The World Awakening

by Dan Koboldt

  “Worse.”

  Delightful. Quinn ran to the door and slid the bar down behind it, quietly as possible. He slid his fingers over the wood, but couldn’t find the hidden locking mechanism. “Might be a good idea to take us out of here.”

  “Tempted as I am to give Mott a stern lecture, I’m inclined to agree.” Moric beckoned. “Come in close.”

  Quinn gave up on the door, just as someone tried it from the outside. A muffled shout came next, and then a heavier hit against the door. It shuddered, but held. It wouldn’t hold if they really wanted to come in, though. He ran over to Moric, who’d already begun an incantation.

  Moric put a hand on Jillaine’s shoulder. Quinn cleared his throat. He sighed, and then brought Quinn into the circle. Like it was a big favor or something.

  The magic brought a tingle to Quinn’s forearm. He braced himself for the sudden chill as the spell reached its climax. But the tingle faded, and the chill never came. Moric gasped.

  “What’s wrong?” Quinn asked.

  Moric began to answer, but broke off as something heavy thudded against the door.

  “It . . . it didn’t work.”

  “I gathered that. Why not?”

  Moric looked up in the rafters. “The mill must be warded.”

  “You got in just fine.”

  “Some wards prevent one from entering. Others, from leaving.”

  Quinn could guess the kind of ward a bounty hunter operation would want on its main base. “We’d better think of something. That door won’t hold for very long.” He searched in vain for the heavy crossbow Mott had pulled on them, but the man must have hidden it well or taken it with him. He’s a lot more clever than he pretends to be. He loosened his sword in its scabbard, and grimaced at the thought that he might need it. “If we surprise them, we might be able to fight our way clear.”

  “Whatever our plan, we must take care not to harm any goldcloaks,” Moric said.

  Quinn figured he must have heard wrong. “What?”

  “It’s a capital offense to assault a goldcloak.”

  “What if they attack us first?”

  Moric shrugged. “The law still applies.”

  Quinn groaned. Why can’t things ever get easier instead of harder? “So no fighting, and no escaping. Can we at least hide, or is that illegal, too?”

  “You gave me an idea,” Jillaine said. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”

  Two goldcloaks kicked open the mill door, ripping the bar right out of its frame. They fell back as three others charged in, halberds at the ready. Quinn would have admired this military precision if he weren’t fighting to keep absolutely still against the roof of the mill. It was either that or risk falling twenty feet to the floor. Jillaine had lifted them up here. Her magic held them spread-eagled against the underside of the roof. Moric had done something to conceal them here, but cautioned them not to move. So Quinn’s job, apparently, was to keep perfectly still and not freak out about dangling in midair above a growing number of well-armed soldiers.

  So . . . no problem.

  The goldcloaks swarmed the mill’s interior, efficiently searching every hiding spot and blind corner. If they’d hidden down there, they’d have been found in less than a minute. The goldcloaks found no one, of course, and began grousing to one another. The officer in charge shouted something out the door at Mott, asking about the wards. The muted reply confirmed that they’d been set, just as Moric had suspected. Then the worst happened: the goldcloaks expanded their search upward, probing the walls with their spear-points. It was only a matter of time until one of them decided to chuck a spear up at the ceiling.

  Judging by the sweat dripping from her face, Jillaine was fully taxed with just keeping them aloft. Moric seemed no better off. Which meant it fell to Quinn to do something creative. Fighting was out. His best bet was some kind of distraction that would give them a chance to escape. Gods, I wished I’d had time to actually learn some magic on the Enclave island. The massive mill wheel continued its soft grind, just a few feet away from his head. Well, he’d stopped it once, and he didn’t have any better ideas.

  The magic didn’t come as willingly this time. He was already near his own limit. He forced it upward and imagined a massive hand gripping it like a doorknob. Holding it fast. It was strange, how the magic conveyed a feeling of exertion for this feat. It drained him as if he were the one holding the wheel fast.

