Trapped

by James Alan Gardner

  “I suppose we’ll find out eventually.” Opal shrugged. “Meanwhile, our next move is obvious.”

  “What is it?”

  “Call the Sparks,” she said. “Let them sort out this damned mess.”

  5

  LOCAL BOYS

  Opal had no direct way of contacting Spark Royal; she could only relay a message through Governor Niome in Feliss City. While Annah helped Opal write a note, I went to fetch the school’s emergency courier—a seventeen-year-old with the unfortunate name of Wallace Wallace. He was a strapping local farm boy from a strapping local farm, the latest in a line of Wallace Wallaces stretching back two centuries to an ancestor with an unfortunate sense of humor. Like most of his predecessors, the newest Wallace Wallace swore he’d never burden his own son with such a ridiculous name...but considering how consistently his forefathers had surrendered to the weight of tradition, I wondered if our own Wallace-squared would stick to his resolve.

  Perhaps he would. This Wallace had a distinction that set him apart from previous generations: a full scholarship at Feliss Academy. He’d earned his place through brains and discipline, not parental wealth. Each year the academy accepted a few exceptional teenagers from the Simka district, without charging a cent for tuition or board. Partly this was a ploy to placate people in the region by helping their best and brightest. Bringing in smart-and-hungry kids also increased energy levels in our classrooms, which otherwise would be populated by well-bred but second-rate plodders who’d grown accustomed to depending on family largesse rather than their own initiative. Added to that, our normal (i.e., rich) students benefited from having floormates who knew the seedier aspects of town—which tattooists used clean needles, which butcher shops sold the best lamb’s-skin for condoms, which herbalists kept a supply of jinkweed hidden under the counter. Lastly, the school liked having a few spare hands who could be called upon to run errands in crises...like riding to Feliss City with a message for the governor. It was Wallace’s turn to answer the call, which is why I fumbled my way through the pitch-dark corridors and tapped on his door.

  He answered immediately...holding a candle and flashing a triumphant grin. The grin faltered instantly. “Dr. Dhubhai!” he said with a surprised yelp.

  “Expecting someone else?” I asked.

  “No, no,” he answered in a transparent lie. “No, no,” he said again, in case I missed his guilt the first time.

  Considering the circumstances, I didn’t have time to interrogate the boy...but my teacherly instincts couldn’t help wondering which of our female students Wallace had expected to find knocking at his door. I couldn’t remember seeing him with anyone in particular. Then again, the girl might want to keep their relationship secret; snooty elements of the student body considered kids like Wallace to be “peasant charity cases” and would mercilessly snub any high-born girl who sullied herself with a “barnyard beau.” Plenty of girls would still fall for Wallace’s charms—he was a smart, pleasant kid, good-looking in a fresh-from-the-cow-pen way—but the stigma of his “commoner” background might make a blue-blooded belle keep her feelings out of the public eye. The result: she’d sneak into Wallace’s room at 2:00 a.m. rather than openly neck with him behind the stables. To be honest, I didn’t much care if Wallace conducted a discreet cuddle session with some duchess/countess/heiress...but a horrid possibility crossed my mind.

  “Just tell me,” I said, “you weren’t waiting for Rosalind Tzekich.”

  “Rosalind? Of course not. She’s taken.”

  “Who took her?”

  “Sebastian.”

  By which he could only mean Sebastian Shore, another local boy: son of a successful metalsmith, prosperous by Simka standards but nowhere near the wealth of most students in our academy. Sebastian was a quiet sixteen-year-old who excelled in class but seldom socialized with his peers. He lived in his own head, having little contact with the world around him. When I thought about it, Sebastian might click perfectly with Rosalind Tzekich: both were self-isolated dreamers, staring out that classroom window.

  “Doctor,” said Wallace, “was there something you wanted?”

  I shook off my reverie. “You’re the courier on call, aren’t you?”

  He nodded, not looking happy about it.

  “Then get dressed,” I said. “You’re going to Governor Niome, so wear something respectable. Something warm too—it’s cold in the open wind. When you’re ready, go to the kitchen and pack food for the trip. Then see the chancellor in her room. Got it?”

