by Ben Rovik
“I told you, Mister Lundin’s work can’t be disturbed! Close that door right now, or the repairs will fall apart! You’re only hurting yourselves!”
“Mister Lundin,” the clerk in front said venomously, her eyes narrowed to unfriendly slits, “how are the repairs coming?”
“Nearly done, nearly done. Fifteen more minutes,” he said, straightening up and putting on a smile.
“Ms. Elena said you would definitely be done twenty minutes before this,” another said.
“I’m sure I never said ‘definitely,’” Samanthi objected.
“This is your so-called ‘mobile repair apparatus?’” the tallest of the clerks said, looking past Lundin.
“I told you it looked like a squawk box!”
“It is a squawk box! Listen to it!”
One of the women held up her hands. Loud and clear, even through two layers of pillowcases, came the long strings of Mabinanto:
“—videl, lastic, joi arkhest teronion—”
“What a pack of liars!” the head clerk said, her eyes flashing. “Our teams have been gathering data all day, while you’ve been locked in a closet listening to music?”
“You can’t call that music,” another said.
“Yeah! What is that?”
“What are you lazy Petronauts up to?”
Samanthi and Lundin exchanged a desperate look. Samanthi opened her mouth, ready to bluster or start beating some heads, when he suddenly raised a hand and tilted his head, as if listening to something. The clerks briefly stopped chattering, and the only voice was that of the Melodimax.
“—sh’tanu hamish ell tosk—”
“Excuse me,” Lundin said absently. He turned his back to the clerks and spoke directly into the trumpet. “Grabdesh orbintalo, ith bith d’lith moosh?”
“—Barttic d’scel. Wavin eth poreil, scim weshi—”
“Oh, of course,” Lundin said, nodding. He reached for a blank metal disk, straining across the Melodimax to the shelf on which he’d happened to set them. Then he crouched down on the ground, where the disk press was swung open, and lowered the blank into place.
The mob of clerks and the confused senior tech watched him work as if nothing was happening. The magic box continued its arcane drone.
“What in the burning fields are you doing?” a clerk asked, more bewildered than suspicious.
Lundin shushed him gently. “Sorry, I need to hear this,” he said, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the Melodimax. “Dame Kylia from the Cavaliers is talking me through this repair.”
They looked at the stuffed-up trumpet. “A Cavalier? That’s another Petronaut talking?”
“Of course! Chatty, isn’t she?” Lundin grinned. “She’s real thorough, though; I shouldn’t complain. Hang on—hivish grumbdumb? Aspic tonk lick b’doom?”
“—vasil yin norinna poeva flasmic ile—”
“Oh, ‘flasmic ile,’” he said, readjusting a notch on the metal press. “Got it!”
“You expect us to believe you’re actually talking to that thing?” a high-voiced clerk scoffed, his nervous eyes glancing around the rest of his group for support. The rest of them had their heads tilted appraisingly, uncertain what they were seeing. “You’re not even speaking real words,” he accused shrilly.
“Old Harutian, actually,” Lundin said, not even looking up from the press. “It’s for security. You never know who might be listening in on the transmission between here and there.”
The clerks murmured to each other, cowed and impressed. “Okay, everyone,” Samanthi said, listening closely to the Melodimax, “Dame Kylia says we’re entering a very sensitive part of the repair. It would really be best if we gave Mister Lundin some space. Fifteen minutes, Mister Lundin?”
“That’s all,” he said, nodding calmly.
“Well, then, we’ll be back,” the head clerk said, trying to muster up a threatening voice. The door closed gently from the outside, and Lundin was alone again. He stopped playing with the press (he’d been busy spelling the names of his childhood pets backwards), and sat back on his bottom, knees upraised. His heart was racing, and he let out a long, ragged breath.
The door popped back open about halfway. Samanthi’s fist came flying down and pounded him on the shoulder three times in energetic succession. He curled away, raising his hands as he looked up into the senior tech’s luminous, wild-eyed, smiling face. “You damned stupid genius,” she crowed, slamming the door shut as quickly as she’d entered. Lundin leaned back against the Melodimax and rubbed his shoulder, a grin spreading across his face. He rested his head against the talking machine, feeling the vibrations bounce through his body.
