by Stefon Mears
Donal wondered for a moment if Fionn spoke metaphorically, but Mr. Mohatar returned to Donal’s table leading a woman about Donal’s age whose smooth skin and fiery red hair called to Donal’s mind the tale of Deirdre of the Sorrows. Even her casual blouse and slacks could not help emphasizing her figure, however thoroughly they covered it.
“Donal,” said Mr. Mohatar, his eyes unreadable but his eyebrows threatening to crawl over his scalp and scamper down his back, “may I present Ms.—”
“Rowan MacPherson,” said Donal, his stomach sinking despite his excellent, half-eaten lunch.
“We’ve met,” said Ms. MacPherson, as though pleased about their acquaintance, and Donal grudgingly had to admit that even her voice was so beautiful that she could probably sing old Irish songs in a lyric soprano that would bring tears to his mother’s eyes. Ms. MacPherson continued, “May I join you?”
Donal hesitated long enough to make Mr. Mohatar’s eyebrows fly back down to crinkle over the bridge of his nose, but Donal said, “Certainly. Fionn, do you mind?”
Fionn slipped down through the chair to stride around the table and sit beside Donal in a position that gave the fae deerhound a clear view of the entire restaurant. Donal saw Ms. MacPherson spot that detail, but as she sat she made no comment about his familiar immediately slipping into a bodyguard position.
Mr. Mohatar set a menu, silverware, and a glass of water before her, then stepped aside, probably to give them a moment alone before concerning himself with her order.
“What do you recommend?” she asked, as though this were a business lunch date.
“I’ve had everything on the menu. It’s all good. What can I do for you, Ms. MacPherson? Or should I say, what does Red Sun want with me?”
“Let me order first.”
She called back Mr. Mohatar, complimented him on his restaurant and ordered something off the menu that sounded as though it came from the right region. Mr. Mohatar looked impressed.
Ms. MacPherson turned back to Donal. Her smile was bright. Charming. Everything it should have been, and might even have included sincerity, if Donal were to relax enough to leave that possibility open.
As it was, he had shifted his consciousness the moment he saw her and had already triple-checked her for magic: nothing. She had no training. She carried no enchantments. Even the delicate timepiece on her wrist had to have been entirely mechanical.
“Donal... May I call you Donal?” She waited for his nod before continuing, “Thank you. And please call me Rowan.
“Have you ever asked people to do something, knowing it might get them killed? Whether they succeeded or not?”
Donal shook his head.
“It takes a certain kind of person to volunteer for a potentially suicidal assignment. The person must have commitment beyond commitment, a dedicated belief that what you have asked of her is not only right, but necessary. Vital. The kind of person who can accept that even death in failure has not wasted her life because the cause was just and the attempt worthwhile.”
“I’m not going to die for you.”
Donal managed another forkful of lamb casserole, and found that at least her presence had not ruined his delightful meal.
“I don’t mean you. I want you to understand that the people who kidnapped you aboard your flight home from Mars were not taking sanctioned action. You were to be asked for help, offered reward for your efforts. Not threatened into compliance.”
“‘No one is neutral in this fight.’ Your words, in the New Leningrad spaceport.”
“And I meant them, even though you declined to give me time to explain myself. But even armies at war acknowledge the difference between enemy civilians and enemy combatants.”
Ms. MacPherson held that thought as her food arrived, and Donal marveled at the speed with which Mrs. Mohatar had managed the meal. Once Ms. MacPherson had tasted her first bite of something that looked to Donal like a type of lamb stew, and shot an approving smile to Mr. Mohatar who stood near the entrance to the kitchen, she continued.
“They treated you as an enemy combatant instead of an enemy civilian. I apologize for that.”
“Thank you.” Donal ignored something quiet that Fionn mumbled to him. “But I suppose I declared myself an enemy combatant the moment I challenged Mr. bin Zuka to the Comórtas Dríocht.”
