The Hidden Illusionist

by Deck Davis

  Dantis strained against the hatch above him, but it didn’t budge. Ethan leaned his muscles into it, and this time, the metal slid aside. Ethan inherited their mother’s ex-warrior muscles, while Dantis was cut from their father’s more studious frame.

  “I loosened it up for you,” said Dantis.

  As he slid the hatch further, light flooded in. Not the glow of the moon, nor the sweep of a watchtower light, but darkness.

  “This doesn’t seem like the right hatch,” he said.

  Shouts resounded behind them.

  “They’ve cut us off,” said Dantis. “We can’t go back now. Up we go.”

  They both climbed through the hatch, emerging into a pitch-black room. A chill settled over him, coating his shoulders and back.

  Once they were out of the darkness of the tunnels, Ethan looked at his brother. His hair was shaved to his skin on the back on sides of his head, but he’d let the hair on top grow out. He wore a pair of mismatched boots, one black and the other blue. They looked ridiculous, but he’d never say that to him. They were the boots Dantis had grabbed the night they fled their home, and he knew that for Dantis, the boots were a part of their past that he couldn’t bear to throw away.

  Despite how scared Dantis was, Ethan couldn’t help but feel proud of his little brother. Sure, he had sausage fingers when it came to pickpocketing, and he couldn’t hold a sword without cutting himself, but the boy had brains. He was always reading, always taking things in. Ethan wished he had half the brains of Dantis.

  “Where was the hatch supposed to lead to again?” he said.

  “Outside. Beyond the wall.”

  “I get the feeling we’re not outside, Dantis.”

  “Shit.”

  “Shit indeed. They’ve caught up to us. Close the hatch.”

  Dantis slammed the hatch shut. Ethan stood on it.

  “I’ll look for a door,” said Dantis, with a tremor in his voice.

  Guards pounded on the hatch. His body weight was enough to keep shut, but they’d be free to climb up when he had to run.

  The walls shook. Somewhere beyond, a cogman clanked. Cobwebs detached from the ceiling, and cups and plates clattered from a shelf on the wall. Ethan’s eyes adjusted to reveal an old kitchen that had fallen into disuse.

  “This way,” said Dantis.

  “Still got that jelly ball thing?”

  “I only have one. Need to use it when we really need it.”

  Ethan followed him out of the door and through a corridor, taking a dizzying array of twists and turns. The further they went, the grander the decorations became, turning from the style-less, drab plaster walls, to exotic wallpaper with intricate, hand-drawn patterns. The aroma of jasmine mixed with wafts of hot meat.

  “We’re in Hawksby’s house now?”

  “The kitchen we came from used to be a serving kitchen,” said Dantis.

  The walls shook again. This time there was a rattle. A miniature chandelier swung from the ceiling.

  “How can you remember where to go? The place is a maze.”

  “I memorized the plans. This way.”

  “You’re the boss,” said Ethan. “I trust you.”

  Did he really mean it? After the cogmen and the mind-wryms, he was wary. The small smile gave him after he said it made it worthwhile. He just had to stop being the big brother sometimes and put some trust in him.

  They rounded a corner and stopped. Dantis gasped. Ethan raised his sword, but he felt like he was waving a twig at a giant.

  Hawksby the trader waited for them in the atrium of his palace. His bulging torso was strapped into a thatchwork of metal and plastic prosthetic arms and legs, to replace the ones he’d lost in the Grand War. His face, tanned like a sausage, hid behind a beard, while he’d tattooed every inch of his chest to form a mural of the Soul Wars.

  Four men were standing guard, two on each side of him. They wore casual clothes, which must have been because they were house guards.

  Next to Hawksby was a guy Ethan’s age. He was tall and wiry, but his sleeveless shirt showed his toned muscles. He held a scabbard in a two-handed grip. Not a bad stance. Kid’s had training. He was paler than Hawksby, yet their facial similarity was impossible to miss.

  “Hello, Ethan,” said one of the guards.

  That voice – where did he recognize it from? Had he met this man before? He didn’t look familiar. He had black hair tied back in a ponytail, and a goatee covered his chin. It wasn’t a particularly memorable face.

  “Remember me?” said the guard.

  A sickening feeling hit him. Now he knew where he recognized the man’s voice from. It was Redmayne. In the pub, as he’d explained that he could give Ethan information about his parents if they stole the soulgem, his face was blurred. Now he knew why.

  “You set me up,” he said.

  “Ethan?” said Dantis. “Who’s this?”

  “Redmayne. Bastard set up us.”

  “Why?”

  Ethan didn’t answer, he was too wrapped up in his thoughts, about what an ass he’d been to blame Dantis. This wasn’t his brother’s fault – the blame was his own. He shouldn’t have relied on Dantis to plan everything, he had expected too much of him.

  His only thoughts now were on escape. A set of double doors behind them marked the exit. Ethan could dodge his way through, but Dantis? Kid was clumsier than a drunken bull.

