by Dan Koboldt
The city proper was much as she remembered from the first mission. Just as hot, just as crowded, but somehow more relaxed. The contentment showed in the way people met one another’s eyes as they passed, how they laughed and bargained and gossiped with one another. They all looked somewhat underfed, but the hard edge of hunger was gone. A few burned-out buildings still darkened the avenues and plazas, though. The scars of civil unrest were slow to fade.
Twenty minutes later, she was sweating beneath her heavy cloaks, and the ship-shaped palace of the Valteroni Prime loomed ahead. A cluster of guards challenged them at the main gate.
“Do you have an appointment?” asked the officer-in-charge. He was fair-haired and a little young for his position, probably fresh out of officer school. Gold could buy decent positions in the city guards or the military, but training always told. The uniform was as spotless as his posture was straight.
“No, I don’t,” Veena said. “But I think the Prime will see me.”
“I’m sorry, miss. You’ll have to send a letter to the clerk.”
“What should I say in such a letter?” Veena asked.
“Whatever you like.” He made eye contact with her bearers, and signaled them to turn it around.
She pursed her lips, as if pondering it. “I suppose it would start something like ‘My name is Veena Chaudri.’ ”
The officer faltered in his gesturing. He looked back at her, and recognition bloomed in his eyes. “My mistake, m’lady. I believe you do have an appointment.”
She smiled. “Wonderful.”
He made a sweeping gesture toward the stairs that led up to the palace doors. “Right this way.”
Four guards materialized to escort Veena into the palace. No Enclave magicians this time. Maybe he didn’t see her as a threat. Or perhaps they simply had better things to do than make deliveries for the Valteroni Prime.
The guards took her to an airy meeting chamber. A dozen men and women sat around the oblong wooden table. They had the garb and self-important manner of high-level government functionaries. But Veena only had eyes for the man at the head of the table. The man who’d taught her nearly everything she knew about this world. She didn’t realize how much she missed him. His face drew her like a lodestone. His smile cast warming spells on her heart, which beat far too fast for comfort.
Richard Holt held court in a disarming kind of way. He spoke in quiet tones, and infrequently, so that everyone else in the room had to watch him to avoid impropriety. His voice had a natural cadence. Veena closed her eyes and basked in the sound of it.
“. . . I’m not certain I understand your hesitation. These new trade agreements will benefit everyone,” he was saying.
One of his councillors coughed into a closed hand. “I can’t say I like the concessions we’re giving Caralis.” He was heavyset, probably pushing fifty, with a brown-and-gray beard that didn’t entirely cover the jowls.
“You—that is, we—have spurned our northerly neighbors for too long,” Holt said.
“No more than they’ve spurned us. Why should we answer that with generosity?”
“For a single reason: to allow us to ship Caralissian wine.”
“They’ll never ship the wine,” said the jowly man.
“They might, if we were on better terms. And given our history, I think it might be appropriate if Valteron were to make the first gesture of friendship.”
He spotted her then, standing quietly behind her escort. He gave a broad smile, a true Richard smile. “We’ll pick this up in the morning, as soon as we have a response from the Caralissian emissary.”
The staff members bristled at the dismissal in his tone. Then they followed his gaze to Veena, and suddenly they were all on their feet, muttering apologies. They jostled with one another to exit by the far door. Two of them forgot their hats.
“You came!” Holt said. In six long strides he’d reached her, and took her hands in his. His gaze flickered to her escort. “Leave us.”
The guards filed out, though it looked like they took up positions just outside the door as they closed it.
“Come, sit.” Holt gestured to two of the recently vacated chairs at the table. He always liked to sit for a briefing. Haste is the enemy of thoroughness, he used to say. “I take it you received my message.”
Veena took the offered chair, and marveled at how comfortable it was. The wood must be hand-carved, and the lumbar cushion felt like silk. “In Pirea, yes. How did you know I’d be there?”
“I didn’t. I sent it to every port.”
“Every port on the mainland?”
He spread out his hands. “How else could I be certain you’d receive it?”
There were six major port cities in Alissia, and easily twice that number of smaller trading centers like Bay of Crabs. The expense in couriers alone had to be exorbitant. “You never liked to take chances,” she said. “Until recently, at least.”
He smiled. “I only gamble when I must. When the alternative is unconscionable.”
“You’ve kept busy, from what I hear.”
He blew out a breath and shook his head. “There’s just so much to do, Veena. That’s why I asked you to come.”
Her heart pounded in her ears. She fought to keep calm. “Valteron City seems to be doing well.”
“We’re recovering, but I’ll soon have bigger fish to fry.”
“That’s exactly what the company’s worried about.”
He snickered. “The company. You know what the executives’ problem is? They have no patience.”
“They gave you fifteen years.”
“And I told them it would be another fifteen before we truly understood this world well enough to best know how to use it.”
“I’m not sure they have that kind of time.”
He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, in any case. They have no real say here.”
“I wouldn’t be here if it wasn’t for them,” Veena said. Neither would you, she didn’t add.
