Carousel Sun

by Sharon Lee

  Though it hadn’t killed me, being elfshot didn’t made me any stronger, either. I was sick for months, needed a lot of feeding up, and sun, and sleep. Bowditch, being a past master in the art of napping, had guarded my sleep by day. At night, I’d had Snow, the wolf dog, beside me. Bad dreams got past Snow—she wasn’t anything like as resty as Bowie—but I never feared that anything but a dream would get past her.

  That’d been important, in those days.

  Well, I thought idly, maybe I should get a cat.

  I stretched, and threw the covers back, glancing at the clock as I did.

  Seven forty-five. Perfect.

  I went downstairs to take a shower.

  The day’s agenda took shape while I showered. I had to relieve Vassily at four, naturally, but before that, there would be low tide. After sleeping on it, my back brain had decided that the better part of valor was the immediate closing of the wild gate at Goosefare Brook.

  I considered that idea narrowly as I shampooed my hair, but—aside from the fact that I had no idea how I’d go about closing a working that had literally knocked me on my ass—the concept seemed sound. Sort of implicit in protect the land was the notion that there shouldn’t be random mystery Gates spotting the landscape.

  They say that water’s therapeutic, that there’s something about taking a bath or a shower that stimulates the creative process. That was certainly true for me, today at least. By the time I’d turned the water off and was toweling off, I had figured out one possible approach to my problem.

  If that didn’t work, I promised myself, I’d apply to Mr. Ignat’ for high-level assistance.

  In the meantime, and before either low tide or Gate-crashing, came breakfast, which was fortunate, because I was starving.

  I heard Peggy’s door close as I was pouring my first cup of coffee.

  What I didn’t hear, a minute or so after, was her step on the outside stairs.

  Frowning, I walked over to the door, which was on the latch, per recent habit, and pulled it open. Peggy was most of the way to the corner, walking fast, a short, pleasantly rounded figure all in black, with a purple sweatshirt thrown over one shoulder.

  I watched her swing left onto Grand, then closed the door, feeling . . . sad, I guess it was. Upset, even. If Peggy was mad at me—but I hadn’t done anything to make her mad! I thought.

  Had I?

  I am so very bad at people.

  Mug in hand, I stalked to the summer parlor. Midsummer Day had dawned in glory: brilliant, bright, and already starting to warm up nicely.

  I stared out over the sparkling waves and sipped coffee, gloomily.

  It occurred to me that Peggy might be less angry than embarrassed about our last meeting. That got me off the hook, socially, but it didn’t make me feel any better. I’d gotten used to Peggy; I liked her, and I didn’t want anything unpleasant—anger or embarrassment—sitting between us like a toad on a birthday cake.

  Which meant, I thought, finishing my coffee, that I’d better get my ass down to the midway right now, before the place was a screaming madhouse, and try to smooth it over.

  Before I left, though . . .

  I ran upstairs to my bedroom, and pulled open the bottom bureau drawer. It’s a drawer that doesn’t get much use; I don’t have a lot of stuff, and four drawers is about two more than I need. In fact, there were only three things in the drawer.

  A pair of venerable canvas work gauntlets, scored and stained, the wide cuffs a badly faded blue, the palms and fingers grubby pink—and a slim knife in a slim sheathe, the hilt wrapped in leather. The knife’s name was Mam’selle. If the gloves bore names, nobody’d bothered to tell me.

  I hung the gauntlets on my belt, and slid the sheathed knife away safe along my spine, where she could keep my magic company.

  Then I closed the drawer, straightened, and left the room at a brisk walk.

  The little office behind The Last Mango was empty, though the purple sweatshirt was lying, rumpled and forlorn, in the middle of the desk.

  I nodded and went back outside.

  Despite it wasn’t even ten o’clock, the midway was moderately busy. About half the games were open, and there were a good couple dozen early birds wandering leisurely about, surveying the offerings and weighing their chances, coffee and soda cups in hand.

  Peggy wasn’t immediately in sight.

