by Dan Koboldt
It wasn’t a wagon train.
The first outriders galloped into view. The fact that there were outriders told Logan that this wasn’t a regular caravan. One of them spotted him and Kiara, and turned on a dime to ride hard back the way he’d come. The other one loosened his sword in its scabbard, but didn’t draw. Instead, he unlashed a horse bow from his saddle and nocked an arrow. He trotted away slowly, watching Logan the whole time.
These guys were pros, and that told him exactly what was coming. Shit. “Gotta be a Caralissian wine train.”
Guarding a Caralissian wine shipment was the highest-paying mercenary gig in Alissia. They only hired the best. Logan knew that too well, having engaged a group of them on a lonely country road fourteen years ago. Not by choice, not that it made any difference. He’d watched some of his best-trained soldiers slaughtered like cattle, and almost been killed himself. His hand tightened on his sword grip with the memory.
“Will they see us as a threat?” Kiara asked.
“They see everyone as a threat. These guys don’t screw around.”
Hooves from the southwest. And there’s the courier. Logan didn’t even have to look. The hoof beats had the cadence of a long horseman moving at speed, and Murphy’s Law guaranteed he wouldn’t show up until an armed party of mercenaries happened to be approaching.
“What do you want to do?” he asked.
“How long until the caravan gets here?”
“Maybe three, five minutes.”
Kiara backed her horse out into the road, and positioned herself to look like she’d been thrown. She even took the clip out of her hair, so it fell in disarray around her face. She brushed it aside enough to see him. “Well? Get in position.”
“Right.” He ducked down into a natural hollow that was half-concealed beneath a tangle of fallen timber. Ten seconds. He checked the pneumatic pistol and flipped off the safety as the courier swung into view. Kiara groaned and tried to sit up, as if still rattled by the fall. She yanked the reins without warning, and her mare whinnied in protest.
The horseman spotted her and sawed his reins. “Whoa! Are you hurt, m’lady?”
Kiara muttered something unintelligible. She came up to her hands and knees, then collapsed flat on the ground. She’d really missed her calling on the stage. The act was so convincing Logan had to fight the instinct to run and help her himself.
Now’s the moment we see what kind of man he is.
The courier glanced around, lifted his reins, then sighed. He slid out of the saddle and led the horse over to her. Logan eased down into a prone shooting position, braced his arm, and took aim. A good man, then. Sorry about this . . .
Pfft.
The dart struck him right in the back of the neck. A textbook shot. The man cursed and swatted at it like he’d been stung. He found the dart and pulled it loose. His forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. Then he collapsed like a rag doll.
Kiara was already moving, and caught him around his shoulders just before he face-planted. She grunted under the weight. Logan scrambled up and ran over to help her. They eased the man onto his back. Kiara ran over and pulled her horse clear of the road. The dust cloud of the Caralissian wine train had moved closer. If they came into view now, it wouldn’t look good.
Logan took the reins of the courier’s mount—an ancient roan mare that must have been called out of retirement—and pulled it over beside the others. Then he strapped feed bags on all three to keep them busy. Kiara had the messenger’s case open, and pulled out eight or nine dispatches.
She cursed. “They’re sealed with wax.”
“There’s a hot wire in the kit. Looks like a cheese slicer.”
God bless the techs in the R & D lab. They’d developed an entire series of tools for document alteration in-world, all of them disguised to resemble ordinary things. The hot wire melted just enough wax seal to lift it without damaging the seal itself. That was just for starters. They could also copy the seals, color-match the ink—whatever it took.
Right now, he’d be happy just to get the damn things open quickly.
Logan hobbled the horses, then jogged over to pitch in.
For each missive, they lifted the seal, unfolded the parchment, and took a few high-res images with a wrist-camera. These were synced with Kiara’s tablet for translation. Logan resealed each letter while the lieutenant opened the next. Eight missives, all of them a single page of dense handwritten text. They had six done when the outriders returned. They were a quarter mile off when they showed, close enough to see the horses, but not much more than that.
Kiara glanced up. “Why don’t you see what you can do to make us less threatening? I’ll finish this.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He hid the weapons first, because that’s what the outriders would be looking for. Their swords went into scabbards on the horses. He tucked the crossbow beneath a blanket, and slid the pneumatic pistol into a concealed carry holster on his left side.
“One to go,” Kiara said. “Don’t forget the wineskin.”
Shit, almost did forget. He got it out of the saddlebags, along with the other spare blanket and a some glasses. He spread the blanket out on between the lieutenant and the courier, who was still out cold. Onto this he threw a couple of plates, a handful of figs, and the last of the dried meat. It wasn’t Martha Stewart, but it would pass for an impromptu picnic.
Then he poured the wine into three glasses, and tucked one into the courier’s hand. They’d propped him up against a tree so that it looked like he’d passed out.
Very Weekend at Bernie’s.
The wine caravan swung into view, and the outriders fell into pace beside it. Twenty mercs in total. All of them carried at least two visible weapons. Swords were the most popular choice, but polearms and maces made their presence known as well. Not to mention the outrider with the bow. The caravan halted a hundred yards down the road. A small group detached itself and rode forward, while the others tightened the circle around their precious cargo.