“Be that as it may, Alissia is not a farm field to be harvested when the time is most convenient. This world is a treasure, Veena.”
“I’ve never said otherwise.” And now that she’d seen it for herself, she never would.
“I want to make sure it stays that way.” He drummed his fingers on the table. He took a breath, and looked up at her again. “I could really use some help.”
“I’m not sure how I—”
He stood suddenly, and began pacing. “You’d have a position in my cabinet, as cultural minister. Complete autonomy to study this world how and where you will.”
God, he’s serious. And he spoke to her as a peer. Not that he’d talked down to her before, but they’d kept that distance so necessary between mentor and protégé. Not anymore.
“And . . . what would our relationship be?” she asked.
“You’d answer to me, certainly. Everyone in Valteron answers to the Prime.”
“But we’d work closely together?”
He stopped pacing, and put a hand on top of hers. His long fingers were ink-stained, but no less warm for it. “As closely as we did before. More, even.”
She worked up her courage enough to meet his gaze. His face was so animated. It was hard not to look at it and become lost. “How much more?”
His lips tightened, and his eyes grew more distant. Ever so gently, he lifted his hand from hers. “As close as two colleagues can be.”
It was an odd thing how emotions could evoke physical pain. Her heart hurt from the disappointment. She felt suddenly chill, as if the warmth between them had dissipated. She barely heard as he made promises of the resources she’d have, the access, the intelligence network. At last, he stopped and looked at her expectantly.
“It’s a fabulous offer, Richard,” she said. “I’m more honored than you could know.”
His smile fell away. “That sounds like the preamble to a refusal.”
“It’s not.” She sighed, and it wasn’t just for show. “I just
need some time to think it over.”
He smiled again. He thought he had her. “Of course. I don’t expect you to agree this instant.”
She paused. “Even if I wanted to say yes, I’m not sure I could get back here on my own.” Not with Julio watching me like a hawk.
“Let me worry about that. But the sooner you decide, the easier it will be.”
“I understand,” she said. “And I will think about it.”
“Good.”
“I should probably get going.”
“Yes, yes.” He offered a hand, and helped her up. “I hope you’ll give my best to Julio.”
The remark caught her off guard, and she hesitated long enough to give away the truth. Damn. “How do you—”
“Come, Veena. What kind of Prime would I be if I didn’t know what was going on right outside the palace walls?”
She closed her mouth, resisting the urge to lie. Silence was better. Her escort-guards opened the door and reentered, as if they sensed the meeting had come to an end. Or timed it, most likely. Holt was a move ahead, as usual.
But she doubted anyone would see the next one coming.
Chapter 33
Without a Trace
“Magicians love fire-based illusions, as our many trips to the burn unit can attest.”
—Art of Illusion, May 20
The interruption might have been partly Quinn’s fault, but he preferred to blame period dress. He and Jillaine were kissing in her room. Everything was going according to plan. And, by God, she’s a good kisser, too. Not to mention strong for her size—she had her arms wrapped tight around him. But her ball gown, as pretty as it was, became a bulky and unwelcome barrier between them.
It needed to go.
He pulled her tighter, and ran his hands down her back. It felt perfectly smooth. No buttons or fastenings. He caressed her sides, and found nothing. Maybe there were no fastenings. He tried to shimmy her dress down, but it didn’t move. Even worse, she grabbed his wrists and leaned back.
“What’s wrong?” he whispered.
She furrowed her brow and looked to the side. “I feel like there’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Why do you say that?”
“You didn’t mention my dress at all.”
“What? I said it was lovely.”
“And now you seem totally baffled by it.”
“I’ll try harder.” He leaned in again.
She pushed him back. “The laces are in front.”
“Oh. Thank you.” Don’t have to ask me twice. He wanted to be kissing her again.
She let him kiss her. It was glorious. Then she pulled back again. It was pure devastation.
What now?
“I’m surprised you didn’t know that,” she said.
He grinned. “Well, I don’t wear a lot of dresses.”
“This is a Landorian ball gown.”
“Oh. Right.” Good to know.
She pushed him back another inch. There was a coldness in the distance between them now. “You’re not really from Landor, are you?”
Uh-oh. He was so keyed up that he didn’t control his reaction. His face gave him up.
“Gods! You aren’t!” she said.
Damn, I’ve been away from Vegas too long.
He looked down. “I thought our pasts don’t matter at the Enclave.”
“You told a whole story about it, at your trial.”
“Well, I had to say something.”
“And then you made that snow. Was that a deception as well?”
“You were there. Did it seem like one?”
She bit her lip. Thoughtful, and uncertain. “That’s not really an answer.”
Quinn regained his poker face and focused on what he knew best: misdirection. “Look, when I first came here, it wasn’t by choice. Moric kidnapped me.”
“He thought you’d committed a crime.”
“If I didn’t win the trial, I’d be executed. So I had to ingratiate myself to the crowd.”
“But you live in the Landorian tower.”