“Did you? Or did you try to prevent what you saw as murder?”
“It would have been murder. A murder you ordered. A second murder you ordered.”
“The situation was not that simple, Donal.”
“Mr. Mancuso would have been killed like Mr. al Rashid: deliberately, by someone who is not a government. That’s pretty much the definition of murder.”
“Murder is a legal issue, and this was interplanetary space. The death might not have qualified.”
“What do you want, Ms. MacPherson?”
“Please, Donal. Call me Rowan.” That smile again, but only for a moment. “My sources inform me that Donatello Mancuso feels safe around you. He is likely to allow your presence where he would not allow another’s.”
Donal tried to say something at this point, but she spoke over him. “I am not asking you to take action. I am asking you to do what your nature as a magician might make you do anyway. Pay attention. Do not deny facts you observe or reasonable conclusions they lead to.” She started as though to reach for Donal’s hand, but instead set her hand down on the table. “And should your own conscience cause you to take action, I want to guarantee you that Red Sun will be there to help you. We will take you in, support you. Whatever you need.”
“I suppose you’d pay for grad school too.”
“I could arrange that.” She smiled again, and Donal thought he saw something more unexpected than charm: sincerity.
“I’ll think about it,” said Donal.
“That’s all I ask,” she said. “And now I’ll leave you in peace.”
She gestured to Mr. Mohatar to pack her food to go, and paid for both her meal and Donal’s. She set her business card on the table, and left.
Once the front door closed behind her, Mr. Mohatar returned to Donal’s table and said, “That is a woman who gets what she wants.”
“Everyone faces disappointment sometime.”
Mr. Mohatar laughed. “If you will not even consider her ... offer, then you must be in love with your Li Hua.” He pointed to the door, though Ms. MacPherson was long gone by now. “That woman could tempt the devil into virtue.”
Donal must have tried to stutter a denial, because Mr. Mohatar clapped Donal on the shoulder and said, “Well, whatever she wanted, she paid enough to cover dessert for you and still leave a generous tip. The sfenj?”
“Of course,” said Donal, finally smiling.
As Mr. Mohatar went to see about the fried pastry with honey, Fionn returned to the empty chair and regarded Donal, patiently.
“Something you wish to observe?” asked Donal.
“You draw the wrong kind of women.”
Donal sighed. But before he left, he took the business card. When he did, Fionn declined to comment.
◊
Donal lingered over dessert as the remains of the lunch crowd cleared out, which gave Mr. Mohatar the opportunity to speculate several times about what Rowan MacPherson had wanted from Donal, though Donal left him guessing. More important, Donal hoped to have taken enough time that any Red Sun escort accompanying Ms. MacPherson would be well gone before he set foot on the street again.
He and Fionn went through their field work routines on the way back to Donal’s apartment in the Sunset District near Stern Grove, but if they were followed, they did not know it.
Donal had heard that the Sunset District had suffered greatly during the rise of magic. Densely populated at the time, when technology failed the locals initially fell to battling over remaining resources. Even spreading into Golden Gate Park and Sigmund Stern Grove helped little because too few had the skills to survive without technology.
&nbs
p; Their troubles continued until Aiofe Durnin herself, one of Lloyd Bird’s greatest acolytes, began the restoration of San Francisco by bringing peace to the Sunset District. Donal sometimes wished he had seen her work. On evening walks, he occasionally spotted small traces of Durnin’s spells, yet lingering after all this time.
Not many still living remembered blood in the streets of the Sunset District. But cities have memories of their own, and San Francisco would need more time to wash clean the stains caused by the fall of technology. So Donal’s apartment with its view of two parks cost no more than half of what it probably should have. Not that Donal objected.
Donal had a corner apartment on the third floor of an old house, designed after the Tudor fashion. The house creaked and groaned like an old man when anyone crossed its floors, and the entryway and stairs smelled like age and must.
