“What’s wrong, sir?” she asked.
Dr. Haupt placed a darkly veined hand on a folder on his desk. “We have received a request from the State Department. A request for assistance.” His fingers idly tapped the folder. “With some reluctance, they have admitted that the request originated with the Central Intelligence Agency in West Berlin. The details are . . . scarce. Almost nonexistent. I have pushed for more information, but they have not been forthcoming.”
“Whatever the problem is, can’t we just leave it to the Soviets?” George asked. “They seem to want Berlin more than we do.”
“I doubt the people of Berlin would appreciate the nuance of your recommendation,” Dr. Haupt replied. An edge had entered his tone. George was a self-centered buffoon who didn’t have the history with Dr. Haupt that Karen did, but even he should have known to tread carefully on the subject of Germany with the director.
“Are we being sent to Berlin?” Karen asked.
Dr. Haupt looked at her almost as if he had forgotten she was there. His voice softened, as much as it could, and he said, “One of you is being sent to Berlin to gather information and to advise. The request was very clear on the number. The CIA believes too many magical assets on the ground would have ‘destabilizing potential.’”
“What does that mean?” George said.
“It means they don’t trust magicians,” Karen replied.
“They are not alone,” Dr. Haupt said, sighing. For a moment, he seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, as though he were suddenly someplace else entirely: memory or fantasy, Karen couldn’t tell, but whatever he saw there didn’t seem to please him.
George stepped forward. Karen hated the fact that he was nearly a foot taller than she was. “So who’s going?” he asked.
Dr. Haupt picked up his hand sharply, as though the folder had caught fire. His distant thoughts appeared banished. “I have asked you to come because you were both considered for this assignment. We are stretched for resources here and can spare little, but this is a request we cannot afford to ignore. Your names reached the top of a carefully selected list. You are both bright and capable and either of you would serve this office proudly in this matter.”
“But who is—”
“Miss O’Neil.”
Karen was pretty sure she was the most surprised person in the room, but it was close. George had the family connections in DC, a year of seniority, and immense skill. The decision shouldn’t have even been close.
“If I may ask, sir, why,” George said, his voice slowing down like it always did when he was attempting to control his anger, “was she selected over me?”
“You may ask, Mr. Cabott. But I do not choose to answer.”
Karen wished she could have enjoyed the color rising to George’s neck and face, but her mind was too busy elsewhere for proper gloating. She was going to Berlin? On a request from the State Department? To work with the CIA?
“Sir,” George said at last, saying the word through lips that were barely willing to open, “is that all?”
“There will be other assignments, Mr. Cabott. There is always work to be done.”
“Is that all? Sir.”
Dr. Haupt nodded, and George was gone.
“Thank you, sir,” Karen said in the ensuing silence. “Thank you for this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”
“Yes,” Dr. Haupt said absently, nearly lost again. “Yes, you are welcome, Miss O’Neil. Karen.” He took off his heavy glasses and placed them on the desk. With fingers expert in magic Karen could still only fumble at, he rubbed his deep-set eyes as if warding off an old ache. “I hope I have not made you an enemy.”
“George?” Karen said. “He’ll get over it. Though,” she added, “why did you ask him to come to your office, if he wasn’t picked?”
“I decided Mr. Cabott would benefit from learning he was my second choice,” he replied, his accent landing heavy on the word “second.”
Karen couldn’t hide a grin. “Thank you, sir.”
Dr. Haupt only nodded.
“You are from Berlin originally, aren’t you, sir?”
“Yes,” he said with a curt nod. “It is a beautiful city with a rich history, and an unfortunate present.”
“You didn’t want to take this assignment yourself, have a chance to see your home again on Uncle Sam’s dime?”
Dr. Haupt’s eyes dropped and Karen instantly regretted her question. “There is nothing for me in Germany now, I’m afraid. I have only been back once, since the war,” he said. “Official business. Unpleasant business. I am not eager to return.”
“Sir, I’m sorry. I—”
He held up a hand. “Forgive an old man his regrets. But the United States is my home now. A place of new beginnings. I shall leave Germany’s complexities to a younger generation. My generation has done enough damage.”
“Any advice for my first visit?”
“I doubt you will have much time for sightseeing, though there is much to be seen,” he said. His face turned a bit grim. “The best advice I can give is this: stay away from the Wall.”
“I’ll leave you, then,” Karen said. “And thanks again, sir.”
As she neared the door, he stopped her. “Karen?”
“Yes?”
“I am sorry I interrupted the meeting earlier. I am certain you would have been able to handle it on your own satisfactorily.”
“Cranky men don’t bother me, sir.”
“Good,” he said. “And good luck.”
* * *
• • •
George was waiting for her when she reached the stairwell.
“You sleep with him too?”
“Go to hell, George.”
“Is that a yes?”
“That is a ‘go to hell.’”