  I queried the land, got a fix and directed my own wandering feet toward the climbing wall at the dune’s edge, about as far from The Mango as you could get and still be in the midway.

  I reached the place, and spotted my quarry inside the safety rail, looking up the wall while a scrawny white-haired guy, shorter than she was, pointed and talked. Squinting, I looked, too, and could just make out what seemed to be a tear around the “rock” at the tippy-toppest right-hand corner.

  I made a request of the land, and looked again with sharpened sight. It wasn’t a tear, but more like a chip in the wall, as if somebody had climbed up and taken a rock hammer to the plaster surface. A thrill-seeker, I thought, had come in from the ocean-side after the midway was closed, climbed up the wall and thought they’d get themselves a souvenir.

  So, they’d managed to chip the plaster, and expose the wood beneath, but they hadn’t managed to get the prize, which was firmly attached with big, businesslike bolts.

  Some people really aren’t very bright.

  Peggy and the guy spent a few more minutes waving their hands at each other; then the guy nodded energetically and bustled off toward the operator’s shed, while Peggy headed out of the enclosure.

  I straightened up from my lean on the rail, and moved over to the gate.

  Peggy was looking good, I thought; her step was springy; her face was smooth, and her eyes were sparkling, like she’d had twelve hours of sleep . . .

  . . . or danced Midsummer in with the fey.

  “Hey, Kate,” she said, giving me a nod as she came through the gate. “What’s up?”

  “I missed you this morning for coffee,” I said, falling in beside her, “and wanted to be sure everything was all right between us.”

  She stopped and turned to look into my face.

  “You put me to bed last night when I was drunk and disorderly,” she said. “I was rude to you . . .”

  “Not a bit of it. At least, Felsic said you weren’t drunk, and I trust Felsic’s judgment. At no time were you disorderly.”

  Her pink cheeks flushed even pinker.

  “Made a pass at you, didn’t I?”

  “You asked an honest question, and I gave an honest answer, which you took with good grace.” I gave her a grin. “Truth told, I’d’ve been miffed if you hadn’t been disappointed.”

  She laughed.

  “All right, Archer. We’re good. I missed you this morning, too, but I figured the boyfriend might think three was a crowd.”

  Kate, I told myself, you’re an idiot.

  I’d forgotten Borgan—or, not forgotten him, but forgotten that Peggy had good reason to suppose I had other company for breakfast.

  “He went back to his place. But you couldn’t have known that.”

  She nodded, and started moving again; I kept pace.

  “Go away from me!” an angry voice cut across the midway’s muted roar.

  Peggy and I turned as one woman, both of us running toward the man and woman, who were glaring at each other. The man had the woman by the wrist. The woman, clearly angry and frightened, was trying to break his grip.

  “Go away from me!” she shouted again. “I don’t go with you!”

  I grabbed the guy’s free arm and twisted it behind his back hard enough to get his attention.

  “Let her go,” I snapped.

  At least he didn’t have to be told twice.

  Peggy snatched Ulme—for it was Ulme—and walked her rapidly away, leaving me holding the guy. I dropped his arm, and spun to face him.

  “Kyle, what the hell’s wrong with you?”

  He was mad—really
mad, judging by the glitter in his eyes and the color in his cheeks—but not mad enough to be stupid. I knew that because he didn’t take a swing at me, or try to push by to run after Peggy and Ulme.

  “Well?”

  He took a hard breath.

  “She was leading me on,” he said, sullenly.

  “Leading you on? Are you stupid?”

  He blinked, the color fading slightly, and shook his head.

  “I hope not,” he said. “I really hope not.”

  I stared at him, trying to square this episode with what I thought I knew about him. But that was the problem, wasn’t it? I didn’t know him; I’d only seen a little of him, and liked what I saw—a fresh-faced, hard-working, even-tempered guy, with just that little bit of lucky shine to him.

  He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would provoke a scene in public and grab a woman against her will . . .

  I shook my head, more distressed than mad, and more puzzled than both.

  “You’re doing work for Joe Nemeier?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he admitted.