Fifteen minutes.
Under normal circumstances, the notion that such a simple spell could slip through the defenses of a wizard like Ouste was laughable. She had dueled with arcane warlords on the battlefields of Lessak. She had beaten back two attacks on old Queen Tess, brought to bear by teams of anti-monarchial mages. She had been the undisputed international champion at the Kolympask Sorcerous Games five years in a row; a feat yet to be duplicated. When it came to direct magical competition with another spellcaster, she was the greatest wizard alive.
But any magical defense required, first, that the wizard recognize herself as under attack. And with six white-washed leather disks hanging above her, instead of real ojing, the meditating Ouste was completely unaware of a new source of magic until—
Her eyes flashed open, like waking up from a dream. Ouste looked around, feeling oddly disoriented. She was on the floor of Princess Naomi’s sitting room, of course; she was here because the Princess was ill. No! The truth came flooding back into her mind. Not ill; under attack!
The entire plot raced through her mind, and her lips parted in horror. She looked to an ornate clock on the wall. Nearly nine. That meant Jilmaq had been weaving his gradualistic spell for eleven hours now, stringing its effects out minute by torturous minute. At my direction, she thought, with a stabbing pang of conscience. Ouste thought of Princess Naomi’s smiling face, her courage in the face of the Ordeals, and the birthright this plot was so cruelly denying her, and tears came to her eyes. How could I have been so cruel? How could I have come this far when my love for Her Highness is so strong?
A calculating part in the back of Ouste’s mind began taking stock of the inconsistencies and waving a tiny flag for her attention; but her dispassionate self was powerless against the flood of emotion now coursing through her. She rose to her feet, startling several of the maids, who had nearly forgotten the sorcerer was in the room, sitting in silence all this time. Ouste rubbed her hands together, her pale eyes flashing. She knew exactly what spell Jilmaq was casting, having chosen it personally for him in what seemed like a past life. That meant she knew precisely how to counter it. The timing would be tight, given that she had wasted more than two hours in idle meditation. But for all the pain she had caused Princess Naomi, Ouste was determined to make recompense.
“Pingdu h’leth dagriss ith m’navei,” she began in a ringing voice, hands lifted up high.
Chapter Twelve
The Last Ordeal
“Winding down,” Dame Miri Draker said, removing the Communicator helmet. The Parade squad’s equipment pavilion was sweltering enough without the bulky metal helmet radiating heat back into her skull. She lowered the helmet back onto its stand and made her way through the orderly stacks of gear and crates, all loaded with trinkets to distribute to the festive crowds outside. She stopped in the passageway, a white-gloved hand resting on the corner of the tent flap. Her mind was racing, playing through the announcement she’d just heard from the Board of Governors again and again:
“Notice to all squads: Palace Guard reports the discovery of a plot against the Crown. The wizard Jilmaq is suspected of currently carrying out acts of sorcerous treason at the very highest level. Stopping the wizard Jilmaq, without unduly alarming the populace, is of the utmost urgency. Last known location is his home in Drabelhelm distri
ct outside the city walls, a two-room hut removed from the main boulevard.
“All squads are directed to assist the Guard to the fullest, according to your means and your capacity.”
Dame Miri exhaled, making her decision. She swung the flap open, bright morning sunlight spilling over her. It was a warm, clear day, perfect for a population eager to celebrate Princess Naomi’s success in the Ordeals. It was almost unbearable to think that a situation so grave could be unfolding in the palace on a morning like this. The air was full of the sounds of talking, laughing, and music; it seemed that half of Delia was on the streets of Gildet, the well-manicured district just east of the Palace where the royal parade would begin that afternoon. Spheres willing.
