The Rogue Retrieval

by Dan Koboldt

  Before they figure out how big this place is.

  “What about Bradley?” Logan asked.

  “He’ll have to hold out on his own for a while.”

  “I don’t like leaving him. He’s still new to this place.”

  “Holt let us go unharmed. That’s a good sign,” she said.

  “Would be, except that Holt doesn’t have him,” Logan said.

  “We can monitor the isotope scanner while we head north. That’s all we can do.”

  Logan frowned, but orders were orders. Bradley had proven himself resourceful so far. A bit of time on his own might be good for the greenhorn. “Covering that distance is going to take some time. And our rations are about spent.”

  “Chaudri and I will restock while you get the horses. We’ll rendezvous at the base camp in two hours.”

  “Will do.”

  Kiara and Chaudri headed back toward the plaza, where the first tents from farmers and vendors had already gone up. Valteroni were already mobbing those tents; the cost of food would undoubtedly be enormous were it not for severe laws against price gouging. Logan wondered if Holt would keep those in place; he’d always been fascinated and a bit puzzled by Valteron’s peculiar brand of economics.

  He worked his way through the city, moving considerably slower since most Valteroni were out in the streets. They seemed to be celebrating their new Prime in a city-­wide revel. Ironically, in this crowd it was easier to pick out the tail, a dark-­haired man in a drab cloak who’d been following him since the square. More than one drunken citizen shouldered Logan hard as he passed, no doubt hoping to pick a fight. He might have indulged a ­couple, if he could have spared the time. He’d barely had a chance to warm up against Holt’s men before the magician sewed him up like a stocking. None of the recon teams had ever engaged with a magic user before, and now it seemed that such avoidance had been a good idea. But it had got him riled up—­just as missing Holt with the dart gun had—­and he was definitely itching for some action. It took all of his training not to thrash the next drunk who bumped into him.

  An open alleyway was just ahead. Logan knew he could cut over a few hundred yards to a smaller street running north-­south. The next push from a swaggering Valteroni couldn’t have come at a better time. He looked like a brawler: heavyset, with a beard and mustache that couldn’t quite hide the ugliest nose Logan had ever seen. The thing must have been broken four or five times, and here came this fellow asking for another.

  He lurched into Logan in a manner that wasn’t quite clumsy enough to be accidental. “What?” he demanded, when Logan looked at him. His breath reeked of jennah, the rougher form of hard liquor that sponsored many a poor decision in southern Alissia.

  “Do you know that fellow over there, in the gray?” Logan asked.

  The bruiser peered in the direction of Logan’s tail, who had paused to haggle with a street vendor while waiting for Logan to continue on. “Don’t think so. What’s it to you?”

  “Nothing. He said he knew you.”

  “Never seen him in my life.”

  Logan shrugged. “He said something about you owing him money.”

  “That a fact?”

  “You didn’t hear it from me,” Logan said. He slipped back into the crowd.

  Moments later he heard a scuffle behind him. “You in the gray! Heard you been talking about me!”

  Logan sighed contentedly. “Ah, Valteron.” That should be about it for the tail. They were a touchy lot when it came to money. Owing anything to anyone else was a source of shame here.

  Briannah’s inn was one of the more defensible establishments in the city—­with a high stockade and its own stable—­but that wasn’t why Logan had chosen it. He’d been wounded on a raid some years back. Barely made it away from the docks alive. Briannah had found him in the alley behind her stable yard. He was a complete stranger then, bleeding and half-­unconscious, but she had her stable hands carry him inside.

  For two weeks she looked after him, until he was well enough to catch a trading vessel bound for New Kestani. Since then he’d visited her whenever he could, paying handsomely for a room he hardly used. Briannah liked to boss him around, but God, she could cook. He’d never eaten so well anywhere else in Alissia. More importantly, she knew how to keep her mouth shut. To others, at least. That was a rare thing among innkeepers.

  Lem, one of the stable boys, answered almost immediately when he banged on the gate. “Hi, Logan!”

  “Hi, Lem.” Logan made sure no one in the alleys or street was watching him, and then entered the tiny stable yard. “Keeping out of trouble?”

  “Mostly.”

  “Mostly, eh?” Logan went to ruffle his hair; the boy ducked nimbly out of the way. Most of those Briannah took in were orphans. She fed them, kept them reasonably clean, and gave them a safe place to sleep in this rough port city. Lem had come a long way under her care. For the first ­couple of years that Logan had known him, the boy hadn’t spoken. Gods knew what kind of horrors he’d seen.

  “Briannah told us to keep a lookout for you. She wants a word.”

  “Just one?”

  The boy giggled. Logan wanted to check the horses, but thought it better to see Briannah first. He found her in the kitchen making a kettle of fish stew. The spicy kind, his favorite.

  “It’s about time you got back,” she said. “Here I was thinking you were in the bay with your throat cut.”

  He couldn’t help smiling. “Aw, you were worried about me.”

  She glanced away from her cooking long enough to note his disheveled condition. “What happened to you?” she demanded. “Picking fights with the locals again?”

  “Wasn’t my fault, I promise,” Logan said. He kissed her once on the cheek and took a whiff of the stew. “Smells good.” He reached for the spoon and got a hand smacked for his trouble.