  The great wheel’s newly imposed stillness was not lost on the royal guards, who nudged one another and shared nervous whispers. They edged away from the stone wheel. One of them made a sweeping gesture as if to ward off evil. When nothing further happened, they continued their search. Even if all of them found an excuse to keep far away from the mill wheel.

  It’s not enough. Well, if the guards wouldn’t get out, Quinn would have to make his own way. He caught Moric’s eye and whispered, “Will the wards still work outside?”

  “Shouldn’t,” Moric said, his voice strained.

  “Get ready.” Quinn took a breath and focused his attention on the mill wheel. He added to the pressure that held it, and forced it to turn the other way. Against the flow of the river. The pressure of the water grew, fighting him. The wheel began to slip forward again. He dug deep, and forced it backward. The wooden framework groaned in protest.

  Just a little more . . .

  A deafening crack announced the snap of the wooden spine that connected the millworks to the wheel outside. The massive stone grinding wheel shifted down six inches, then a foot, as it crushed the supports beneath it. Then it broke through to the water, and a wide crack split the building’s frame to either side. The goldcloaks shouted in alarm and shoved against one another to flee out the open door. The wheel tottered inward. Then the bottom part of the outer wall gave way, and it tipped back out. It crashed through the outer wall, taking most of the structure down with it into the river. The roof split along a seam right above their heads. Blue sky showed through the gap.

  “Jillaine, get us out there!” Quinn shouted.

  She’d already gritted her teeth and done something with the spell that held them, shifting them over and up as the rest of the mill began to collapse. Timbers from the frame slid against the soles of Quinn’s boots.

  Damn, that’s close.

  A cloud of dust rose up as the mill crumpled into a pile of debris, half of which fell into the river and began drifting downstream. Quinn, Jillaine, and Moric dangled precariously some forty feet above it, with her magic the only thing preventing a perilous fall. And she was waning; Quinn could see that from the grimace on her face. He’d have tried to help, but feared he’d disrupt her concentration instead. And he’d taxed himself almost completely with the mill wheel. He doubted he could lift a blade of grass, much less three grown adults.

  “Can you get us over the water?” he asked Jillaine. It almost certainly meant capture, since their splashes would alert the guards. The current was strong here, but not fast enough to carry them away before the goldcloaks could grab them. But it beat falling into the mill debris.

  She nodded, and began shifting them out over the water. Then she gave a little sob, and faltered, and suddenly they were falling. Quinn squeezed out the last bit of his magic to nudge Jillaine close. He got an arm around her and pulled her tight against him. Maybe he could cushion the blow. But that little bit pushed him over the edge. His vision blurred . . . and then a strong hand clamped around his wrist. A sharp, sudden chill washed over him. He tumbled into darkness.

  Chapter 7

  Strange Bedfellows

  “The rift between Valteron and Caralis runs far deeper than we realized.”

  —R. Holt, “Alissia: Political Overview”

  Veena thundered down a narrow road at the head of a pack of horsemen. Theoretically, they were her security detail, but the captain of the guards had made the mistake of suggesting that they “maintain a slow pace so the lady can keep up.” That was about two minutes before she emerged fr
om the palace stables with the biggest, meanest gelding in Valteron City. They’d stabled him down at the end, solitary confinement as it were. He had more meat on him than most of the poor excuses for horses that Richard had brought in, but stamped and snorted with the pent-up energy of an animal that needed exercise.

  He twice tried to bite Veena as she saddled him. Once she’d mounted, he shook like he might try to buck her off. She pulled the reins taut to bring him under control. Didn’t let up the pressure as they rode away from the palace. Nothing but consistent, firm discipline. By the time they’d reached the outskirts, she had him well in hand. She had to keep him to a walk, though, or risk trampling the stream of refugees that still poured into Valteron City.

  At last, they turned north-northeast on a wider, less-traveled road. The guard-captain set them at a canter, spreading the riders out. Veena nudged her gelding up front, dug her heels into his sides, and never looked back.