Miri flashed a big smile to a cluster of families, who cheered and waved at her. The eyes of the fathers and the teenage sons widened and lingered on her as she walked; this was, as she well recognized, just another part of her job. The Parade squad’s mission was to make Petronauts as flashy, attractive, and appealing as possible to the masses. So her Parade “‘armor” was less like armor and more like a metallic cocktail dress, accented with white leather gloves that stretched to her elbows, and wedge-heeled boots with straps that encircled her tan legs to mid-calf. Her breastplate was, in fact, functional, and the swishing plates of her metal skirt might actually serve to repel an attacker who was determined to strike her above the knee and below the waist. But all in all, the armor was a costume to display the body beneath it, not to protect that body on a battlefield.
“—assist the Guard to the fullest, according to your means and your capacity.”
The words ran through her head again as she stopped a few meters behind Sir Sigurd. The brawny, barrel-chested Petronaut’s costume was even less practical than hers; more of his body was covered in bronzing oil than in clothing. Thick, studded bracers covered his wrists; a massive circular shield was slung over his back; his skirt was even shorter than hers. Apart from his boots, the rest of his impeccably conditioned physique was openly on display, for which the whispering women in the gathered crowd were grateful.
Dame Miri struck a balletic pose, smiling brightly and making herself a frame to the stunt he was preparing. Hands raised high, the big man suddenly poured his body backwards into a series of handsprings. After the third, he launched himself four meters in the air (with the aid of the ranine coils in his boots) and, with practiced legerdemain, shot two unobtrusive disks from his bracers into the ground below. He fell to earth in a sinewy crouch, like a panther leaping from a tree, just as the perfectly spaced flash disks burst, sending twin pillars of whistling white sparks high in the air on either side of him. The crowd, leaning out of windows and packed together on the flagstone sidewalks, cheered wildly.
“Lift,” Dame Miri called under her breath, keeping a smile on her face. Sigurd turned and saw her as she began running towards him. With the muscle memory of long practice, he swung his hands to her waist as she leapt, her upraised arms making a graceful arc above her back and her legs pointing ramrod-straight behind her. He lifted her above his head, raising her two and a half meters in the air. She curled her ring fingers and the fog jets at her waist activated, pumping out a cloud of sweet-smelling white smoke. The artificial cloud hovered in the gap between her waist and the top of Sir Sigurd’s head, obscuring the big man’s bulging arms. Dame Miri began to flap her long arms in smooth, symmetrical wingbeats, as if flying above the clouds. The crowd oohed and applauded fervently as Sigurd carried her along the street, a trail of gossamer cloud behind her.
When she stopped the fog jets, Sir Sigurd lowered her to the ground and the two Petronauts bowed to the thunderous acclaim of the crowd. Smiling brightly, Dame Miri put a hand on Sigurd’s oil-soaked shoulder and turned him away from the spectators. “We’re going on assignment,” she said, her mouth not moving.
“Where to? Parapet Square?” he asked under his breath, a smile similarly fixed on his face.
“Drabelhelm.”
He looked at her, and his smile flickered. “Dame Miri, I’ll be the first to say that the folks at the bottom need entertainment too, but—”
“Crown business, Sir Sigurd. There’s a plot afoot against Her Highness, and a wizard in Drabelhelm is the key to the whole thing.”
His big brown eyes widened. “By the living Spheres. Is the Guard mobilizing?”
“And all Petronauts are supposed to help,” she said, nodding. “Northeast Gildet puts us closer to Drabelhelm district than any other ‘nauts, and certainly closer than the Palace Guard, so we’re heading immediately to the site for reconnaissance.”
Sigurd stopped in his tracks, his mouth half open. Dame Miri turned to face him. “You want to be first on the scene against a wizard?”he said.
“Seconds may count today,” she said, dropping her smile. “We’ve got a duty to the Crown.”
“Dame Miri, I hear you; but our duty today is to keep people happy, not to—”
“And how happy will Donny Q. Delian be when he hears that his Princess is dead?” she hissed, stepping in close to him. Her violet eyes were hard, and she held Sigurd’s gaze for a long time.
“Sigurd,” she said, quietly. “I’ve learned a little about magic from the techs over in Recon. The wizard will be too focused on his spell to be any danger to us. And even if he does shift his attention to attack us, isn’t that a small price to pay if it saves Her Highness’ life?”