  “It’s not ready yet, and your hands are filthy.”

  Logan went to the sink and washed up; there was no point in arguing with her. She added something else to the kettle that looked suspiciously like a lump of butter.

  A serving girl came in and began slicing bread. She was young, perhaps twelve, nearly as old as Logan’s eldest daughter. Seeing her made him think of home.

  “Lessa, put another log on the hearth in the common room.”

  “I just added one,” she protested.

  “Lessa!”

  The girl left, but not without rolling her eyes in the most condescending way possible. Where do teenage girls learn that one?

  “Someone tried to steal your horses this afternoon,” Briannah said.

  “Again?”

  “I warned you about bringing animals that fine to these stables. You’re not the only one with eyes for them. And ­people talk around here.”

  “Do I need to go out to the stable and count them?”

  She tsked at him. “Of course not. We’re even more careful when you’re here.”

  “And the saddlebags?”

  “I had the boys lock them in your room. I know how particular you are about those,” she said.

  That was a relief. Logan wouldn’t have wanted to write that particular report on lost equipment. With everything they’d brought for the retrieval mission, the executives would have had a fit.

  “Thank you,” he said.

  “Don’t thank me, thank the boys. They’ve been keeping watches, whenever you’re around.”

  “I didn’t ask them to.”

  “They did it on their own. They look up to you, though I can’t say why.”

  “Maybe because you treat me like a stable boy.”

  “Ha! Well, you owe them this time. They ran off the thieves before I could even get out there with a wooden spoon.”

  “Good lads.” All of the company mounts were thoroughbreds, all descended from championship h
orses. They were incredibly useful to take in the field, but there simply was no hiding their quality.

  “Where’s that handsome friend of yours?” she asked.

  “Huh?”

  “The new fellow? About half your size but a much nicer smile.”

  “Oh,” Logan said. Bradley’s charm apparently knew no bounds. “We got separated, after the announcement.”

  “You should bring him to the common room for a spell. Might be nice looking at a face other than yours. Just keep him away from my serving girls!”

  “What makes you think he’s single?” Logan asked.

  “I can always tell. Just like I pegged you as a man raising daughters.”

  He still hadn’t figured out how she guessed that one. “Well, you don’t have to worry about him. If you see him, though, tell him I’ve headed back north, will you? I’ll bring his horse, just in case.”

  She looked up from the kettle, frowned. “You’re leaving already?”

  “Wish I could stay longer. There’s an urgent situation.”

  She ladled a healthy portion of the stew into a wooden bowl. “I won’t have you leaving on an empty stomach.”

  It did smell good . . .

  “I could eat,” he said.

  “When in doubt, bluff.”

  —­ART OF ILLUSION, FEBRUARY 27

  CHAPTER 13

  THE ENCLAVE

  Quinn knew he was in over his head.

  Moric had escorted him for almost an hour on foot while they made their way to the center of the island. The stone-­lined path led over a grassy hillock, beyond which the land fell away into a wide valley. A blue ribbon of water wound through it, glinting in the sun. Nestled in the middle of that was an island within an island, a settlement unlike any Quinn had seen in Alissia—­or anywhere, for that matter. The buildings were cut from a pale gray stone. Seven crenellated towers encircled the town. Bright, colorful banners—­one for each of Alissia’s nations, apparently—­flew at their peaks. Above them towered a single, elegant spire topped with a flag Quinn had never seen before in any of the research materials or briefings: a white hand clutching a golden star, on a field of royal blue.

  “This is the Enclave,” Moric said. “The heart of Alissian magic beats here.”

  “Unreal,” Quinn said. The number of ­people that must live there. Hundreds upon hundreds of magicians, and the company knew nothing about them. Did Richard Holt? He couldn’t help but wonder. The rogue researcher turned Valteroni Prime certainly had been able to contract their ser­vices, something the company briefings on Alissian magic hadn’t covered.

  “I had the same reaction when I first came here,” Moric said. “That was a long time ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday.”

  He led Quinn to a pile of flat stones the size of coffee tables. One of them slid from the top of the pile with a grating noise as they approached and settled softly to the ground. Moric stepped onto it and gestured that Quinn should do the same.

  Quinn hesitated. “What’s this?”

  “Fastest way down into the valley. Come, come, we’re wasting time!”

  Quinn stepped on reluctantly. “Is this even safe?”

  “On my word, no one has ever been injured on these in recent memory,” Moric said. He muttered a command; the stone lifted and began to skim down the slope into the vale.

  “In recent memory” had the kind of ominous tone that worried Quinn. He was certain he’d fall off, but the stone was as solid as he could have wanted. The effect was still unsettling. They coasted down the slope, gaining speed. The Enclave’s towers had seemed impressive from a distance. Now they towered overhead, impossibly tall. The air had a warm stillness to it.

  The effort it took to guide their stone down the slope seemed little distraction to Moric. They leveled off and shot across the valley floor. They passed another person heading the other direction, an intense young man in crimson robes. He waved to Moric as they shot past one another.

