by Stefon Mears
Sleight of Mind
2026. Six decades after magic overthrew technology.
Venus. Recently settled. As wild and untamed as the space between there and Earth.
John Jacobs, the last helioship captain old enough to remember technology, risks his fading health for the opportunity to command the first commercial flight to Venus.
Journeyman wizard Donal Cuthbert braves that flight to chase down a forming interplanetary shadow government.
But powerful forces move against them, and survival will press Donal to fight a duel he can only lose.
Sleight of Mind, a tale of adventure and espionage in high space, with dueling wizards and magic-driven ships. The second novel in the Rise of Magic series from Stefon Mears, author of The Telepath Trilogy.
Book Two of The Rise of Magic
Stefon Mears
Thousand Faces Publishing
About Sleight of Mind
Start Reading
Table of Contents
About the Author
Newsletter
Also by Stefon Mears
Copyright Information
Chapter One
Donal Cuthbert sprinted through the near-empty private section of Kennedy Spaceport on Earth’s moon, Luna, cursing his footwear. Loafers were all wrong for this. No support. No grip.
He should have been wearing sneakers. His girlfriend’s fault. Li Hua had Donal dressing better and looking sharper, but he never thought to buy shoes enchanted for combat the way she did. Even her high heels.
But then, Donal rarely had to run for his life.
Unfortunately, once might be enough.
No help around him. Just wide blue-gray spaces that echoed his pounding steps. They would echo his pursuers in short order.
In the public part of the port he would have found security guards, other passengers, maybe a small crowd to lose himself in. But here he saw no one. Not even a janitor. Only hangar openings that seemed to go on for days, and arrows pointing the way to the one he sought: Bay Forty-Nine.
The place even smelled deserted. Nothing in the air but a vague herbal smell leftover from alchemical ship maintenance.
Donal sucked air and clutched his messenger bag — distressed leather, of course, which suited his state of mind. He could feel the bag rubbing his hip and shoulder raw as his legs stretched for more speed and his feet protested with blisters.
How much further was the damned ship?
Suddenly running beside him appeared his familiar, Fionn, a spectral deerhound of emerald green, a meter tall at the shoulder and eyes that blazed with courage. It spoke in an accent somewhere between Scottish and Irish.
“I have alerted the ship, but the captain dismisses this as a local problem.”
Donal wanted to swear, wanted to beg Lugh or the Dagda for help, but could not spare the breath. His heart pounded faster than his feet. Sweat blurred his vision alongside matted strands of black hair. His legs burned with effort.
“What ... about...”
“We should seek shelter in a hangar and try to lose them.”
“No time,” Donal managed. “Spoil ... aim.”
Fionn understood. The cú sidhe fell back and would weave in the path to distract any attempts to use slingers, alchemical projectiles that could carry deadly effects. Difficult to make, expensive to commission, and illegal outside of military applications, slingers required spells strong enough to make them obvious to even the most casual customs inspections or weapons checks.
Just Donal’s luck that he fled from a local family powerful enough to carry slingers anywhere they wanted this side of a helioship.
Cramp building in his stomach, legs beginning to falter from the sustained speed, Donal pressed on. Two more hangars to pass...
A spell ball the size of Donal’s fist flew past his head. Smashed on a hangar wall. The spell took, cracking lines even in the thick, shaped rock. Donal pushed his legs harder, trying not to think of what that spell would have done to him, wishing he could have pulled off a moving protective circle.
Every part of Donal’s body screamed in protest at his exertion. He had to have run flat out for half a mile by now, but still he could hear his pursuers. They had the air to shout curses, damn them, even while Fionn mocked them in Gaelic that would have made Donal’s mother blush. Probably his father too.
Not his big brother Bran, of course, but Bran would have been in good enough shape to lose them. Or he would have taken them all on and won. But that was Bran.
At least no travelers crowded around Donal this time, to risk becoming ‘collateral damage.’ Not like on Mars.
Donal put his head down and threw the last of his energy into a final sprint.
◊
John Jacobs paced the breadth of his Starchaser Spacelines office. He should have been at the docks. He had a ship to inspect, a route plan to confirm one more time, and no doubt another dozen forms to fill out. Someone in the San Francisco bureaucracy must have decided that forms meant fees, which meant more money.
And now Zoltan, his business partner, was late.
Jacobs paused at the sound of wood under his boots as he stepped off the throw rug in front of his huge purpleheart desk. He spent so many of his days listening to the sound of ship ceramics underfoot that oak flooring sounded wrong in his ears. Artificial. How could he consider retiring when only ships felt like home?
Jacobs returned to pacing, five steps fore, three steps starboard, five steps aft, three steps port, and on. He paced as though in his office aboard the Horizon Cusp, the ship he had commanded for the last decade, and not in his spacious Earth office, with its conference table, hide-a-bed sofa, and comfortable visitors chairs, most of which went unused even when Jacobs was on Earth. Clients met with Zoltan. But Zoltan insisted that Jacobs, as co-owner, had to have a big office in the home branch of Starchaser Spacelines. Something clients would find impressive.
