The Archimage's Fourth Daughter

by Lyndon Hardy

  “You received a handsome commission, Mister Emmertyn, did you not?” Angus said.

  “Yes, yes. But that is not the point. I am unskilled in these transactions, unsure you are getting the best value for your money.”

  “The price was no object. I told you that. Now, there is another task I have for you.”

  “Mr. Angus, our relationship has been a long one, many, many years. I did you a favor because of that. A token of friendship, one man to another.”

  “Friendship, one man to another?” Angus could not stop himself. The laugh billowed up from deep in his chest and exploded through the speaking tube, sounding like the roar of a hungry lion who had smelt fresh prey.

  For a moment, there was silence. Then Emmertyn spoke again.

  “If I may ask, why are you dealing with me directly?” the stockbroker said. “Is Mr. Garbell not available? He and I usually use written communication.”

  “Mr. Garbell is… is no longer in my employ,” Angus said. “From now on, we will be communicating directly. And by phone. It is too slow for me to type out messages one letter at a time.” The exile squirmed in his swathing. This was taking much too long,

  “I want you to get the mining operations started again,” he said. “Hire a management company to run things. Get the flow of sulfur to resume.”

  “Mr. Angus, with all due respect, I must advise against such an action. The domes have been depleted, all of them. The cost of the electricity to boil the water to flush out the remaining sulfur will be far greater than what you would ever hope to recover by its sale. It is a waste of your money, pure and simple.”

  “You are my agent, are you not?” Angus said. “One who acts on my behalf?”

  “You will have to get someone else,” Emmertyn said. “It would be unethical for me to be a party to such an action.”

  Angus had anticipated it might come to this. He chose his words carefully. “Mr. Emmertyn, you mention ethics. But isn’t breaking the law even worse? What do you think your FBI might say if they knew that for over six decades of making trades for me, never a single one was for a loss?”

  There was silence on the line. A dozen heartbeats passed.

  “Mr. Emmertyn?” Angus asked. “Are you still there?”

  “You have never complained about what I have done for you,” Emmertyn said at last. “A few thousand dollars have been turned into millions, tens of millions, hundreds.

  “I would surmise your skill is also used for your own personal account. And I strongly suspect how you accomplish what you do. I have… associates who are versed in the same craft. I am sure the ones you call the ‘feds’ would certainly like to learn more about it.”

  There was another long pause, this one tens of heartbeats more.

  Finally. “Please, please, Mr. Angus. What I do is my… my life. I cause very little harm by it.”

  Angus’ tone hardened. “Do as I direct, and our arrangement will proceed as it always had. No one else needs to know. Otherwise…”

  A long sigh came over the phone line. “Very well. Start the mining of sulfur from the Gulf again. Find a buyer for it. I will do so.”

  “No, not a buyer,” Angus said. “I do not intend to sell what comes from the domes. Instead, arrange for delivery directly to me. Rent an empty warehouse for the cargo when it arrives. Arrange to have it transferred. Lock back up when they are done. Have the owner mail me the address and a set of keys.”

  “To where?” Emmertyn asked. Resignation now pressed onto his voice like a great boulder.

  “Hilo, on the big island of Hawaii.”

  “From the Gulf to the Pacific? That’s impossible! I have learned a little from arranging the purchase of the domes. Liquid sulfur is hard to transport and store. Over 130 degrees Celsius so it will not solidify; less than 154 so no explosive vapors are created, That requires temperature controlled tanks, special trucks and ships, permits and documentation.”

  “Emmertyn, listen to me!” Angus felt the battle lust begin to rise in his gut. “Go ahead and let the sulfur cool. I am not interested in making sulfuric acid. Place the powder that results in airtight shipping containers. Mislabel them with something innocuous. Use shippers who will look the other way for a few extra dollars.”

  “Now, who is talking about illegalities?” Emmertyn asked.

  “So we are now, how is it said? ‘partners in crime’. Do it Emmertyn, or your next visitors will be from the FBI.”

  “Oscar had become a friend,” Emmertyn said.

  “I am not your friend,” Angus growled. “Just do it!” He inhaled the surface air through his speaking tube but still did not like the flat taste. “And get the request for a quote out to the company in California. That also is part of my plan.

  He slammed down the receiver and prepared to return to the caverns below. Worrying about the tigerwasps was enough distraction. He did not want to waste any energy in concern about lackeys as well.