He spread his hands out. “I like it there.” He should just claim to be Felaran, and that would be that. But he didn’t trust his face to sell it. “I may have glossed over where I’m from. But I’ve tried to be truthful about everything else.”
“Have you?” She moved away from him, a slow and careful step, but a retreat just the same. “How do I know what’s true and what’s false?”
That’s her real question, he realized. “Everything else I’ve said is true. Where I came from doesn’t change that one bit.”
There was hope in her eyes. He thought he had her.
Then she let them fall away, and wouldn’t look at him. “I think you should go.”
“Come on, Jillaine.”
“Please don’t make me ask you again.”
He sighed. This had blown up nicely in his face. “As you wish.” He pulled open the door, praying fervently that she called him back.
But she didn’t, and so he walked out and pulled it closed behind him. He wandered the dimly lit hallway until he found the staircase. He descended to the ground floor, and stalked through the common room. He could feel everyone’s eyes on him. A few of the men wore sympathetic looks, but the women wore cool stares. Even Betsy.
Sweet Jesus, it must be written all over my face.
He shook his head and stalked out into the night. So much for the perfect plan. Moric wouldn’t be gone for more than a few days, and he’d have a lot of questions when he got back. Especially if Jillaine started talking to him again. There was nothing else he could do for it until the morning, so he might as well call it a night.
Goddamn Landorian fashions.
The chandlery was open. That was the good news. Quinn approached it with the same caution he would a wyvern’s cave. After the disastrous ending to mutton night, he was a fool to come back to her so quickly. But there wasn’t time to give her space, not with the vote looming and Anton’s plan already in motion. I really painted myself into a corner on this one.
He tiptoed through the doorway, hoping to make a quiet entrance, but he forgot about the owls and they betrayed him. Jillaine came bustling out of the back with an empty tray in hand, and a hopeful look on her face. She wore her customary apron over a pale yellow sundress, and had tied her hair back with ribbons of the same color. She saw him and glared. “You.”
“Hello again,” he said.
“Back to tell me more lies?”
Yep, I really should have given her more time. But he’d told Leward to fetch Sella, and that woman wouldn’t like to be kept waiting around. He sighed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to barge in, but . . . I think your father is missing.”
She took the news with more puzzlement than concern. “How do you know?”
“No one can find him, and his place looks . . . tossed.”
Jillaine’s brow furrowed. “Tossed?”
“You know, messy. Like he left in a hurry.”
She gave a faint shrug. “He often disappears without warning, and leaves a mess behind. You should know.”
“I take your point, but this feels different.”
“How?”
He tilted his head toward the door. “Why don’t you come see for yourself?”
“If this is some elaborate ruse to spend time with me—”
“It’s not,” he promised. “I’m worried about him. Will you come?”
“Maybe we’ll find him, and then I can be around two men I don’t want to see.”
“Just come on!”
She rolled her eyes, but she set the tray down, took off her apron, and followed him out.
Sella had arrived by the time they got back to Moric’s chambers, and had brought a couple of council magicians with her. Both men looked vaguely familiar, but Quinn couldn’t remember their names. Leward lurked beside the door, looking very much like he wanted to be somewhere else. Sella poked around a few things with her walking stick, an expression of di
staste etched on her face.
Like the world’s most reluctant CSI tech, Quinn thought when he saw her. “Hello, Sella.”
“So, Quinn,” she said. “Are you the reason I was dragged here during the dinner hour?”
He grimaced. “Sorry about that. But I think it’s important.”
“What’s your concern?”
He gestured at the disarray in Moric’s chambers. “Does this look normal to you?”
She sniffed. “I have no idea how Moric lives.”
“Well, I brought someone who does.”
Jillaine stepped forward. Every eye in the room went to her. She’d thrown a light cloak on for the walk over, but there was no hiding the dress beneath it. She was like a Disney princess trying to blend in with the dirty masses. Never going to happen.
Sella’s walking stick hit the floor with a clatter. “Oh. Hello, Jillaine.”
“Hello, Sella.” She glided past the old woman at a casual pace, stepping over the walking stick as she did.
Sella held still with her back hunched until Jillaine was out of the way. Then she snatched up her walking stick like a nervous squirrel. Quinn stared in disbelief. This was the same woman who’d switched him with that stick if he showed up a minute late to class.
Maybe it was only because of the circumstances, but still. He’d never seen Sella so deferential.
Jillaine spun slowly around, taking stock of the entire room. “He hasn’t been here in hours. And it looks as though someone else searched the place.” She pointed to the bookshelf. “Six of his books are missing. I’ve never seen him drop one to the floor in my entire life.”
Quinn privately celebrated with a fist-pump. That was a nice touch with the books.
“Is anything else missing?” Sella asked. Her tone was soft. Polite. A far cry from the pointed demands she usually made of Quinn.
“There was a little green statue of a wyvern on his dresser.”
Quinn cleared his throat. “Was it made of stone, about this big?” He held his hands apart to approximate the size of the thing Moric had given him.