Jacobs paused to shake his head. Appearances shouldn’t impress. People should learn to judge actions, histories. But with his eighty-sixth birthday approaching, Jacobs felt like little more than history himself, one of the dwindling few who remembered life from before the rise of magic.
A knock at the door. Finally.
“Come,” said Jacobs, and Zoltan entered.
Jacobs felt his eyes narrow, his jaw clench at the sight of his partner: jowls shaking just a touch, fingers playing with the buttons of his silk shirt, and pants wrinkled, which at oh-nine-hundred meant that Zoltan had been awake for hours already, had likely not slept well. Even his graying curls had not been tamed to their normal positions.
Jacobs’ nostrils flared a calming breath. Zoltan had earned the right to deliver bad news his own way.
“Rough night?”
“Rough couple of days. Mind if I sit?”
Jacobs held back the urge to say ‘out with it.’ Zoltan was not a member of his crew. Instead Jacobs nodded, and returned to his own ridiculously large padded leather chair.
“John, you know business has been down since the Beamrunner’s accident.”
“It’s been rebuilding, and the business-class shuttle runs we’ve added have made the difference. Worried about your bottom line?”
“Always.” For just a moment Zoltan smiled and looked like himself. But then the smile faded. “And you should be worried about your retirement.”
“After this next voyage. I promise.”
“You said that two years ago.”
“This is different. The Venus run.” Just the thought of it sent a thrill through Jacobs’ system, made him rub his hands together like an eager boy. “A final hurrah for me, and peerless advertising for Starchaser Spaceline
s. We can sell when the value of the business is high, and—”
“I’ve already sold.”
Jacobs’s head snapped back, feet down flat on the floor and hands flat on the desk.
“What?”
“I’ve already sold.” Zoltan took a deep breath. “John, even you have to admit this flight is risky—”
“You’re abandoning ship?”
“—and if this goes wrong the press will murder us. We’ll never recover.”
“I captained the first commercial flight to Mars. I think I can handle—”
“And how long ago was that?”
“Don’t you dare—”
Zoltan leapt to his feet, leaned across the broad, dark desk. “Sell! Retire! Take that cat of yours and get that place in Mazatlan you’ve talked about.”
Zoltan must have seen the battle stations in Jacobs’ eyes, because he softened his tone. “You’ve had a hell of a career. Accomplished things that will get your name in the history texts. You’ve done enough. Live to enjoy it.”
“Not enough. Not yet.”
“I knew it.” Zoltan shook his head and deflated back onto his overstuffed chair. “I had to try. Have it your way, John.” He sighed again and looked up. “One last drink with your old partner?”
“At oh-nine-fifteen?”
“You never give a fraction, do you?” Zoltan stood, dusted his shirt and pants with his hands. “Your new partner will be here in an hour or so. If you can forgive me, stay in touch. I’ve left my contact information with Cindy.”
Zoltan started toward the door. “Good luck with the Venus run.”
“Zoltan.” Jacobs waited until Zoltan looked back at him. “It’s been good working with you.”
Zoltan smiled and left. Jacobs wondered whether he should have had that drink after all. He had a feeling he might need it.
◊
Donal was losing ground. He knew it. He had to be.
His pace flagged, despite how he pushed. His legs weighed tons. His lungs burned. Even his arms and back were sore.
Another slinger-shot flew past. Fried a section of spaceport flooring to Donal’s right. Too close.
Any second they would be on top of him.
Finally Donal reached Bay Forty-Nine, and he saw the twenty-meter-long owl shape of the helioship Archimedes, tawny wing up and passenger portal open. He could see the young steward standing at attention just inside the portal, memoboard against his side and with the clear intention to not interfere.
Donal’s legs gave out and he tumbled forward into the landing bay, barely able to keep his head from slamming against the stone flooring, even though every other part of him seemed to bang into it.
Pain jolted through him. Squeezed tears from his eyes and a sob from his throat as he stretched with one hand toward the ship, determined to reach safety.
“Easy, Journeyman,” said a strong, certain voice behind him. “You’re safe now.”
Another person might have only looked up to see a tall, handsome man with flowing brown hair and tailored clothes. A man who looked slender more by habit than by exercise, despite the rapier at his side.
Donal saw these things too, but what he saw first was power: immense personal power, more than Donal could ever have mustered, even more than most of Donal’s professors back at U.C. Santa Cruz, when Donal was still studying for his Bachelor’s in Thaumaturgy. And Donal recognized this man. This Hierophant. Had met him once at a conference years before.
And by the power Donal felt now, he would guess that Nicholas Mason had achieved much even since attaining his Doctorate in Thaumaturgy.
Donal knew he should have felt elated at reaching certain safety, but instead he felt humiliated. Exhausted, sweaty, crying and pursued by would-be murderers was not how Donal wanted to renew his acquaintance with what amounted to a childhood hero.
Mason stepped into the hangar doorway and waited. Fionn arrived and came to his master’s side. “I made them waste only the one shot, I fear. No doubt they have others...”
“I doubt ... that matters now...”