  Fetid Air

  CARRYING THE stool and the glass jar, Angus walked down the twisty corridor toward the plug — not the one leading to the garden, but another, one most probably no longer cared about. He remembered the excitement of discovery when the source of the foul air had been first discovered. One of the initial tasks for his father’s flock was to find a stone large enough to seal off the opening. That in itself was a challenge. Soft enough so it could be sculpted to exactly fit the contour of the passage, yet strong and non-porous so the fluorine smell would be contained.

  Thanks to the books and internet search results Oscar had brought him over the years, Angus understood the chemistry. Uranium, the humans called the element. Radioactive. It and its decay daughters, among other things, produced beta rays. They, in turn, stripped electrons from nearby fluorine atoms, and that ended up creating the gas. A fortuitous coexistence. A large cavern with a floor of high-grade yellowcake mixed with cryolite, the sometimes ore of aluminum. Copious uranium and a fluorite mineral. That is where the vile smell came from.

  Angus stopped in front of the plug. Without a path to the surface, the pressure of fluorine had built and built. Would there be enough of it now? He was not absolutely sure. That is why he had come. The last measurement he took was high enough he had started the process of procuring the sulfur. Now, this gauging should show an even larger margin to account for any error. He shrugged away the lingering doubt. The only direction now was forward. At least, the alchemy to catalyze the combining he had worked out many orbits ago.

  He stood on the stool and stretched his arms over a jutting rock. Like a surgeon removing a tick, with his dagger he pried loose a second tiny plug sealing an additional hole — one he had drilled into the congealed lava. The gas started to hiss out, and he placed a jar over the opening until the pale yellow cloud swirled around the edges of its mouth.

  Then Angus screwed on the cap and replaced the little plug, coughing a bit at what he smelt. Now, back to his own alcove and measure the pressure. A mason jar, he mused. One of the inventions of the humans Oscar had scavenged for him. They may be primitive in the working of the crafts, but in some ways, they had compensated for their lack quite well.

  Initiative

  BRIANA REACHED the third level of one of the parking structures at UCLA before she found what she was looking for. No one was about.

  Carl, long-winded though he was, had given her a new perspective. From the way he described things, it seemed to her there was an ideal place in which to acquire and hold wealth if one had abilities in the crafts.

  She removed a mitematch from her backpack, and looked about a second time. Another car had entered the level and was searching for a place to park. She fiddled some more with the contents of her pack, trying to look inconspicuous until he had left down the nearby stairwell.

  Unfortunately, when she had become convinced about where she should search, another blockage appeared in the way. The data accessible in her computer did not include everything there was to know. There were more accumul
ations of information on Earth protected by walls of fire. Ones she could not access with a simple query. She was going to need help in order to find out more. And the first step to getting that help had brought her here.

  Briana dragged the mitematch across the concrete floor of the landing, dominated the will of the first imp whose presence she felt through the flame, and commanded him to place the leaf over the lens of the surveillance camera hung nearby. ‘Flame permeates all’ and “Dominance or submission.’

  She was not going to get access to a database she wanted with the earnings of a waitress in a broken-down café she had reasoned. What she needed was a lordling who had a fortune — sufficient enough that access to the records she wanted would be no more complicated than what she had already learned to do.

  And to get that lording to do as she wished, she had needed to improve her command of the native tongue. The language CDs and the second-hand player she had found in the thrift store had helped a lot. By lightly enchanting herself to block out all outside distractions, she had had to listen to each recording only once to absorb its contents and burn the exercises into her memory.

  No longer did she surf the internet. Instead, she studied English at least eight hours a day — for how long she could not exactly remember. But now, she felt ready for the next step, finding her target.

  Briana coiled a strand of her hair. This was not as bad as stealing, she rationalized. A retelling in the sagas probably would not even mention it. She checked one more time that no one else was present and grabbed out of her pack the hammer she had purchased. With both hands, she plunged it the through the passenger window of the obsidian black Tesla parked in front of her.

  An alarm from within the automobile immediately began shouting. Briana crouched out of sight by the car’s side and waited a few seconds until she could hear guardsmen climbing the steps nearby. When they were almost to her level, she directed the mite to ascend to the next landing, and then, as the first guard appeared, commanded the imp to shove the stack of empty cans Slow Eddie had found for her down the stairwell. The first guard pointed upward toward the clatter, and he and the one following climbed to investigate.

  Then she directed the little imp into a jar and fastened the lid. If she were careful and provided for its needs, the sprite could be useful again.

  Briana used the hammer to widen the hole she had made in the window, reached in, and grabbed the first textbook piled in a jumble on the passenger’s seat. Buddhism: A Beginner’s Guide to Inner Peace. She flipped open the cover and saw ‘Jonathan Waverton III’ and “Comparative Religions 101.’ The neatly typed word ‘Jonathan’ was hard to read; several horizontal ink bars ran through it. Above it in block letters was written ‘Jake.’ The three capital ‘I’s also deliberately obscured.