  “So, leading you on or not, I don’t have to tell you what a bad idea it is to get involved with his girlfriend?”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “And I don’t have to tell you it’s wrong to assault people?”

  “No,” he said, and sighed. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll pass it on to Ulme. In the meantime, if I was you, I’d be thinking about getting a nice big cup of coffee and proceeding with my day.”

  “That sounds like a good idea. Good morning, Kate.”

  He gave me a sharp nod, and walked away, heading into the midway; maybe making for the gate on Fountain Circle.

  I watched him until he rounded the corner, then asked the land to do the honors, while I headed for The Mango.

  Ulme was sitting cross-legged in the center of the desk, the purple sweatshirt draped over her shoulders. Her sleek orange hair was tangled, and she was shaking. Peggy was holding her hand.

  “It’s going to be fine, sweetie,” I heard her say as I entered. “Kate won’t let that guy get past her.”

  “He’s gone,” I said, the land having reported that Kyle had passed out of the midway and was walking up Archer Avenue toward Jay’s Eatery.

  I stopped a couple steps out from the desk, tucked my hands in the back pockets of my jeans and stared at Ulme.

  “You want to tell me what that was about?”

  “He wants me to hurt Joe,” Ulme said, and her voice was shaking, too. “I tell him it is impossible for me to hurt Joe. Impossible! But he will not understand!”

  I considered her. “Is it? Impossible to hurt Joe, I mean.”

  Her chin came up. “For myself, yes,” she said, daring me to make something of it.

  “Easy,” Peggy said, and threw me a look that I interpreted as cut the kid some slack, Archer.

  I sighed, and blinked Sideways, just for a couple seconds; long enough to see the flames dancing in Ulme’s aura, and to catch the scent of her signature. Her power smelled like daisies, fresh and innocent.

  Back in the Real World, I frowned, trying my best to look stern.

  “Look, Ulme, this is twice now I’ve seen you with guys who aren’t Joe: Vassily, and now Kyle. Kyle in particular says to me that you were leading him on. Obviously, that’s no excuse for him grabbing you, or for not taking no for an answer, but, at base, Kyle’s a decent guy. After he blows off this head of steam, he won’t give you any more trouble.

  “But you—I’m not sure you understand where this could go. Because Joe Nemeier is not a decent guy. He’s a bad man, with a seriously bad temper. I’m telling you this from personal experience—I crossed him once, and he sent one of his kiddies down here to cut my face. Do you believe me?”

  Chin still elevated, Ulme swallowed, and gave a hard nod.

  “Right. Now, what do you think Joe might do if he figures either Vassily or Kyle—or, hell, Vassily and Kyle—were bothering you? Do you think he might send another kiddie with a knife—or a gun—to teach them a lesson?”

  I leaned forward, a little, and stared hard into her eyes.

  “Do you think,” I asked, very gently, “that Joe might do that to you, if he got mad?”

  “It is,” Ulme said, her voice just above a whisper, but firm, for all its faintness. “It is . . . possible.”

  She had an idea of what she was dealing with, then, I thought, and couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Either way, I pressed on with the lecture.

  “You say it’s impossible for you to hurt Joe—great. Along with that, I’d recommend making sure you don’t hurt anybody else. Got it?”

  The chin quivered. She got it under control and replied firmly, “I will not be foolish again.”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her not to overreach herself, but one look at Peggy’s face convinced me to keep the snark to myself, so I just nodded.

  “Good. None of us wants any trouble.”

  “That is correct.”

  Ulme uncrossed her legs, slid off the desk, pulled the sweatshirt from her shoulders, rolled it sloppily, and held it out to Peggy.

  “Thank you, Peggy. Thank you for helping me.”

  “Women don’t get beat up by creeps on my watch,” Peggy said, taking the roll and hugging it against her chest. “But look, sweetie, if what Kate says is true, you need to stay away from Joe. Guys like that, it’s not a question of if he’ll hurt you—it’s when. You don’t want to be there.”

  “I must be there,” Ulme said, with dignity. “I will be careful.”