  She continued to savor Richard’s surprise and slight consternation at receiving a complement of Tukalu guards.

  “As long as you’re achieving the impossible, perhaps you should meet with a delegation from Caralis,” he’d told her.

  “Why not?” She’d glanced at the Tukalu, who’d taken up a position around him and then gone perfectly still. “Looks like you’ll have your hands full in any case.”

  The meeting, if it could be called that, took place on disputed lands at the boarder of Valteron and Caralis. The Caralissians had less of a ride from their capital, and thus had already made camp at the coveted two-notch hill that overlooked the border vale from the northwest. She ordered her escorts to make camp on the southeastern hill, but to raise no banner yet. The men eyed the Caralissians and grumbled about their uphill position, which she chose to ignore. Thus far, everything had gone exactly as Richard predicted.

  Richard.

  She basked in the luxury of using his name, of becoming part of his carefully laid plans for Alissia’s future. He’d given her a vital but near-impossible task: brokering an alliance with Valteron’s chief economic rival. A trial by fire if there ever was one. At the root of the conflict was Caralissian wine, the nation’s chief export and one of the most valuable substances in Alissia. Caralis controlled every aspect of its commerce, from manufacture to delivery, including transportation.

  That last bit was the sticking point. Caralissians distrusted sea-travel. They only shipped their wine overland, which prevented Valteron’s trading empire from sharing in any of the enormous profits. That’s what would have to change. She only hoped that the Caralissians would not demand too high a price.

  Precisely one hour after Veena’s men raised the banner over her tent, a lone rider detached himself from the Caralissian camp. Veena pretended not to watch as he rode down the little valley between their two hills and approached her tent. Everything about the man said genteel: from the high-stepping horse to the riding crop to the crushed velvet jacket. Even the posture belonged more at a polo match than a parley between nations. The hat really sold it, though. She couldn’t help but think that the ridiculous velvet hat would do little to stop a sword blow.

  “Good day,” the man said. “My lord the Baron of Summertree bids you welcome, and asks if you would join him in the vale in an hour’s time.”

  Veena nearly replied, but caught herself. She beckoned her guard-captain over. “Tell him we’re just arrived, and it will be two hours. But you know . . .” She made a vague spinning gesture with one hand. “Make it sound fancy.”

  The guard-captain blinked, but offered her a short bow, the first he’d shown since meeting her. He cleared his throat and strolled over to the courier, with a casual hand on his sword-hilt. “Well met, good sir. Would it terribly inconvenience the baron to make it two hours? We would certainly like the time to put our best foot forward for his lordship.”

  “I will ask.” The courier backed his horse a suitable distance so as not to cause offense—no small show of horsemanship in that—and spun about. He trotted back up to the Caralissian encampment, tarried for a few minutes, and then returned a few moments later.

  “The baron would be honored if you could join him in an hour and a half’s time.”

  So it begins. Veena nearly smiled to herself. The guard-captain looked at her. She gave a minute nod.

  “Tell the baron we’ll be there,” the guard-captain said.

  Veena spent the next hour and fifteen minutes in her tent looking up Summertree in Richard’s archives. He’d catalogued the entire Caralissian peerage system to an impressive level of detail, even before going rogue from the company. Now, with most of his intelligence network reporting to him and the might of Valteron behind him, he was as good as the CIA. Better, perhaps, because so many of his sources gave their information voluntarily. There were Valteroni sympathizers in Caralis and vice versa. Richard knew how to use that.

  The Baron of Summertree, it seemed, commanded some of the most productive vineyards in all of southern Caralis. That made him a man of some influence. Even better, he was a cousin to the queen and either fourth or sixth in line for the throne, depending on whose rules of succession you believed. The fact that Caralis had sent a member of the royal family said that they gave this meeting some importance.

  Now all that remained was for her to steer it to her will.