Sir Sigurd sighed, scratching his neatly trimmed blond beard. “You just can’t wait to be reassigned to the Shock Troop squad, can you?”
“Counting the days,” Dame Miri said, grinning. She squeezed his arm, her white glove coming away wet with bronzer. “Double-time, junior ‘naut,” she ordered, dashing down the street as quickly as the milling crowds would allow.
It was more than half past nine by the time they arrived on the outskirts of Drabelhelm. The muddy roads were crisscrossed every which way with carriage tracks. Not enough vehicles came out here for the city to justify improving the roadway. A handful of drunks, two here, one there, lay sprawled against the splintered fence outside a dilapidated mill. No merchant in her right mind would locate a workhouse out here now, with the incidence of crime and vagrancy as high as they were. And as long as jobs stayed away, and vehicle traffic was prohibitive, this isolated knot of poor souls was likely to stay just as crime-ridden and desperate as it was right now.
“Drunk on a feastday morning,” Sir Sigurd muttered, inclining his head towards the sleeping bodies.
“More likely sleeping off a feastday eve,” Miri said. She gathered her cloak around her more tightly and pressed forward. They’d stopped in the equipment pavilion for an instant to grab the long, inconspicuous brown cloaks. At least to a casual glance, they might not look like Petronauts immediately. Keep telling yourself that, she thought wryly, knowing that her filigreed boots and Sir Sigurd’s bare legs were plainly obvious beneath the cloaks.
“This wizard, Jilmaq, lives in a two-room hut a bit off the beaten path,” she told Sigurd. They scanned the moldering houses as they walked by. Most were deserted now, their occupants likely having made the long walk to the more developed areas of the city to find a spot on the parade route. Sigurd pointed down the winding street.
“It looks like there are a few alleyways down there.”
Dame Miri nodded. “We’ll fan out and inspect both sides of the block at once. If we get out of earshot, use a flash disk to—”
A heavy metallic clang shattered the air, and Sir Sigurd was driven to his hands and knees with a muddy splash. The big man grunted in pain and surprise. Dame Miri wheeled around, her violet eyes searching, and heard the rush of air just in time to leap backwards. Her ranine coils sent her flying wildly, skidding to a stop four meters away in front of a crumbling house. The thick crossbow bolt that had narrowly missed her was embedded deep in a fencepost across the street. Sigurd rolled onto his feet; the bolt aimed at his back had ricocheted off his shield, concealed by the brown cloak.
As he reached awkwardly to bring the shield to bear, a dagger spun through the air and lodged in his left shoulder, sending a burst of blood skywards. Sir Sigurd howled, falling back to earth and clutching his wound.
“Sigurd!” Miri shouted. She finally caught sight of their attackers: the three drunks, perfectly alert now, standing by the abandoned workhouse fence. Not drunks, but guards, she thought, her heart pounding. One of them was cranking a new bolt into place on his crossbow; the second was stalking towards Sigurd with a fresh dagger in his hand; and the third was leveling a crossbow right at her.
Dame Miri flexed her ring fingers and a cloud of smoke billowed out where she was standing. She ducked into the abandoned house under cover of the smoke, seeing the trail of the crossbow bolt through the vapor as it twanged through the air. She quickly took stock of the filthy hut—a broken chair, scraps of pottery, a hearth full of ashes. A battered fireplace poker lay next to the hearth. She snatched it up and risked a quick glance through a gap in the rotting boards of the wall. Two of the men were sprinting towards the house, splitting up to flank the building from front and back. She couldn’t see the third man, on his way to slit Sigurd’s throat.
She shed the constricting brown cloak and squeezed her way lithely through a window in the back of the house, sinking into a catlike crouch among the weeds. The roof, sloped away from the workhouse and their attackers, was covered in shingles, not noisy thatch. Her mind working furiously, she prayed the rotting planks would support her weight and tucked the poker into the back of her skirt, parallel with her spine. Her fingers and toes found careful purchase as she scrambled up to the roof, as quietly as she could manage. There was no time to plan any further. She drew the heavy iron poker, dashed the few meters across the shingles—which, miraculously, stayed solid under her feet—and flung herself off the roof to the street below.