The Island Deception

by Dan Koboldt

  The road curved right and then back to the left through a copse of trees. When they passed these, they encountered the first signs of life. A handful of people were out in the orchards, pruning deadwood from the trees.

  They were universally dirty, and moved with the slow resignation of the utterly exhausted. The manor house that overlooked the orchard’s rolling hills must have been stunning at one time. Now, though, it had caved in on itself after a bad fire. The workers had tied sheets of cloth into makeshift roofs among the soot-stained ruins. He could have sworn he heard a baby crying.

  Man, I miss home. It was funny how the little things made you appreciate a world with electricity and running water. How Alissians managed to get by without Diaper Genies and infant formula, he couldn’t imagine.

  Their hoofbeats had not gone unnoticed by the people working out in the orchards. They crept down toward the road like nervous hares. Even left their tools behind, which said something about how much fight was left in them. Four men, two women. All of them looked to be in their thirties or forties, but the past few months had probably added a few years.

  A long, low hedge separated the road from the orchard proper. Logan gave the case file a quick study while the workers trudged around it. The owner’s name was Portia Mandelle. Light brown hair, slender, fair complexion. She’d have been easy to spot, if she were still around. So much for that source. He went to put the file into archive mode.

  Which is why he didn’t even see the weapons come out. Kiara gave him a static burst on the comm unit, jerking him back to reality. All six were armed to the teeth. They must have stashed their weapons behind the hedge so as not to look threatening, and like a dope he fell for it. Some of them had swords, some had spears. The one that worried him was the bowman, who’d half bent his bow and held it casually at them. It didn’t waste any strength, but kept the arrow taut on the bow. The mark of a veteran.

  “Whoa!” Logan up his hands. “We don’t want any trouble.”

  One of the women—the taller one who held a spear like she really wanted to jab him with it—stalked forward. “What do you want, then?”

  “We’re looking for someone.” Kiara gestured at the burned-down manor house. “Do you know what happened to the family that used to live there?”

  “What d’you think happened? Folks like you rode up and burned what they couldn’t steal.”

  “Easy, now,” Logan said. “We’re all friends here.”

  “That’s to be determined. You some of the admiral’s men?” the woman demanded.

  “No, we’re definitely not with him.”

  “And for what it’s worth, we’re not both men, either,” Kiara said.

  The woman’s expression softened from granite to limestone. She lowered the tip of her spear and smoothed her wild-strewn hair. There was something feminine about the gesture that didn’t match her persona. No, not feminine. Genteel.

  Son of a bitch, Logan thought. She’s Portia gods-damned Mandelle.

  “Those are some nice horses you got,” said the bowman. He had a voice like gravel underneath a boot heel. “How ’bout you climb down nice and slow, and take the long walk back to the city?”

  The other workers raised their weapons again. They eyed the horses with a feral kind of hunger.

  Logan made a quick threat assessment. The bowman’s the real problem. He could probably handle the farmers, but a trained shot with a longbow could feather him before he even got five paces. The lieutenant seemed to be considering it herself. She glanced at Logan long enough that he could flash her two quick hand signals.

  False. Woman. Hopefully that was enough.

  The lieutenant was cool as a cucumber as she rolled her shoulders and cast an ever-so-casual glance at Portia. Only someone who knew her, who’d served with her, would make the flash of recognition in her eyes.

  “Maybe I wasn’t clear,” Kiara said. “We’re looking for Portia Mandelle.”

  “Yeah, and who are you?” asked the bowman.

  “Some old Felaran friends.”

  “Felara’s a long way from here, lady,” he said.

  But surprise had flickered across Portia’s face when Kiara spoke the code words. Old Felaran friends was how the company’s research team signed their communiqués to Portia Mandelle. How they identified themselves when they needed something from her. It was right there in the case report—Logan had seen it himself. Count on the lieutenant to play that one straight from memory.

  “Jeb, you can put down that bow,” Portia said. She turned to offer Kiara a nervous smile. “Cousin! I hardly recognized you.”