Logan tried to keep casual. If they saw us dart the courier, we’re in trouble. No amount of posturing would explain away the message copying operation. And some of these were messages to Caralis, which wouldn’t bode well. At best, they’d be treated as hostiles. At worst, as enemy spies, and forcibly taken into Valteron City to explain what they’d done.
The five soldiers fanned out into a wedge formation as they approached. Three men, two women, and they never spoke a word to one another. Like they’ve done this a hundred times before.
“Morning,” Logan called. He reclined against the tree, and topped off his wineglass with shaky hands. Spilled a little bit on his pants in the process, and pretended not to notice. Kiara drained her glass and held it out for a refill.
The mercenaries reined in and looked them over. Their faces were grim, but the fact that they hadn’t simply ridden Logan and Kiara down was encouraging.
“We are about to bring a wagon past,” said one of the mercenaries. She had a husky voice, and fingered the hilt of a cavalry saber like she was itching to use it.
“What kind of wagon?” Logan asked.
“That is not your concern.”
Logan held up his hands, spilling more wine on himself in the process. “Just making conversation.”
She pointed a mailed finger at the unconscious courier. “What’s wrong with him?”
“Can’t hold his wine,” Kiara said.
One of the otherwise silent mercenaries snickered. The woman in charge quieted him with a glance. “You will not approach the caravan. You will not touch your horses until an hour after we’ve gone.”
Time to give a show. Logan put on his overserious face, like the guy at the bar trying to fake at sobriety. “We get it.”
Oh, but the speech wasn’t over yet.
“When we’ve gone, you will not follow us,” the woman said. “Nor will you tell anyone of our numbers, arms, or the time that we passed.”
“Got to be honest, I’
m not sure we’ll even remember this conversation,” Logan said.
“Enjoy your picnic.” She said it like an order, though her tone assured that it really couldn’t be followed.
They rode back to the caravan, which soon trundled into motion. The outriders thundered ahead to scout around the blind curve in the road. The rest of the escort gave Logan and Kiara hard looks as they rode past. The only friendly one was the vintner, a portly man who drove the wagon’s horse team. He waved and lifted a mug in salute.
There was always a vintner with Caralissian wine caravans, someone who vouched for the shipment upon delivery. Logan had yet to meet a sober one. He and Kiara returned the salute. The whole caravan rumbled out of sight, leaving only a cloud of dust and the smell of horse manure in its wake. Logan watched them ride out of view, then tossed a fig into his mouth and leaned back. “Guess I’ve got the next hour off.”
“You can’t be serious,” Kiara said.
“We gave them our word. What if they’ve got a rearguard coming up to make sure we keep it?” Logan wouldn’t put it past Caralissian mercenaries to pull something like that, either. Only because it’s what he’d do himself.
“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to wait. I can forward the raw scans back to command, to double-check the translations.”
Logan took another drink of the wine, which wasn’t as bad as he’d remembered. Certainly not anywhere near the quality of what had just been carted by, but still passable. “Yeah, take a load off, Lieutenant. You’ve earned it.”
She cocked her head, and pressed her lips together. “No more wine for you.”
They took their positions again before the courier regained consciousness. Kiara put her horse to where it had been, and backed the roan mare to a few paces behind it. Logan’s was another ten paces back, as if he’d come upon this scene and stopped to help.
Then he and Kiara knelt beside the courier and pulled him up to a sitting position. The man was slow to come around. Too slow.
“Maybe we should speed this along.” Logan uncapped a snifter tube and waved it near the man’s nose.
He jerked upright, gasped, and looked at them wild-eyed.
“You all right there, fella?” Logan asked. “You took a nasty fall.”
“Wha-what happened?”
“My horse had just thrown me, and you were kind enough to help,” Kiara said.
She spoke so quietly, with such softness to her voice, that Logan about did a double take. She’s going for a goddamn Oscar today.
“I remember that. I got . . . stung or something.”
“Must have been one of these biting blood flies,” Logan said. The tranquilizer darts underwent a conformational change upon impact to resemble the little insects that plagued the Alissian south. Most people would smack a blood fly on sight, since the bites sometimes caused unconsciousness. Smashing the darts made them unrecognizable. Yet another stroke of genius by the eggheads back home. “Damn things are merciless. I’d just come around the bend in the road, and saw you fall.”
“How long was I out?” asked the courier.
“Not more than a few minutes,” Kiara said.
“Gods!” The man remembered his message bag and clutched at it. He fumbled the clasps open, looked inside, and sagged with obvious relief.
“It was a noble thing you did, stopping to help me,” Kiara said.
“Doesn’t sound like it,” the man muttered.
“Oh, hush.” She tucked an emerald broach into the courier’s open satchel. “A little token of my affection.”
“I’m not allowed to take—” the courier started.
“I insist.”
“Take it, my good man,” Logan said. “My stepsister can afford it, I promise you.”
“Even so.” But he saw the size of the emerald, and his mouth fell open.
He just needs a little push. Logan leaned over and whispered, “It’s not the first time she’s given a man her token, if you know what I mean.”
