnumber us.”
Tyvian was pulled back behind the Defender’s lines by the collar, but he didn’t struggle. He had what he needed—the perfume bottle, lifted off Myreon and concealed in his hands. He caught Artus’s attention and nodded. Get ready.
Carlo chuckled, shaking his head. “Magus, with all due respect, do you really intend to attack the city watch of Freegate to arrest a smuggler? Do you have any idea the political mudslide you’d cause? Saldor, Galaspin, Eretheria—they’d lose millions to trade tariffs. Traffic between the West and the North would get choked to a trickle until your governments paid reparations; the Defenders would get labeled as ‘mavericks’ and ‘irresponsible prosecutors’ and lose the reputation they’ve worked so hard to build. Then, of course, there’s you—you’d get yourself stationed in the dustiest, dirtiest outpost the Western Wastes can offer, left to dodge scorpions and dump sand out of your slippers until the queenies finally come to take Illin back and mash you under the foot of some ten-ton manticore. Now, tell me madam, does that sound like a good trade?”
As Carlo talked, Tyvian began spraying Defenders with the perfume. Its magic was simple enough, but worked wonderfully if the individual wasn’t warded against the ether. Defenders, as it happened, almost never were—such wards interfered with seekwands and made their concealing magicks harder to use. One by one the back row of Defenders fell victim to the simple illusion contained in the bottle. When they looked back at him (which they did every few seconds), Tyvian did his best to look nervous.
Tarlyth stepped forward, facing Carlo. “I am Master Defender Tarlyth of Galaspin Tower. While Magus Alafarr might not be enough to impress you, I should be. You make a compelling argument, but allow me to make a counterargument: I can, with a few words, obliterate every one of you gentlemen, wards or no wards. I can bake your bones inside your skin; I can freeze you until you will shatter at a touch; I can call down lightning from the sky to smite you. All we ask is safe passage out of Freegate and an agreement to not make an incident of this. Do this, and not only will we pay you handsomely, but you will get to keep your lives as well. Now, I ask you, Master diCarlo, is that a good trade?”
The watchmen grumbled at that, looking to Carlo and muttering to themselves. Tyvian wondered how much money the fat Verisi had to pay them to show up. It was probably an enormous sum, and he knew it didn’t cover getting into an actual scrap with Defenders of the Balance.
Myreon suddenly cocked her head. She turned to face Tarlyth and pointed at Carlo. “Wait a minute—how did you know his name?”
If Tyvian and Artus were going to make a move, it had to be now. “Artus, RUN!”
They ran in opposite directions, making certain to conceal their shackles under their shirts. The back row of Defenders lost no time in turning around and splitting up in an attempt to run them down. Tyvian and Artus began to dart back and forth among them, dodging errant grabs and failed tackles as they leapt and dove through the snow.
And everybody—Defenders and Artus included—was the spitting image of Tyvian Reldamar.
Myreon and Master Tarlyth froze, temporarily stunned, as they saw seven snow-covered Tyvians wrestling and chasing one another around the plaza. “Don’t let ’em get away!” the Sergeant Defender barked, leaping atop the closest Reldamar and putting him in a hammerlock. The rest of the men leapt into action, but hesitantly, not sure who to tackle.
The disguised men kept yelling, “I’m not him! I’m not him!” and Tyvian and Artus yelled the exact same thing, of course. It was sheer pandemonium.
“How the . . .” Myreon gasped, and then started throwing dispels as best she could, but it was dark, she was tired, and her aim was off. She missed the first few. Tarlyth was better, dispelling two of the Shrouds in short order (the two Defenders were in the process of wrestling each other), but it provided all the time Tyvian and Artus needed to slip into an alley and vanish from sight.
By the time Myreon and Tarlyth had everything sorted out, they found themselves alone in the plaza with their ten men—their prisoners, the sleigh, Carlo diCarlo, and the watch had all melted back into the night. All they had to show for it was a single, empty perfume bottle.
Carlo picked Artus and Tyvian up a block away and sped off. Artus had managed to snatch back the hurlant while wrestling with a Tyvian Defender. He was giggling uncontrollably. “Hot damn, that was incredible!” He slapped his knee.
Tyvian sighed. It was distinctly disconcerting to see “himself” behaving in such a manner. “Carlo, the shackles, if you please.”
“Yes, yes—not even a thank-you, though? I mean, look at all the snow you’re traipsing into the coach?”
“Sleigh,” Tyvian corrected.
“Whatever. It’s not even mine,” Carlo grumbled, producing an enchanted oil and a pair of lock picks and getting to work. “What kind of idiot would bring a coach to Freegate—you can’t even get to half the city. I just hold onto the thing and use it in the wintertime for private conversations that I don’t want eavesdropped.”
Tyvian noticed Artus’s expression suddenly change; it was as though something had just occurred to him, a storm building just behind his face. Well, behind Tyvian’s face, but still . . . “What’s the matter, Artus?”
“Tell ya in a minute,” the boy said, holding out his shackles.
Carlo nodded. “Ah—so you’re Artus and that’s the real Tyvian. Good. I’ll know which one will get my dirty jokes now.”
As soon as Artus’s shackles popped off and hit the floor, he snatched up the hurlant and stuffed it in Carlo’s face. “Don’t move or I blow off your head!”
Carlo put his hands up. “Fine, fine—I’ll tell you all the dirty jokes you want, boy! Gods!”
Tyvian frowned. “Artus, what the hell are you doing?”
“Reldamar!” Artus said, his voice cra
cking, “I told you already! That’s the man that betrayed you, remember? He’s the guy in the coach with Jaevis and that other guy—the young guy.”
Carlo groaned. “This is ridiculous.”
“Tell him! Tell him what you done!” Artus pressed the hurlant harder against Carlo’s cheek.
“Boy, that hurlant’s broken.” Carlo pointed to the firing mechanism, “It looks like somebody fell on it.”
Tyvian watched his own expression change to doubtful on Artus’s shrouded face. “Artus, did you fall on that hurlant?”
“I . . . uhhh . . . I had to dive to the ground a couple times, if that counts.”
Tyvian grabbed the hurlant and pulled it away. “Yes, that counts.”
Artus folded his arms. “He betrayed you, though—I wouldn’t trust him.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Artus. Carlo has been helping me the whole time.”
“What?” Artus sat up. “How?”
Carlo shrugged. “Well, we haven’t been exactly conspiring, but I’ve been dropping Tyvian plenty of hints. We work together well—our minds work in a similar way—and I certainly have no love for that thug Sahand or that louse Hendrieux. I have to say, though, Tyvian, this particular plot has even me lost. What are we doing again?”
Tyvian sighed. “Myreon is going to keep hunting me—she can’t help it. I left her the perfume bottle so she could track us.”
Artus said, “But she doesn’t have the seekwand—I have . . . oh. Right, she took it back.”
Tyvian nodded, smirking. “Even if she didn’t, she’s with a pile of Defenders and they probably have a spare. Hell, we’re in a sleigh in the snow—they could just follow our tracks. Anyway, with Myreon on our tail, it’s an opportune time to pay Hendrieux a little visit.”
“What? Why?” Artus asked, but Carlo was laughing. “What’s so funny?”
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