She made to move past him, suddenly not in the mood for banter, but he reached out an arm and blocked the narrow hallway.
“This is a serious assignment,” he said. “Lives might be at stake. It is hard enough to get the government to recognize the importance of magic. We should be sending our best.”
“According to the director, we are.”
“No, we’re sending someone we can spare. Since Theoretical Magic isn’t actually accomplishing anything . . .”
“See, here I thought the ‘R’ in ‘OMRD’ stood for ‘Research.’ Silly me. Now, move.”
He didn’t. “You really think you’re ready for this? You really think you are the best person for the job?”
“I think our boss thinks so.”
“That kraut?”
“Should we invite him out here so you can call him that to his face?”
“I don’t care what he thinks. I asked if you think you’re ready for this.”
Karen considered retreating back the way she had come, but doubted that would deter him. “What do you want to hear, George? That you’re the greatest magician in the world and everyone else should bow down before you and kiss your saintly feet?”
He smirked. “That’d be a good start.”
“Fine. You’re the best. When I grow up I want to be just like you. And when I go to Berlin instead of you, I’ll do my best to make you proud. That good enough?”
“No.”
“Then what do you want?”
“A bout.”
“What?”
He dropped his arm. “A bout. Like in college. Winner takes all.”
Karen groaned. It was always the same with men like George. “You only ever think about using your magic to smash something,” she said. “You might be surprised to learn it has other, less destructive uses.”
“You sound afraid.”
“I don’t need to be afraid. Dr. Haupt has already made his decision.”
“And if you walk back in there and tell him you thi
nk I should go, he’ll change his decision.”
“And why would I do that?”
“Because deep down,” he said softly, “you know I’m right.”
She’d never hated him more than in that moment. His arrogance, his snobbery, the way he strutted around the OMRD like it was his personal fiefdom: she could handle that. She’d grown accustomed to it, even. But this was worse. Much worse. Because she wasn’t sure he was wrong. She loved magic and was damn good at it. But was she the magician you wanted on the front lines, with everything at stake? Was she really ready for that kind of responsibility? Would she ever be?
“En garde,” she said, and tried to ignore how pleased he looked.
“One touch,” he said, backing up to an appropriate distance.
She grabbed the leather pouch. She saw him begin to spin the chunky gold ring he always wore, a gift from his father, if she remembered correctly, embossed with the Cabott family crest: a thistle and a branch. Magic began to hum in the air. “May the best woman win,” she said.
You can do this. He doesn’t stand a chance.
She took a breath.
Just forget the fact that he was captain of the spell fencing team at St. Cyprian’s three years running. And that he went undefeated in their last season, breaking the previous record that had been set by his father, the famous Stephen Cabott. Or the trophies; God, the trophies. Karen was pretty confident that George’s real favorite pastime wasn’t sport; it was gazing at his own reflection in polished brass.
But Karen knew that spell fencing, like its bladed cousin, was a sport of strategy. To win you certainly had to know your basic techniques: when to use a quick bolt of lightning or a slower burst of fire; which defensive auras could counter which attacks without leaving you without an offense of your own; when you could safely retreat and when to push back. But you had to do more than master your skills; you had to master your opponent. You had to make them think you wanted one thing when in fact you wanted something else entirely. You had to feint and anticipate and react before they even moved.
It was, simply put, a game far too subtle for a man.
“Fence!”
Typically the first moments of a spell fencing bout were less than spectacular to watch; magicians quickly threw up some basic defensive spells to keep from getting caught by a lucky blow early on. With the right shields in place, strategy took over. Do you take out your opponent’s outer defenses with a spell of kinetic force? Or do you start to cast that spell, only to turn it to something that would cut deeper at the last minute? Or do you pretend to set more defenses in place, only to counterattack when your opponent tried to wind up for a big spell?
George did exactly what she knew he would. He was a good fencer, maybe great, but not an inventive one. She saw the blur of magical wards come to life as his lips murmured well-worn enchantments, spells that had stood the test of time. Getting through those barriers to hit his body would be difficult. Doing so while defending against his own attacks, which were sure to come any moment, might be impossible.
But since she had no intention of doing that, she wasn’t bothered.
Magical defenses, especially the simple ones used in spell fencing, were very specific. It took a lot of energy to block an oncoming spell, so you didn’t cast your shield over everything, just what you had to protect. So an attack to his chest would be like cutting through a concrete wall, but an attack elsewhere might be completely unhindered.
And, as it turned out, gold was a marvelous conductor for magical energy. And heat.
Karen finished her spell just as George was ready to start his attack. She could see the gleam in his eyes when he realized how few defenses she’d bothered to put up. This would be over soon, he surely thought, and then she’d know her place. Then the correct order of the universe, with George Alistair Cabott at the top, would be restored. And then . . .
And then his ring, the center of his magical focus, caught on fire.