“I’m sure I do not.” He stood, and rubbed the back of his neck in askance. The dart hadn’t left so much as a scratch on him, and he’d have needed two mirrors to see it in any case. “Happy to be of assistance.” He still looked a little shaken as he mounted and rode off.
“I think he bought it,” Logan said. “Good call on the tracking pin.”
The broach had a tiny microchip that would ping any of the comm network’s towers as it passed. Not nearly as good as GPS, but it would give them a rough idea of where he went. The lieutenant had called an audible on that play, but a good one.
“So, I’m your stepsister now?” she asked.
“I thought it would help sell it. With you more a damsel in distress.”
“What about the part where you called me a floozy?”
Logan winced. “I guess I got a little carried away.”
“Let’s skip that part next time.”
“Copy that.”
Kiara’s tablet buzzed twice. “The translations are ready,” she said.
“What did we get?”
She flipped through the translations, giving each a brief scan. “Better trade terms, and an offer of friendship for Caralis.”
“That’s a new leaf for them,” Logan said.
Kiara grunted. “This one’s an order for ten Pirean ships.”
“What kind?”
“Deep-hulled transports.”
Valteron already had the largest fleet, and now Holt wanted even more ships. What the hell is he up to?
Chapter 22
Unconventional
“Skimp on the clothes and the venue and the swag, but never on the equipment.”
—Art of Illusion, March 23
Sella’s advanced magic class was in a familiar spot: a rock-studded stream just above a two-story waterfall. Only this time the water was ice-cold, and no team of magicians waited below the waterfall to catch them if they went in. There were only two other students today: a skinny kid who talked fast (and constantly) and a dark-haired girl who’d blithely ignored both of them.
Sella showed up, walking stick in hand, and chivvied them out to rocks in the dead center of the stream. Total déjà vu. The last time he’d been here, Jillaine distracted him and he’d been swept over the waterfall.
Hopefully this lesson would end better.
He checked the wayfinder stone self-consciously as he found his balance. He’d not offered it back to Moric the night before, and wasn’t planning to. If it could really do as the man said, he couldn’t let it fall into the wrong hands. I must keep the precious.
“All of you are here because you’re destined to become magicians,” Sella called to them. She did something in the air in front of her, almost like sketching a little circle, and suddenly her voice boomed in Quinn’s ears like she was standing right next to him. Jesus!
“But magic has proven stubborn for you.” Sella pointed at each of them with her walking stick in a not-too-subtle gesture. “So we’ll have to beat the resistance out of you any way that we can.”
“Well, that sounds delightful,” Quinn muttered. He’d taken a broad stone in the deeper water farther away from the falls. If he fell in, he’d at least have a shot to grab another rock before he was swept over. And he’d packed a special bit of tech that would help on the way down, too.
That would teach Sella not to use the same teaching tool twice.
“Prepare yourselves,” Sella said.
The dark-haired girl snorted and rolled her eyes.
Sella frowned. “I saw that, Jade.” She dipped the end of her walking stick into the stream and started muttering to herself. The water slowly rose as she chanted. Whitecaps danced atop the racing water as it threatened to flow over the stones where Quinn and his classmates were perched.
Joke’s on her this time.
He’d insisted on better boots before starting this mission, and the prototyping lab had delivered in spades. The Gore-Tex inner lining of his boots was completely waterproof, and the high-fric
tion microgrip sole was something CASE Global developed for professional rock climbers. It would take a goddamn tidal wave to knock him off the rock. He had a couple other tricks up his sleeves, too. Literally. The next-generation elemental projector was strapped to his right forearm, and the backup was on his left.
Sella frowned when the rush of water didn’t even make him flinch. She stopped her chant and moved back from the stream’s banks. Victory was going to taste so sweet.
Then she produced a small, pale instrument. What is that, animal bone? She pressed her lips to it and blew. Quinn didn’t hear anything, but it still raised hackles on his neck. “What the—”
He saw the fins first. Dark triangles sliced through the water, rushing downstream toward where he and the others perched on the rocks. They zigzagged left and right as they came, moving like predators.
Got to be an illusion.
There was no way the stream was deep enough to hold something that big. And Alissian sharks lived in salt water, as far as Quinn knew. But it was a hell of a trick. He had to give her that. Beneath the thick fins, water churned over their thick bodies like submarines coming to the surface.
That’s right around when Jade started screaming. The other kid had paled and gone stock-still, as if paralyzed.
Just an illusion. Just an illusion. Quinn had seen hundreds of visual deceptions like this, and even created a few himself. That didn’t make it any less convincing, though. Especially when the largest of the sharks peeled off from the others and made a beeline right for the rock where he stood.
Wham!
The impact shook his stone so hard that he almost fell. He stutter-stepped to the other rock behind him with one leg to keep his balance. All right, so it’s not an illusion.
The shark circled him, churning the water as it came. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jade lose her balance and fall in. The current swept her over the falls. The skinny kid had closed his eyes and started chanting. Or maybe praying.
Quinn’s shark charged at him again, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to stay on the rock it was heading at. He made a jump and landed on another one, flailing his arms wildly to keep his balance. “Whoa!” Jesus. That had nearly been it.