  “Chancellor’s room. Yes, sir.” Wallace’s face had brightened considerably; on the downside, he was going to miss his midnight tryst...but a jaunt to see the governor obviously struck him as acceptable compensation. He could take one of the school’s best horses, see the famous Feliss Government House (home of the largest prison system in the world), and enjoy some time on his own. The city was a good ten hours’ ride from Simka—maybe more, depending how snowy the roads were. Wallace would have a pleasant adventure to brag about to his Mends when he got home.

  “Get going,” I told him. “The chancellor will expect you in...oh, twenty minutes.” That would give Wallace time to get dressed and packed, plus (if he was smart) a few minutes to write a note apologizing to whichever girl he was standing up.

  I’ve never liked ruining my students’ love-lives.

  I started back to the chancellor and Annah...then changed my mind and headed for the room of Sebastian Shore. If Sebastian had been close to Rosalind, perhaps he’d visited her earlier in the evening. Perhaps he’d seen something unusual in her room, some indication of an intruder. And perhaps (the thought made me shudder), he was lying dead in his bed with white curds dribbling from his nose. If Rosalind had been infected and Sebastian had kissed her good-night...

  I didn’t want another corpse on our hands.

  Even if Sebastian hadn’t been infected, the next few minutes wouldn’t be pleasant. I’d have to tell the boy his sweetheart was dead. As a don, I wasn’t a stranger to giving students bad news—over the years, there’d been several occasions where I’d had to sit down with someone and say, “We’ve received a letter from your home...”—but this was the first time I’d have to tell one of my charges about the death of a fellow student. For a moment, I hesitated outside Sebastian’s door, trying to compose appropriate words of sympathy in my mind. I failed utterly. In the end, I took a deep breath and knocked before I slunk away like a coward.

  Seconds passed. The boy didn’t answer my knock.

  I knocked again, louder. Still no answer. I told myself Sebastian was just sound asleep; heaven knows, some teenage boys can sleep through anything. But I couldn’t help remembering poor Rosalind lying sprawled in her silent room. With my mouth dry, I gave one more knock...then got out my pass key.

  There was no wretched smell when I opened Sebastian’s door—just the usual fusty mix of unwashed laundry, cheap lamp oil, and apple cores rotting in an unseen wastebasket. “Sebastian?” I whispered. “It’s Dr. Dhubhai.”

  I hadn’t brought a lamp of my own and the room was inky dark, curtains drawn to shut out the tiniest glimmer of starshine. “Sebastian,” I said more loudly, “sorry to disturb you...”

  No response. When I held my breath, I couldn’t hear a sound—definitely no snores or rustles from the bed. Feeling nausea grow in my stomach, I moved forward in the blackness, expecting any moment to trip over books or clothes or badminton rackets: the debris that boys perennially leave on the floor. But I found no obstacles until I bumped into the bed itself.

  “Sebastian,” I said. “Please wake up. Sebastian!”

  Not a sound.

  I reached into my pockets and found my matchbox. Another chill of déjà vu...but this time, when I lit a match, no ghostly breeze blew it out. The wavering light showed me an empty bed, neatly made, with a piece of paper lying on the pillow. The rest of the room appeared equally tidy—nothing tossed on the floor, every book put away, the desk clear of clutter. I stared ar
ound stupidly till the match burned down to the point where I had to shake it out. There was no dead Sebastian here; it looked as if the boy had cleaned up his room, then vanished.

  Tonight of all nights, I doubted his departure was coincidence.

  Feeling my way up the bed, I found the pillow and the paper lying on it. I could have lit another match to read the note...but I didn’t. Instead, I took the page and hightailed it out of the room—locking the door behind me and scurrying posthaste to the chancellor’s.

  On the way, I couldn’t help speculating why Sebastian had left. The least sinister scenario was that he’d learned Rosalind was dead. Perhaps the two had arranged a midnight assignation, like Wallace Wallace and his unknown lady love. Sebastian had gone to Rosalind’s room; he’d discovered the girl’s corpse; he’d run off in grief and horror. It might have been a shattering experience for the boy, but at least it was basically innocent.