  We better try. No other way out of this.

  The double doors opened. With four booming steps, a bronze cogman marched to the door and covered their escape.

  “Shit,” said Ethan.

  “Evening, boys,” said Hawksby. “You’re the fourth burglars this month. Come for the vault, have you?”

  “Wait, this isn’t the Drunken Pig tavern?” said Ethan. “We’ve taken a wrong turn. C’mon, Dantis. Let’s leave the gentleman in peace.”

  Hawksby crossed his metal arms. The plastic tube work connected to it, which was filled with a white liquid that must have aided movement, rattled.

  “You’ll go nowhere. The Wolfpine sheriff is on his way, and I’ll make sure an example is made of you thieving bastards. I tried to go easy on the first three, but it’s getting tiresome now.”

  Dantis glanced at Ethan. They both nodded to each other. The gesture was all they needed.

  Dantis threw his jelly ball at the cogman. It splattered onto its bronze armor, spreading like egg yolk. Sparks crackled around it, and the cogman tipped backward like a felled tree, clattering on the ground.

  The doorway was free. Now they just had to get by Hawksby, the boy who looked like him, and the guards.

  It wasn’t possible. They were too outnumbered.

  Three guards closed around him, while one advanced on Dantis. He needed to create enough of an opening for him to run. If he could at least do enough to let Dantis escape, then he didn’t care about himself.

  “Run,” he told Dantis, before raising his sword and barreling to his right, drawing the guards away from his brother.

  The pale, muscled boy parried with his scabbard. Ethan ducked, feinted a blow at his legs, and rose at the last second and swiped toward his neck. The boy leaned backward, letting Ethan swipe air.

  He’s quicker than I thought.

  The boy pirouetted, slashing at Ethan’s chest. He ducked under the blow, then rose with his blade in an arc, burrowing the tip in the boy’s left armpit.

  “Ethan,” said Dantis, panicked.

  Ethan turned to see three swords pointed at him. Dantis, weaponless, faced just one sword, but it was enough.

  Hawksby laughed. “If only I hadn’t sent word to the sheriff. We could have had a lot of fun with you.”

  Chapter Three

  Dantis

  “Don’t try to escape,” the guard said, shoving him into the cell. “It’s impossible, and it’ll really bugger up my night.”

  He locked Dantis in one cell, Ethan in another, and then left them to stew on their failed robbery. Sounds of Wolfpine town drifted th
rough the barred windows, but Dantis ignored them and took in his surroundings.

  The cell walls were made of soulstone; a mana-drenched stone designed to leech joy, vitality, and energy from anyone unfortunate enough to be close to it. They probably used it to keep their prisoners docile, and to snuff out any hopes they had of escape. He could already feel it working on him, casting a shadow deep inside his body.

  He channeled his mana and focused on the walls. A new wall formed, one of red bricks. It was an illusion, of course, but if he couldn’t see the soulstone, it couldn’t harm him. With that done, he closed his eyes, hoping the illusion would keep until he fell asleep.

  As he closed his eyes, thoughts tumbled in his mind. It’s my fault we were caught. Everything that happens from here on is on me. I have to get us out of this.

  The next morning, he woke in a cold sweat, with a strange word on his tongue.

  Vupyr.

  What did it mean? As he tried to repeat it, tried to remember how it was spelled, it dissolved.

  “Ethan! Yoo hoo! Over here! We love you Ethan!”

  Voices drifted into his cell from outside his window. A group of girls were standing across from the justice building. They’d watched the guards escort them into the justice hall, and they’d tried to get Ethan’s attention ever since.

  His brother had that effect on girls, which was a problem in their line of work. It made it harder to blend into crowds. Most guys would have enjoyed the attention, hell, Dantis would have loved it, but his Ethan hated it. He’d gotten so desperate to get away from the attention he’d sliced his cheek to give himself a scar. It didn’t work as he planned.

  “Turns out girls love scars,” Ethan said, with a scowl.

  He turned away from the window. Time to get started. He and Ethan had so many bounties on their heads they faced a lifetime in prison unless they escaped. The problem was that he didn’t know if he was up to it. What if another of his plans failed, and made things worse? He’d already landed them in a cell.

  No. Even if that was true, he had to try. He wouldn’t stay here and accept his fate.

  “Where are you?” Dantis said, looking for the flaw in his plan. It was here somewhere; one missed detail that would undo everything.

  He stretched out his arms. He tried to shake his sleepiness away, but he remembered his strange dreams from the night before.

  He dreamed about a mysterious woman standing outside his cell. She had short, curly hair that wriggled around, and a luminous mist hung above her shoulders. The hallway behind her was pitch black, and he could only make out her silhouette. Was she a ghost?

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Not long,” she whispered.

  “Huh?”