  She turned to face me.

  “Thank you, Kate Archer, for coming to my aid, and for sending—for sending Kyle away from me.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said neutrally, and stepped aside so she could get past without touching me.

  She nodded and was gone, disappearing into the midway.

  “So,” Peggy said, still hugging the sweatshirt. She put a hip against the edge of the desk and looked closely into my face. I raised my eyebrows and waited.

  “So,” she said again. “No scar. Plastic surgery?”

  I stared at her, completely at sea.

  “One of Joe’s kiddies cut your face?” she prompted. “Or was that just to scare the poultry?”

  Oh, right.

  I shrugged, trying for casual.

  “It happened a while back,” I said.

  “Couldn’t’ve happened too far back,” Peggy pointed out. “You’ve only been home eight weeks.”

  Woman had a memory like a steel trap.

  “I heal quick,” I said, and when she frowned, added, “Really.”

  Peggy sighed.

  “Sure you do.”

  ’Way too close, a buzzer voiced a staticky Bronx cheer. Peggy frowned, dumping the poor abused sweatshirt back onto the desk.

  “My master’s voice,” she said. “I’ve gotta go whirl up some smoothies. See you later?”

  “You know where I live.”

  I followed her out, and made good my escape.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Low Tide 1:58 P.M. EDT

  According to Mr. Ignat’, there are three basic levels of spellcraft: intuitive, which is to say, no crafting involved. Black Dogs, willie wisps, and other vermin fall into this category, as does Side-Sight, the ability to speak Words of Power, and people who just happen to be born with jikinap as part of their biological makeup—Ulme being a case in point.

  The second level is your basic magecraft: an individual who may willfully and mindfully manipulate jikinap, weaving spells to answer a specific purpose, which may last for some time, absent operator oversight.

  The third level is group-work, which is just what it sounds like: several Ozali get together, pool their power, submit their will to the group vision and create something that any single one of them could never build, no matter how powerful or well-versed in spellcraft they are. And that working, once built, takes on a solidity, a purpose, a
nd a reality of its own. Once created, it needs nothing more from its creators; it is—complete.

  The Wise’s authorized World Gates are just such workings, real across the strange and not necessarily compatible interfaces of six separate worlds. Mr. Ignat’ says—and I have no reason to doubt him—that the World Gates exist not in any one world, but in all six simultaneously. Being a toddler in the realm of spellcraft, I can’t even begin to figure out how the makers did that.

  However it was done, though, I was willing to believe it had required a hell of a lot of very sharp coding.

  Happily, I wasn’t here to take down a World Gate. A straight world-to-world Gate was a far simpler thing. Or so I theorized. All I had to do, in theory, was dismantle the Gate on my side and the rest of the working should simply unravel.

  I knelt on the lip of land over the apron beach, and laid my tools on the grass before me.

  Gauntlets, shabby, faded, and stained.

  Knife, slim and deadly.

  A fist-sized chunk of stone from the base of Heath Hill, sharp-edged and gritty.

  I also had, on call, the three defensive and three offensive spells that I’d built with such effort two weeks ago. Frankly, I didn’t think today’s work would end in a duel, but it was best to be prepared.

  So, then. The tide was as out as it was going to go, and I was due at the carousel in a little less than two hours.

  Time to get busy.

  I slipped off my sneakers, tucked my socks inside them; rolled my jeans to the knee; slipped the sheathed knife away; pulled the work gauntlets on; and picked up the rock.

  The land whined anxiously, and I paused a moment to rub its ears, and assure it that I would be perfectly fine. Which, in theory, I should be. The land whined again, sounding resigned.

  “Back before you miss me,” I told it.

  Then I got to my feet, rock in hand, swung over the edge, and dropped to the beach below.

  I landed flat-footed, knees flexed, the rock held before me like a candle. Straight ahead, knee-deep in the pool, was a blue heron—possibly the same blue heron from my previous visit. It spared me a single weary and incurious glance before bending its attention once more to the water. Lunch must go on, I guess.