  “You’re Portia?” Kiara asked with just the right amount of incredulity.

  “Yes.”

  “But you don’t look anything like her.”

  Oh, that’s just cruel. But you stick a spear in the lieutenant’s face, and there was going to be a price to pay.

  Portia straightened to give her a level stare. “We’ve had a rough autumn.”

  “You poor thing.” Kiara tilted her head. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?”

  “Come up to the house, and I’ll make us some tea,” Portia said.

  Kiara dismounted, and tossed her reins to one of the swordsmen. He was so desperate to catch them, he dropped his sword instead.

  Amateurs. Hell, maybe Logan could have taken them after all.

  The two women walked off arm-in-arm toward the shell of the manor house. Kiara gave him a quiet signal with her right hand: stay alert. The other woman scurried after them, which left Logan and the other men holding the bag. Or horses, as it were.

  “Well, guess I’m not invited,” he muttered. He slid off the horse and tossed his reins to the other swordsman, who managed to keep his sword but ended up holding it upside down.

  But Logan couldn’t blame them. He knew the grit it took to get through civil unrest. How hungry it made you. How it changed you. He guessed they hadn’t had a solid meal in a long time. I should stick around to make sure they don’t eat the horses. And the orchards needed a lot of work. So he walked up to the bowman, who seemed to be the man in charge. “Looks like you got some deadwood yet to trim.”

  “Enough for two lifetimes.”

  “Can I lend a hand?” I never turn down a little yard work. In his line of work, he rarely got to do anything so mundane.

  The bowman eyed him up and down, as if not quite believing the sincerity of the offer. He finally decided and gave a sharp nod. “Much appreciated. We’ll find you some shears.”

  Logan watched as Kiara and Portia disappeared into the remains of the manor house. One asset down, a hundred to go. That was assuming the woman would still work with them. They’d need every scrap of intel they could get to undercut Holt’s influence here. Because Holt himself had a six-month lead. No, Logan reminded himself.

  A fifteen-year lead.

  Chapter 17

  The Drop-off

  “An aura of mystery and fear surrounds Alissia magic-users; I’m certain that’s exactly how they want it.”

  —R. Holt, “Alissian Superstition”

  The Purity was sailing blind. Quinn didn’t realize this until he came up on deck and saw how thick the fog was.

  “What the hell?”

  Visibility might have been ten feet, if that. He stood at the center of the ship and could just make out the rail on either side, but grayness cloaked the ocean beyond. It was like they’d sailed right into a storm cloud. The air was frigid and heavy with moisture. A dew-like sheen of condensation coated everything on deck. The cacophony of sounds that he’d grown used to—sails flapping, wood creaking, men calling out to one another—were muted. Like hearing an argument in the adjoining room at a cheap motel.

  The sailors went about their work as if this were perfectly normal. Not that anyone had been particularly chatty since the funerals, but still. Shouldn’t they be a little concerned? He made his way up to the bridge. Simeon had the wheel himself, and stared off into the grayness in front of it.<
br />
  “This is some serious fog,” Quinn said.

  “That it is.” The captain glanced down at a heavy leather-bound book in front of him. He took out a silver pocket watch, glanced at it, put it away, and made a slight turn at the wheel. Maybe five degrees or so, but it was hard to tell in the fog.

  Quinn bit his tongue to keep from asking what that was about.

  The fog fell away as suddenly as it had arrived. Sunlight bloomed on the deck, and on the azure waters beneath the ship.

  “Landfall!” a sailor shouted from the crow’s nest.

  An island lay about a mile ahead, a few points to starboard. Seven narrow, crenellated towers stood at its center. From this distance, they looked like the spires on a tall, narrow crown, and Quinn drew in a sharp breath as he recognized them right away. This was the heart of the Alissian magical community, an island that CASE Global never even knew existed until the last mission. He’d been the one to discover it, a fact that he’d leveraged like hell when the company wanted him to return. Sure, I found it by getting myself kidnapped, but the ends justify the means.