  They neared the river and glided along it toward the city proper. Moric set it down at the base of the nearest of the seven towers. It was a massive thing of stone and mortar, and like most castles, seeing it up close revealed its age. There was ivy growing along the base.

  “This way.” Moric stepped unceremoniously from the stone and marched up to a round wooden door at the tower’s base.

  Quinn followed on his heels. The door opened silently on well-­oiled hinges to receive them, though Quinn saw no one on the other side. Their boots clicked on tile floors. The walls were some kind of polished glass; they glowed with a soft light, like underpowered neon signs. A spiral staircase led up to higher levels within, but Moric bypassed this and took him down a narrow hallway instead. There were doors on either side, and when he came to the fourth of these, Moric pushed it open.

  The room was simple. Sleeping cot, mismatched table and chair, a pitcher of water, and a wooden desk. But there were books on the desk—­thick volumes bound in leather or pigskin. Quinn’s fingers twitched, but he resisted the urge to pick one up and try his glasses.

  Moric snapped his fingers, and a fire bloomed in the hearth on the far side of the room. Light poured in from a round window, though the glass was opaque.

  “I need to sleep,” Moric said. “Stay in this room until I come for you.”

  Quinn frowned. “So I’m, what, a prisoner?”

  “Think of it as a cherished visitor.”

  “You can’t keep me here,” Quinn said.

  Moric turned to look at him. “Oh? You don’t look like much of a swimmer.”

  He stewed there in the tiny room for hours. He’d have tried the door, but Moric might have done something to it. He’d have read the books, but that would require the glasses. And Moric might have someone watching him, in any case.

  To pass the time, he took out his deck of cards and practiced shuffling. He was five cards short, now that he’d left that message for the others to find. Even if they did, they had no idea where he’d been taken, or why. Riffle, cut, riffle, cut. The routine was familiar enough he could almost forget where he was. Or how much trouble he was in.

  They had no proof that he’d claimed to be a magician, other than the ridiculous blue sash that he’d worn. He could deny it. But Moric had recognized him, which meant they had a witness. Even if they hadn’t, this wasn’t the kind of place that had developed a modern justice system.

  He could claim it was true. Maybe that was the better way to play this. The magicians were more likely to trust him, more likely to let him snoop around. Less likely to execute him, too, let’s not forget that.

  He just had no idea how to prove it.

  Moric returned a ­couple of hours later. “Good, you stayed,” he said.

  “You told me I had to,” Quinn said. He didn’t look up from his shuffling. Riffle, bridge, stack.

  “I wasn’t sure you would.”

  “What if I had tried to leave?” Quinn asked.

  Moric chuckled. “It would have been unpleasant.”

  Quinn looked up and was taken aback by the change in Moric. The man was more than refreshed; he looked about two years younger.

  “Wow. That was some nap you took!” Quinn said.

  “I admit I was feeling haggard. Too much magic, not enough sleep.”

  He made the two sound connected somehow. Quinn filed that away for later. He tucked the deck of cards back into their box. He held it up so that Moric could see it, scissored his hands, and made it disappear into one sleeve.

  “Oh, I think you’re ready,” Moric said.

  “For what?” Quinn asked.

  “To learn if you’re one of us.”

  Quinn and Moric sat across from one another in a grove of broad, scraggly trees that overlooked the valley. The trees were in full flower and the perfume nearly overpowering. Quinn kept sneezing, whi
ch seemed to ruffle Moric’s concentration.

  “Hold still, will you?” he groused.

  The magician had poked and prodded him with numerous small enchantments. He couldn’t get any response like the first time. It didn’t disappoint the man; it intrigued him. He was full of ideas.

  “A hot and cold treatment might shock some magic out of you,” he said.

  “What’s that involve?”

  “Oh, it’s quite simple,” Moric said. “First I set you on fire, then dunk you in a tub of frigid water.”

  “I’d really prefer not to be set on fire. Even if you had water to put me out with. Which you don’t. I’ll pass on the dunking, too, for the same reason.”

  Moric put the tip of his finger on the ground, tracing a circle. “Water can be had.” Where his finger touched, a puddle formed in the dirt. It welled up like a small geyser, soaking both of them.

  “I do find it a bit hard to control,” he admitted. “There are others more talented.”

  “How many ­people are on this island?” Quinn asked.

  “Oh, about—­” Moric caught himself; he seemed to sense Quinn’s eagerness. “Well, let’s just say that there are many. More than you’d guess.”

  “I knew that much already,” Quinn said.

  “Where are you from, if I may ask?”

  Quinn had expected this; he’d been silently rehearsing his cover story since the moment they’d arrived. “Wyndham Bridge,” he answered. “North Landor.” The company had placed scrolls in the tiny hamlet’s library that would vouch for him.

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s near the coast. Boring place. That’s why I left.”

  “What do you do for a living? Other than pretend at magic, of course.”

  Quinn bit back the excuse; it was time to start playing into this. “I was going to apprentice with my father. Carpentry.”

  “What happened?”

  “He died. I left,” Quinn said. He put a pained expression on his face. “If it’s all right with you, I’d rather not talk about it.”

  “Magicians rarely have easy childhoods. Many of us here are content to leave the past in the past.”