  There were so many other possibilities that weren’t innocent at all.

  By the time I reached the chancellor’s room, the Caryatid had arrived...along with the rest of our drinking party, Myoko, Pelinor, and Impervia. When cousin Fatima delivered my message, the Caryatid had sent the girl to round up the rest of our group. “I wanted us all together,” the Caryatid said. “For the quest, you know. So we can start right away.” From the steely glint in the Caryatid’s eye, I suspected she was really thinking, If I get woken in the middle of the night, everybody else gets dragged out of bed too. Motherly though she was, the Caryatid lived by the rule I’m not going to suffer alone. (Which, now that I think of it, is a very motherly attitude.)

  While I talked with the Caryatid, Annah sat quietly on the couch, making no effort to converse with the others. She wasn’t on bad terms with my tavern-touring cronies; she just didn’t have much in common with them. They were all so extravagantly loud compared to Annah...yet Annah was the one who held my attention as she slid sideways on the couch, making room for me. When I sat beside her, she murmured, “You were gone a long time. I...”

  She didn’t finish her sentence. She didn’t have to: as if the words I was worried jumped straight from her brain into mine.

  “I had to check something,” I said. Raising my voice, I announced to the whole room, “Wallace told me Rosalind had been spending time with Sebastian Shore...so I went to see the boy.” I paused. “He’s gone. Bed made, room tidied, note on the pillow.”

  “Uh-oh,” said Myoko. “Dear me,” said Pelinor. Impervia silently crossed herself. I held out Sebastian’s note to the chancellor, but Opal waved it away. “You read it,” she said. “Aloud.”

  Reluctantly I unfolded the paper and looked at the message. Sebastian had scrawled it quickly in low-grade watery ink; still, the words were legible enough.

  Dear Dr. Dhubhai:

  If you don’t know already, Rosalind Tzekich and I have eloped. We’ll come back when we’re ready, but we just want to be alone for a while. You’ll see us again when we’re married.

  Tell our families not to worry. I know they’ll disapprove to begin with, but when they see how much we love each other, they’re sure to understand.

  Sebastian

  After I finished reading, there was a long silence...broken finally by Pelinor.

  “Perhaps there’s something I’m missing,” he said, “but how can Sebastian think he’s eloped with Rosalind when she’s lying dead in her room?”

  Impervia made an impatient gesture. “The boy must have written the note ahead of time. Most likely, he and Rosalind arranged to leave their dorms separately and meet off campus. Sebastian cleaned his room, wrote the note, then headed out. For all we know, he’s still waiting at the agreed-upon rendezvous: shivering in the dark and crying bitter tears because he believes Rosalind has stood him up.”

  “Or,” said Myoko, “he’s blissfully run off with something that looks like Rosalind but isn’t.”

  I spoke for us all when I said, “Ulp.”

  Though Chancellor Opal was a master of hiding her emotions, the look on her face was stricken. Her thoughts had to be similar to mine: thinking of the thing in the tobacco field. What War-Lord Vanessa had called a Lucifer.

  Pelinor, however, hadn’t heard the chancellor’s tale. He gave his mustache a suck and said, “Come now, Myoko, that’s a tad overimaginative. Impervia’s version makes sense. Sebastian wrote the note...went off to meet Rosalind...didn’t know she would never arrive. Plain and simple.”

  Myoko raised an eyebrow. “So it’s just coincidence Rosalind died the night she planned to elope?”

  Impervia gave a dismissive sniff. “Coincidences happen.”

  “So do doppelgangers,” answered Myoko. She turned to the Caryatid and asked, “Aren’t there spells that can make a person look like someone else?”

  The Caryatid nodded reluctantly. “Some illusion spells can do the trick...but they’re always flawed in some way. They mimic the face but not the rest of the body; or they duplicate the appearance but not the voice; or they do the whole job but last for only a few minutes; or the illusion simply can’t be seen by some people—like Kaylan’s Chameleon, which fools men but not women...”

  “But it is possible,” Myoko said. “That’s the point. And sorcery is just one possibility.” She turned eagerly toward me. “Didn’t the OldTechs make androids that were perfect doubles of people?”