George screamed and tried to tear the shimmering metal from his finger. In doing so, all his shields vanished in a puff. Karen immediately ceased her spell, or at least she meant to. But for a brief moment, she reveled in that feeling only her magic brought: soothing, yet bracing, like standing in a perfectly hot shower. From the very start, she had known this was what she was meant for.
Then she saw George was on his knees, doubled over in pain, and she cut the magic off in an instant.
It was quiet in the hallway for a moment. Karen was torn between a twinge of guilt at letting the spell go a little too long and the regret she always felt when she had to rein her magic in.
“That hurt.” George was breathing heavy.
“I believe the word you are looking for,” Karen said, her voice quavering a bit, “is ‘touché.’”
“You cheated.”
“I won.”
His face twitched with a mix of anger and pain. “I shouldn’t be surprised. This has always been your problem, in school, and now here. You think just because you’re good that you’re good enough.”
“Which one of us is on the floor, George?”
“You’re going to fail,” he said, clenching his blistered hand. “You’re going to get over there, in the middle of a world you don’t understand, and you’re going to fail. I only hope someone is there to pick up the pieces when you do.”
Karen wanted more than anything to have a good reply, something witty and mean that would have made George think twice about doubting her. But her mind was blank. No words, witty or otherwise, materialized. Just the silence of the hallway, the sting of his rebuke, and the lingering cordite smell of spent magic.
Without a word, she walked past him and down the stairs.
THREE
It was achingly cold, but that came as no surprise. In such a place, comfort would be inappropriate. Comfort invited a man to let down his guard, and only dead men made that mistake here. The colonel waited, as was so often his duty, and listened to the pipes ticking overhead and the watch ticking in his palm. He flipped the watch open. It was a weakness to look, he knew, but he was old enough now not to care. He sighed. The steadily clicking hands were not kind: he would be late. She would, he hoped, forgive him.
The door at the far end of the room groaned and swung out.
Leonid brought their guest in, as requested. The last one for the day. His uniform was mussed, a button missing from his jacket. A struggle, perhaps? No, not from this small man shivering under Leonid’s grip, the man with the broken lens in his glasses and the blood on his collar. This man had no fight in him. Perhaps he would not be so late after all.
“Thank you,” the colonel said softly, motioning to a waiting chair. “I have a place for our comrade just here.”
The man was talking before he had even been forced into his seat. “Comrade Colonel, I assure you—”
The colonel held up a hand and silenced him. Pain erupted just above his right eye at the sound of the man’s quavering voice. The headaches were always bad on days such as these. It was too much for one man to take on himself. That sounded like his wife’s voice: You use too much of yourself. There must be others who can do this. Others they can call on instead of my husband.
But there were no others. No one else who could do what he could.
“I am tired, Artyom Ivanovich. I am tired and I am running late. Let us therefore avoid unnecessary talk.”
“Comrade Colonel, whatever has been said of me, I—”
“We have never met, you and I, correct? Yet I trust you know me, perhaps by reputation. This is true?”
Artyom glanced back at the looming shadow of Leonid and nodded. “Yes, Comrade Colonel. I know who you are.”
“Good. Then you know by the fact that I am sitting across from you that certain options are now closed. This is not a time for bartering. This is a time to do what must be done. You understand.�
�
“But—”
“This room, do you know what it is for? It is a place for remembering. At times, men must be reminded of the importance of duty. And so they come here. So I can help them. That is why we are here, together, you and I. To do our duty.”
“I have done my duty. I always do my duty. I—”
“At the academy, they teach us that magic is nothing more than will.” He tapped his temple. “Will. That is why some men can use magic and some cannot: they lack will. Will is what gives us power. Will is what helps us do our duty. Will keeps us from making mistakes.”
He clicked open his pocket watch and watched the seconds tick by. “This watch belonged to my grandfather. It still keeps perfect time, even after all these years. It helps me to focus, to impose my will.” His fingers snapped it shut, but he could still feel its pulse, that inexorable march. “Since you are lacking will of your own, Artyom Ivanovich, I will lend you some of mine.”
Now the words, in tongues ancient and lost, a further focus. The spells, those he had seen done so poorly by those who considered themselves masters, were so simple with the right will.
So simple.
The screams echoed unheard down the long, empty hallways.
* * *
• • •
The theater was dark when he entered quietly, the performance nearly complete. He had a ticket for a seat, somewhere near the front, but no way to find it. That did not matter, however, now that he had arrived. He stood invisible in the shadowed back of the theater as the final soloist took the stage.
She was young, yet already growing into the dancer’s graceful form. Her golden hair was pulled back tight, her face a powdered porcelain mask. She was smiling, but he saw the determination written beneath. The music began. She moved across the stage, hesitant, slightly behind the music. Uncertain on pointe. No, no. Breathe, he thought. You are better than this. As you have been taught. Yes, like that. There is my daughter. There is my girl.
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