“True.” The fae deerhound regarded the Hierophant. “If such a one stands with us, we are safe.”
Donal managed to sit up as the pursuers arrived, considerably less out-of-breath than Donal thought they should have been. Ten men, dressed in security jumpers, eight of them carrying Pacifiers, batons enchanted to disable even without a direct hit. On their chests they bore the crest of the Romanov family.
“I declare this man under my protection,” said Hierophant Mason, one hand relaxed on the hilt of his rapier. “Come against him at your peril.”
“We represent Natasha Romanov,” said the leader with a slight Romanian accent, “who sends her regards, Hierophant.” The leader bowed, and his men followed suit.
Mason acknowledged them with a nod of his head.
The leader continued, “Donal Cuthbert is participating in a moral crime against the Romanov family, which grants us power to pursue him under Lunar Code Section four eight—”
“I may not have maintained my champion’s license in many years,” said Mason, his voice still so casual he might have been discussing sports scores of teams he did not care about, “but I am acquainted with all sections that pertain to the Lunar Code Duello.”
Mason raised his voice the barest bit. “Donal Cuthbert, can you swear to me that you have committed no legal or moral crimes against the Romanov family?”
“I can swear ... that I have not knowingly ... committed any crimes at all ... since I entered Lunar space ... and that I have behaved ... at all times ...” Donal drew a deep breath to finish, “...in accordance with my duties as an IIX courier and a certified Journeyman.”
“Good enough for me,” said Mason. He folded his arms. “Please return my regards to Natasha Romanov, and inform her that I still intend to accept her invitation to hospitality on my next visit. However, my statement of protection stands.”
The security men gazed uncertainly at each other, then those gazes all settled on their leader. He drew a deep breath and said, “We have slingers—”
“I was consulted in the invention of slingers. Before your men could pull their triggers, I could have your toys dump their spells on the lot of you.”
Mason raised one hand, leaving the other on the hilt of his rapier. “Shall we consider this matter ended? Or do you require a demonstration?”
The security guards hesitated. Even their leader seemed at a loss for how to respond.
“The weak points in the bindings are really quite simple to exploit. I could make a lesson of it for young Cuthbert here. You still intend to pursue Enochian research, do you not, Donal?”
Donal could not decide if he felt more flattered to be remembered or embarrassed at his arrival. Either way, he managed a shaky nod, and Hierophant Mason continued.
“Their binding spells are largely Earth of Earth. Air-aspected Air of Fire works best against them. Snaps them like so.”
The Hierophant focused a tiny erg of the power Donal saw about him and made a show of moving to snap his fingers...
Before he could, the leader bowed again and said, “If contacted, will you confirm that we found Donal Cuthbert, but that you refused to allow us to complete our duty?”
“Of course,” said Hierophant Mason. “So long as you do not embellish my actions.”
The security guards left, and the tall magician gave Donal a hand up.
“Thank you, Hierophant,” said Donal.
“When I was your age,” said Mason with a wistful smile, “magicians didn’t stand on ceremony. Not among ourselves. Once you proved yourself competent to be called a Journeyman, you got to speak to other magicians as equals, no matter their skill or experience.”
He shook his head. “But times change, and I’m too young to lament the past.”
If Mason were a day over thirty-five, Donal could never have guessed it from looking at him. Of course, Donal knew that some magicians experimented with age ma
gics...
“Enough of that,” said Mason. “You might avoid Luna for a time. The Romanovs are a powerful family, and they know how to nurse a grudge.”
“But I didn’t even go near them.”
“Your delivery had to do with the Dockers Guild?”
Donal opened his mouth, but checked his initial reply and said instead, “I’m not supposed to answer—”
“Questions about a package. Of course. Just consider it an educated guess. On to other topics then. How is your brother Bran? I understand he successfully challenged for the rank of Magister without first completing his MaT training.” He began to lead Donal toward the helioship. “First American I’ve heard of who accomplished that. You must be very proud.”
Donal sighed. Of course that was why a Hierophant like Mason remembered him. Everyone remembered Bran. Donal was always an afterthought.
“Of course, Hierophant. We all are.”
Donal recalled Fionn into the inappropriate silver faun pendant that served as his familiar’s material base, and boarded the ship with Mason, telling the Hierophant about his brother’s successful mission to explore Ganymede and a few of his other various successes.
If only Donal could think of a few of his own accomplishments to mention.
◊
Starchaser Spacelines: the ships that launched a thousand forms, mused Jacobs. It seemed to him sometimes that he spent every stop in port at his office desk, filling out forms for one local authority or another. Mars was still the worst, but San Francisco was starting to give them a run for their money.
At exactly ten hundred hours, the comm pad on Jacobs’ desk glowed red. He slapped it, and the round face of Cindy, the receptionist, appeared above the pad. Jacobs still felt uncomfortable calling her by her first name, but she seemed to find it more cordial.
She saved him the trouble by speaking first. “A Ms. Tai Shi Li Hua here to see you, Sir. Says she’s expected.”
Expected? Then his new partner had to be...