  She didn’t reply, but she stared at him for hours. Every so often, she took something out of her pocket and seemed to feed it to her wriggling hair. That was weird enough, but the strangest thing was he’d dreamed this over and over.

  The idea of being watched made him nervous. Out on the streets, he and Ethan slept in shifts, keeping an eye out for each other. The drawback to a jail cell was trying to sleep without his brother looking out for him.

  But, morning was gone, and so was the woman. The guards would come to fetch him soon, and since Ethan hadn’t lockpicked his way out of his cell, it was down to Dantis.

  “Better get to it,” he said to himself.

  His escape plan had come to him within hours of being taken to his cell. That was his gift; while Ethan could pick a lock blindfolded, Dantis could plan things; he only had to see a building’s layout once before it stayed in his head, and from there he could rearrange and dissect it at will, moving the part around like a puzzle to figure out the best way to escape.

  He grabbed a steel plate from beside his bed. He brushed off the mushy remnants of the gourmet oats and dust the guards gave him the night before, and he stared at the hazy reflection of himself in the metal. His pale-yellow eyes looked back at him.

  “You’ve got demon eyes,” Ethan used to say. “You’re either cursed or adopted.”

  Considering his life so far, maybe Ethan was right.

  He focused on his own image and fixed it in his mind. It wasn’t that he didn’t know what he looked like, it was just that the strongest illusions came from the freshest of images. He’d learned that early on, when he first discovered his gift. Dantis never did things by half, and when he realized he could cast life-like pictures in front of him, he wanted to see something big.

  He’d always heard about the giants who had lived in the Fire Isles before the Cataclysm, and he’d always wanted to see one. With that in mind, he’d closed his eyes and tried to conjure a giant in the middle of a field, but nothing had happened. He could even cast a foot, let alone a full giant.

  Later, he found out why; an illusionist was only as powerful as his store of knowledge. The things he’d seen, heard, experienced. If you told a cook to whip up a dish he’d never even heard of without giving him instructions, could he do it? Illusionism was the same. Only the highest illusionist, the masters of their craft, could cast products of the imagination.

  Boots thumped on the stairway leading to the cell block. They’re coming. Better be quick.

  With the image of himself in his head, he concentrated on his bed until his temples throbbed. Little by little, an image of himself formed under the bed covers. It flowed like silk from a spider, knitting together a lifelike image of his own head and shoulders.

  The sounds of boots got louder. The guards were getting closer, but there was a problem; his image stopped spinning. He could see himself on his bed now, but the image was incomplete. He only had one arm, and some of his chest was missing, like a half-eaten apple.

  Damn it, I’m too nervous. What did the book say to do when illusions aren’t forming?

  I need to calm down. Mana flows better when you’re calm.

  Without a mage mentor, Dantis learned his illusionist ability himself. He turned to books, advancing his skills using the written wisdom of others. He’d gotten far since the calamity of a day when he’d first discovered his ability, but he had much to learn.

  The study of magic went wider than the ocean, and he’d barely left the port. Worse, untrained magic was dangerous. All the books said it, but what could he do? No respectable mage would take a thieving street rat as an apprentice.

  The boots got closer. Before long, the guards would enter. If he didn’t finish his illusion before then, they’d never fall for it.

  He concentrated harder. Sweat covered his forehead. Color by color, his illusion knitted together. His jagged chest filled in, and his missing arm sprang out. He looked like he was asleep, with most of his bed under the covers. It was real, convincing, and…damn, I’m ugly.

  He trapped mana in the illusion and tied it off so he could focus on the next one. This was akin to blowing up a balloon and putting a knot in the end so the air didn’t escape. His illusion would stay visible until the mana ran out, without him needing to concentrate on it.

  Illusion tied. Mana at 85%

  Mana was the spiritual energy which fueled his spells, and it increased the more he practiced. He couldn’t see it, but it was there. Since he’d discovered his ability, he’d heard a voice in his head when he used it. It was his own voice, but blander. It told him how much mana he had left, and it informed him when he improved his ability. He guessed all mages possessed this inner voice, but he’d never been able to speak to another mage to find out.

  “Now for part two,” he said.

  With the illusion of himself in bed tied off, he leaned back against the stone wall next to him. A shock of cold spread across his back. He fixed his gaze on the stones, imbibing their detail. He cast his second illusion over himself, making the stone wall look a foot further forward than it was, hiding himself within it.

  Illusion tied. Mana at 50%.

  Damn, he’d used more mana than he expected. Magic was tough, and it wasn’t surprising a lot of mages went
bald early. Still, he wasn’t saving his mana for a rainy day, and it’d regenerate given time. Hope they hold their mana long enough to trick the guards.

  The door to the cellblock opened, and guards walked in.

  “Hear the gossip?” said one of them. “Another bugger’s gone missing.”

  “What? That’s twelve this year.” asked the other. “Sheriff Poyle needs to pull his finger out of his arse.”