  I shook my head. “The OldTechs never got that sophisticated. Most of their robots were just boxes on wheels, or big metal arms. The few that did appear human were no more than clockwork novelties: programmed with a set of simple gestures and a recorded speech track, but not enough to fool anyone more than a couple seconds.”

  “All right,” Myoko said, “so the OldTechs couldn’t make android duplicates—not during OldTech times, four hundred years ago. But since then, the people who abandoned Earth must have improved their technology. They might be able to make lifelike androids now.”

  I couldn’t help glancing at Opal; her gaze was turned to the floor. Meanwhile, the Caryatid said, “Many things are possible, Myoko dear...but what would be the point? Why would one of our space cousins create a duplicate of Rosalind just to deceive a lovestruck teenager?”

  Myoko didn’t answer immediately—she was looking in my direction, but her eyes were distant. Finally, she gave herself a little shake and said, “Sebastian is more than a lovestruck teenager. He’s special.”

  “How?” asked Impervia.

  Myoko lowered her head. “Sebastian Shore is the most powerful psychic I’ve ever met.”

  Psionic folks always terrified me...even petite little Myoko. If her gift was strong enough to lift Impervia, it was also strong enough to reach into one’s chest and squeeze one’s heart to a standstill. Pinch one’s carotid artery. Snap one’s spinal nerves.

  And that was just telekinesis. Other psychics had different psionic powers. Some were clairsentient, hearing or seeing things at remote distances. Others were telepathic, able to read the thoughts of those around them or (even worse) plant an idea into your brain as if you’d thought of it yourself. Some could artificially arouse emotions; some could induce hallucinations; some could strike you blind. Most, thank heavens, had to concentrate a considerable length of time before they used their power, and few had significant range. Still, they were spooky people...and after a prophecy, a haunting, and a bioweapon, I hated to find there was also a psychic in the mix.

  “So,” Pelinor said, “young Sebastian has psionic powers. Good for him. We need more psychics to...um...do whatever they do. Government work mostly, am I right? Spying and scrying, et cetera?”

  Myoko shook her head. “Only a few work for governors: the empath who sits at Niome’s right hand to tell her when people are lying; the telepaths who provide communications between provinces; clairvoyants who spy on a governor’s enemies. But most psychics don’t end up as provincial officials.” She dropped her gaze to her hands. “Most psychics end up as slaves.”

  “Slaves?” Pelinor repeated
the word in distaste.

  Myoko nodded. “If they’re lucky, they get a gilded cage: working for some rich merchant, a secret advantage in wheeling and dealing. Psychics like that are kept on a short leash, but at least they get some pampering. On the other hand, psychics who aren’t so lucky...” She clenched her fists. “They can be kept in dungeons, half-starved and brutalized, because that’s the way their owners keep freaks in line.”

  Myoko glared at us all, daring us to speak. No one did. Pelinor gave his mustache a self-abashed suck, but stopped immediately as it sounded in the silence.

  Finally Myoko let her hostility drain away as she lowered her gaze. “I went to a school for psychics. A hidden place that developed our abilities. It was as secure as our mentors could make it...but a few students still went missing every year. Kidnapped. There are ruthless criminal bastards who’ll do anything to get their hands on a first-rate psychic.”

  The Caryatid gave a shiver. “You think that might happen to Sebastian?”

  “He’s powerful,” Myoko replied. “He wouldn’t be easy to snatch outright. But if someone created a look-alike of his girlfriend and enticed him to run off somewhere...sooner or later, the look-alike could lead him into a trap, and then he’d be stuck for the rest of his life.”

  “But Myoko,” Impervia said, “how would anyone know he was a psychic? You haven’t told anyone, have you?” She gave Myoko a reproving look. “You didn’t tell us, for example.”

  “No, I didn’t. This academy can handle only weak little abilities—not powerful people like Sebastian. It was sheer accident he was accepted as a ‘local outreach’ student...and sheer accident I recognized the extent of his talents. For the boy’s sake, I couldn’t tell anyone how good he was.”