  Simeon changed the heading, and pointed the bow even farther away from the island.

  “Are we making another stop first?” Quinn asked.

  Simeon laughed. “Why, you want to go back through the fog again?”

  Not really. “But aren’t we . . . kind of going the long way around?”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” The captain checked his watch again, then shouted, “’Ware the boom!”

  Quinn jumped over and grabbed the rail. By the time the captain gave a warning, you generally had about three seconds to get ahold of something. He’d learned that the hard way. When he looked up again, Simeon had turned past the island by about ten degrees. Maybe he’s going blind.

  For the next two hours, Simeon zigzagged them back and forth seemingly at random. Quinn could have sworn it was about midday when they’d first emerged from the fog, but the sun still hung overhead like it hadn’t moved at all. At last, they rounded the rocky breakwater that protected the harbor, and the bay of the Enclave docks spilled open before them.

  There she was. The Victoria. Even half a mile out, she was as elegant and intimidating a ship as he’d ever seen. Simeon whistled in admiration. “She’s a beauty, ain’t she?”

  “Can’t argue with that.” Quinn lowered his voice. “Hey, think you can swing close for a look?”

  Simeon shook his head. “The harbormaster runs a tight operation, and she’s extra fussy about any ships going too close.”

  If only he knew. “Well, it looks like a hell of a ship. Not as nice as the Purity, of course, but still.”

  “You’re a gentleman. Dead wrong, but a gentleman.”

  Quinn smiled to himself, and didn’t push the issue.

  Simeon eased the wheel in the direction of the Victoria. “Reckon this wind might push us a little closer all by itself.”

  “Wind’ll do that.”

  Simeon ordered the sails trimmed almost all the way back, so that the Purity glided across the glass-like bay with barely a wake at all. Quinn put his arms over the rail, pushing his sleeve up enough to get the high-tech bracelet clear. One little button, and he could activate the tiny high-def camera. A photo of their missing ship would rock CASE Global’s world. Not to mention the fact that Captain Relling was now the Enclave’s harbormaster.

  Then again, these revelations would also bring up uncomfortable questions about why he didn’t mention this after the last mission.

  God, the ship looks pristine. Not a single barnacle marred the hull, and the sails were billowing clouds of spotless white. The wrist-camera tempted him.

  That was a dangerous game. He’d assured Kiara that extraneous CASE Global “visitors” would be unwelcome here, which is the only reason he got to come alone. But if she learned about the Victoria, all propriety and intelligence-gathering went out the doorway.

  He put his sleeve back down. “Well, you got us here,” he told the captain. “Might not have been the most direct route, but here we are.”

  “Not fast enough for you, eh?” Simeon clapped him on the shoulder. “Tell you what. Next time you pilot a ship into a harbor controlled by magicians, you can pick the route.”

  “You chose that route?”

  “I like to give ’em plenty of advance notice, if you know what I mean. They weren’t expecting the Purity for another couple o’ months.”

  And magicians don’t like surprises. “Copy that.”

  The first time Quinn had seen the docks at the Enclave, he’d been shocked at just how clean they were. All of the wood had been sound, not so much as stained by the salt water. That was, what, a couple of months ago? It’s funny how their spotless appearance didn’t even get him to look twice.

  “Reef sails!” the captain shouted. The sailors jumped to obey, and the push from the wind faded.

  “Three minutes, Quinn,” Simeon said.

  “Hmm?”

  “Three minutes until you’ve got to jump. Best pack up!”

  “Oh, crap!” Quinn flew down to his cabin. He threw on his saddlebag, then saw his sword-belt and cursed again. Belt, then pack, then bow and quiver. He got it all draped over his shoulders and rattled as he ran back up to the deck. He hustled over to the bridge, doing his best to ignore the amused chortles of the crewmen. The ship was still coasting, but they were a ways off from the docks yet. It might even be a quarter mile.

  He panted until he caught his breath, then glanced up at the mast. “Did you put on more sail?”