He smiled at a couple of neighbors as he passed them on the stairs, though he did not know their names: long term tenants who did not waste time introducing themselves to the newer residents until they had stayed longer than a year or two.
Donal pulled his tuning fork from his sleeve as he approached his door, ready to check his wards, but Fionn drew his attention with a small growl.
Donal turned and saw the sword-carrying businessman from the night before. He wore a different suit, but probably the same sword.
Donal twirled the tuning fork in his fingers significantly, reminding the interloper that Donal was a Journeyman. He took further advantage of the momentary pause to shift his consciousness and examine the stranger: enchantment on the belt buckle, Earth-based and Journeyman-cast. Something that aided endurance, but without more time to study it, Donal could not tell if it would help the man with dueling or drinking or even with paying attention during long meetings.
Safer to assume the worst.
“Here to offer me a job too?” asked Donal, but not as though he meant it.
“Offer a local job to a man about to start school down south? Sounds like a low-percentage gambit.”
Donal expected a smile after a comment like that, but the man held a straight face.
“Where’s your Unbiased Witness?” asked Donal.
That got a smile out of the man, but a cold smile. A mere raising of the corners of the mouth.
Fionn said, in tones only Donal could understand, “He has come alone. I sense no allies nearby.”
“It’s like this, Cuthbert,” said the man. “Twice I’ve found you with no effort. I know where you eat, and when. I know where you’re going to be before you do. I know you’re a Journeyman and I have a pretty good idea about your limits.”
“If you know I’m a Journeyman you should know that threatening magicians does not encourage a long and healthy life.”
“I haven’t threatened anyone. Right now I’m just apprising you of a few facts. Like it’s a fact that I’ll survive anything you could do, at least long enough to take you down if I have to. And it’s a fact that I’ve killed Journeymen with a lot more field experience than you have.”
He spread his hands, but Donal noted that the man still managed to keep one hand near the hilt of his sword.
“Just facts. Like the fact that this sword is not just for show. And the fact that not everyone thinks Red Sun is handling 4M right. And the fact that a lot of people want Mancuso dead.” He wagged his finger as though giving Donal avuncular advice. “You should think about that one. You’ll soon be in a position to manage that death, in uncontrolled space or even on Venus, where they have no laws.”
He dropped his hands to his sword belt and something cold crept through his eyes. Donal became uncomfortably aware of how quiet the house was. No help nearby.
“And it’s a fact that if Mancuso makes it back to Earth alive, some people are going to blame you. They might ask me to come see you again when I’m not in such a chatty mood.”
Then Donal understood, and he snickered, a sound that continued long enough to make the man with the sword grit his teeth. He opened his mouth to say something, but Donal spoke first, relief and humor in his voice over the pounding of his own heart.
“Big bad killer threatens me because he’s scared of my girlfriend.”
“I don’t think you—”
“Oh, no, I get it. You think you’re a badass, but you can’t get to Mr. Mancuso because Li Hua’s too much for you. In fact, she’s so good you want to hire her. But me, well, I’ll be in the area so you want me to take a shot at your target. And I’m not a badass, so you figure I’ll be scared enough of you to try, which means I’ll either succeed or create a diversion for your people’s real attempt. I’m betting you expect the latter.”
The man with the sword tried to speak again, but Donal wasn’t done.
“Now, of course, you have a problem, because I know. And I have no reason not to tell Li Hua. This pretty much ruins your plans, but you still can’t afford to try to kill me, because your failure means that your people will have to rely on whatever Red Sun has in mind. And Red Sun needs me on the flight.”
Donal made a show of yawning. “Now why don’t you run along home? I’ve got a big trip in a couple of hours, and I’d like to catch a nap before then.”
The man had one hand on the pommel of his sword now, his knuckles slowly turning white. Then he puffed out a breath and released his grip.