  They met at the appointed time in the shallow vale between the hillsides: Veena, the guard-captain, and three of his soldiers and an equal number of Caralissians. Summertree rode a horse that Veena had heard about but never seen. Its coat was white as Felaran snow, the mane jet-black and long enough to be braided.

  She forgot all propriety and blurted out, “Gods above, is that a Percheron White?”

  Summertree’s eyebrows shot up, but he smiled in a pleasant way. “I’m surprised you recognize it.” He dismounted and patted the mare’s flanks.

  “I’ve heard enough about them, but I never thought I’d see one in person.” Supposedly, only the Caralissian royals were permitted to ride them. She got the feeling that fourth in line for the throne might be the more accurate calculation.

  “Then I’m glad I brought her.” He straightened and tossed his reins to a soldier. “I am the fourth baron of Summertree, of the Caralissian queendom.” He accompanied this with a short, formal bow.

  “And I am the minister of cultural affairs for Valteron.” She mimed a curtsy, but in jest, because the gesture would be ridiculous in her tight breeches and riding jacket. “You may call me Dahlia.”

  “A lovely name, for a lovely woman, to be sure.” Summertree’s face clouded. “Though I must admit that I hoped the Prime himself would be at this meeting.”

  Ah, yes. Caralis would so enjoy that mismatch of station. She wrinkled her forehead. “I’m terribly sorry. Is Her Majesty the queen here as well?”

  He coughed into his hand. “Alas, the queen does not travel much outside of her capital.”

  “Nor does the Prime.” Especially now that Richard’s magical protections had been revoked. Veena still didn’t know for certain why the Enclave had made that sudden decision, but if she had to guess, she’d say Quinn had somehow instigated it. He could charm the rattles off a snake. No matter the cause, the effect was all that mattered. Richard was more vulnerable now than ever before. He’d doubled his personal guard, but that might still not be enough. So for now, he stayed put.

  “I see,” he said.

  “It falls to you and I to conduct the business of our nations.”

  The baron let his disappointment show for just a moment before his smile returned. “So it does. And I admit that your invitation came as something of a surprise. Nearly as surprising as your generous new trading terms.”

  “It’s nothing. We are neighbors, after all,” Veena said.

  “And yet I have the distinct feeling that you’re going to ask for something in return.”

  “We ask for nothing.”

  He gave her a look that said we both know that’s not true. His eyes were
a color of charcoal she’d never seen before. Another perk of the royal family, no doubted.

  “In fact, we would like to offer something,” she said.

  “If you are going to offer to ship Caralissian wine, you needn’t bother. The wine must ever be transported overland. Never over water.”

  “By law?”

  “By royal decree.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “First and foremost, it’s a matter of caution. The integrity of our process ensures that every bottle lives up to the reputation of Caralissian wine. This is the promise we make to those who drink it.”

  “To those who can afford to drink it, you mean.”

  He allowed a smile. “The finest of things do not come cheaply.”

  She conceded this point with a gracious nod. “Surely there’s a more practical reason for never shipping the wine. Other than caution, I mean.”

  “Did you know that every wine train travels with an experienced vintner, who ensures its quality and authenticity upon arrival?”

  “I’d heard that, yes,” Veena said.

  “Did you also know that no shipments of Caralissian wine have ever been lost or stolen during Her Majesty’s reign?”

  “None at all?”

  “Not even once.”

  “Well, the armed escort doesn’t hurt.” Veena had seen a Caralissian wine transport before. If memory served, there were more guards than barrels. The grim look on Logan’s face had said something about their abilities, too.

  “Believe it or not, there are those who would try to take our wine by force, or by treachery.”

  Veena spread her hands out. “It’s a dangerous world.”

  “We consider it a point of pride that no shipment has ever been lost. Can you say the same of Valteroni ships?”

  “You know I can’t.” Valteron had lost two ships in the past month alone. Even close to shore, the Alissian oceans were unforgiving.

  “Then you must understand why Her Majesty insists on shipping the wine overland.”

  Veena sighed. “I do.”