  “Had to. We didn’t have enough to make the dock.”

  “You said I’d have to jump off in three minutes!”

  “More like ten, I s’pose.”

  “Seriously?”

  “I wanted to see how fast you could do it.” The captain laughed—the same booming kind of laugh his brother had. Quinn did a double take. Part of him wondered if he and Benvolio were really the same person. He should radio back to Mendez and check to see if the riverboat captain was still in town.

  “You and Benvolio are two peas in a pod.”

  “Think so?” He rubbed a hand through his beard, another thing that his brother did almost the exact same way. “We don’t always see eye-to-eye, I’ll admit. But I’m glad he sent you to me. Probably made the difference against those marauders.”

  Quinn nodded. He’d just as soon not think about that part of the trip. “If you don’t mind, I’ll say goodbye to the crewmen.”

  Ten minutes was just enough time to shake hands or share a joke with the sailors on the boat. After the battle, he’d taken the time to get to know every single one of them, when he could. They’d formed a kind of bond over that, and over the loss of Timmers. The lookout had been well-liked, and since Quinn had offered to fill in for him afterward, the crew had sort of taken him in as one of their own.

  A few of them could write, so Quinn told them where to send a message—a name and village in Landor where the research team regularly intercepted messages—in case any of them wanted to get in touch. It would win points with the lieutenant, who’d insisted that they begin working to rebuild the intelligence network that had crashed when Holt went rogue. You couldn’t do much better than sailors on a trading galley. Sea travel was still the fastest means of non-magical transportation here, so that usually put mariners a little ahead of the curve.

  He gave the address to the captain, too. “I wouldn’t mind hearing from you, if you get the chance.”

  “Might take you up on that,” Simeon said. “Any chance you’ll be looking for a berth once you’re done with this? We could use you.”

  Has to be a joke. Quinn laughed. “You offering me a job?”

  The captain gave him a serious look. “Somethin’ tells me you’re destined for bigger things. But if they don’t pan out, I’d be happy to take you on.”

  “I appreciate that. But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.”

  “Well said.”
<
br />   Thank you, Robert Frost. There was nothing better than a naive audience to make someone sound like a genius. “Tell your handsome brother thanks for me, will you? If he even exists.”

  Simeon winked. “He’ll get the message.”

  Chapter 18

  The Prodigal Son

  “The best place a magician can be? Two steps ahead of the audience.”

  —Art of Illusion, April 11

  Simeon might have exaggerated how little time they had before the drop-off, but he wasn’t kidding about Quinn having to jump. The Purity barely slowed as it neared the dock. Then the captain started to turn it, and was shouting at his men to raise sail. Now or never. He held his breath, jumped, and made the dock. He had to take a knee, but he stuck the landing. The Purity’s crew whooped and applauded. He grinned and made a mock bow. Still got it.

  Six other vessels were moored on the long Enclave dock, each of them an anthill of activity. Quinn’s teacher Moric had assured him that the Enclave island itself was entirely self-sufficient. Still, needs and wants were two different things. The first vessel he passed was in the process of offloading dark gray burden animals. Quinn chuckled when he recognized them.

  Tioni smart mules.

  A pair of women in the robes and blue sashes of upper-level students were handling the heavy lifting. They stood at the edge of the dock and chanted softly, and invisible hands lifted each mule out of the hold to the dock. A never-ending line of runners—boys and girls aged about ten or twelve—took turns walking them along the docks to the shore. It created an unusual chaos on the normally serene docks.

  Captain Relling’s voice rose above the din. “I’m telling you, it’s the Purity, and she’s not on the schedule.” She strode down the dock at the head of a phalanx of Enclave officials.

  Shit. The Enclave’s harbormaster was about the last person he wanted to bump into on his glorious return. One careless slip around her, one hummed tune or pop culture reference, and she’d out him for what he was: another impostor. Both of them were playing the same deception game here. He didn’t know how Relling ended up working for the Enclave, but everyone at CASE Global thought she was MIA. Presumed dead.