“All right, Cuthbert,” said the man, moving toward the stairs. “I’ll leave. But realize this: your girlfriend may be dangerous, but you aren’t. You I could kill on my way to lunch and not spoil my suit. So think twice before you cross us.”
“Whatever. Try not to spoil your suit on the way out.”
Donal nodded to Fionn, who followed the man out of the building. In the meantime, Donal struck his tuning fork and waved it over the wards. The tones of his wards resonated harmony, each tone coming from his personal magical signature: no one had tried to breach the wards, even to scry.
Donal slipped inside into his living room and let the wards re-knit behind him.
Donal leaned against the door, eyes closed, a trickle of sweat running down his forehead. After too long a delay, Donal felt Fionn shift into the room through an outside wall. Donal opened his eyes, but the cú sidhe looked relaxed.
“He boarded a private runner with a waiting driver.”
“No partners waiting for us? No one watching the apartment?”
“No one.”
Donal relaxed and slumped onto his old, vaguely bovine lime green couch. It didn’t match anything else in the room, but it had stayed with him all through college. That couch, even the spot that sagged, felt safer and more like home than even Donal’s own bed.
“I know,” said Donal. “I shouldn’t have taunted him. But—”
“That one will find cause to return and bring trouble with him.” Fionn sent a ruffle of fur rippling down its back. “Better to have killed him now and had done with it.”
Donal blinked at that, rapidly. He needed to finish packing and get to the spaceport. He knew this. But at that moment, all he could do was sit on his couch and stare at the emerald deerhound.
Fionn had always advised Donal to take the safest route, avoiding trouble whenever possible.
Never before had Fionn recommended killing.
Chapter Six
Tunold stood high on the walkway overlooking the ‘gangplank,’ the crew’s unofficial nickname for the Horizon Cusp’s passenger loading deck. Another little tradition started by our captain. Tunold might have wondered what traditions he would leave behind him when he retired, eventually, but he had too much work to focus on just then. Ms. García, the new purser, approached with her passenger checklist. García had been working double-time to get up to speed at her new post, had probably heard the extent of the security check done on her by Goldberg and Tai Shi.
Tunold suspected she understood. She had to have heard about the smuggling incident involving the previous purser. If she felt offended in any way, Tunold could not see it in her dark eyes or pract
ical manner. Tunold had only worked with her for two weeks, but so far the woman had proven herself to be one-point-seven meters of solid efficiency.
“All aboard, Sir,” she said, passing a passenger checklist from her memopad to his with a flick of her finger.
“What’s your read?” asked Tunold as he looked over the list of names, checking them against the pre-flight list he had been provided.
“Sir?”
Tunold looked up, and noted that she looked less puzzled than patient. “Your read. What do you think of them? Who are the likely troublemakers? Wiseasses? What have you?”
“No opinion, Sir. They’re on time and their cargo meets all set requirements. Everything matches the customs check sheet down to the milligram. Anything else I leave to Chief Goldberg.”
“Safe answer,” said Tunold. “But keep in mind, you’re going to see a side of passengers that they won’t show the chief. Advanced warning can save both us and them a lot of headaches.”
“Aye, Sir.” She ran her eyes over the assembled executives and others, getting organized below them in the gold-and-sand colored seating area just shy of the hippogriff shuttle in its fake nest of a dock. She shrugged helplessly.
“They’re mostly arrogant, privileged, used to the best. Some are out of sorts from travel. Wouldn’t say any of them are looking for a fight though.”
“That’s a start. Next time pay attention to the little details. Talk to Chief Goldberg about how.” Tunold checked his watch. “Dismissed.”
The moment the purser left, that spooky ghost of a panther that Machado called his familiar phased up through the deck in front of Tunold.
“Executive Officer Kristoff Tunold,” said the panther, in a Brazilian accent that almost matched the ship’s mage. “My master wishes me to inform you that all thaumaturgic content brought aboard by the passengers is legal, safe, and permitted according to the specifications of the flight manifest.”