  Briana tossed the book back into the car. Everything had gone according to plan. The next step was to see if the internet has entries for a ‘Jonathan Waverton.’ If it did, then she would find out when and where ‘Comparative Religions 101’ met. Squaring her shoulders, she started to descend the stairs with a slow, regal air.

  She was no longer paralyzed by the wonders of Earth — not totally at ease, but not paralyzed either. She had defeated a brute three times her size. The specter of her impending marriage was manageable.

  And she had a definite plan of what to do next. Find Jonathan Waverton. From what she had seen on campus, he was probably no more sophisticated than a pageboy back on Murdina — someone she could twist around her little finger with a few smiles.

  Perhaps she did have the makings of a heroine. After all, she was a daughter of the Archimage.

  Part Two

  So Many Women, So Little Time

  The Waverton Family

  THE BEEPER on the intercom buzzed. “Jonathan, your father will see you now,” the receptionist said.

  “It’s not Jonathan,” Jake said as he strode toward the wide oak door. “It’s Jake. How many times do I have to tell you?”

  The receptionist smiled briefly and returned to whatever kept her occupied.

  Jake pulled open the door adorned with the nameplate ‘Jonathan Waverton, Jr.’ and entered his father’s office.

  Even though he had seen it countless times before, the view was still breathtaking. The Golden Gate, the Pacific, San Francisco Bay, and the ‘City’ itself lay out before him as a feast for the eyes. The rent on the office was probably ten times more than his monthly allowance. It was sparsely furnished — a single desk twice as big as the receptionist’s outside with a single guest chair facing it. The surface was completely clean, adorned only with a screen, keyboard, and mouse. There was no credenza, no filing cabinets, and no art on the walls.

  Jake was a younger version of his father. The older man was tall and lanky, hair a distinguished gray and close cut with no recession at the temples. Only the beginning of small creases framed his eyes, and the square chin radiated confidence. His suit — impeccably tailored, fitting him without a wrinkle and shimmering in a subtle iridescence when he moved.

  “Have a seat, son. As always, I am anxious to hear about your progress,” the elder Waverton said.

  “Same as usual, Bio-Dad,” Jake answered as he slid into the guest chair. “Same as last month and the month before.”

  “Not flunking anything this time around, right? What is it again you’re taking?”

  “Comparative Religion 101, Women’s Studies, and Gender Lit.”

  “Why do you waste time on crap like that?”

  “Because that’s where the women are. Duh.”

  “You know eventually you will be kicked out for not making sufficient progress toward a degree.”

  “Yeah, I know that, but eventually can be a long time away. Look, it is no different from what you are doing. What is her name this time, Margo, Margaret, something like that?”

  “Don’t speak about your mother that way!”

  “She is not my mother! Only my stepmother. Only number three in your list of conquests.”

  “And you have a list, too, I suppose.”

  “Yeah! Each one a notch on my bedpost. And I’ll show it to you, if you show me yours.”

  The elder Waverton sighed. “Usually it takes a few more minutes before we get to this point.”

  “Why do we even bother?” Jake asked. “What’s so important for us to discuss?”

  “What is so important is for you to start doing something useful. At your age, I had already made ten million.”

  “Yeah, yeah. How could I forget? You remind me of it so often.” Like a prune, Jake’s face puckered into a frown. “But I’ll never be another you, accomplish all you did, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “You don’t have to be another me, son. Just be… something.”

  “And if I never do?”

  “Then the free ride will be over.” Jake’s father straightened his back and adjusted his tie. “After considered thought, I am reducing your allowance by two thousand dollars a month.”

  “Two stacks! No way! Why are you doing this?”

  “I’ve tried reasoning with you. I’ve given you small projects I thought would be interesting and a challenge so you would shape up. None of that has worked. So, starting now, I am reducing your allowance two thousand a month and two thousand more every month thereafter until you start working to get a useful education.”

  “But my place down at Redondo. It looks right over the ocean. Six stacks by itself. Are you in some sort of financial trouble now?”

  “Far from it. I would never let that happen.”

  Jake moaned. “This is really going to cramp my style.”

  “You can change that very quickly.” The elder Waverton adjusted his tie again. “My big data project with the SEC got renewed. The one looking for inside trader transactions. I can create a spot for you there.”

  Jake pushed back from the chair and rose. “I’ll think about it.”

  As he turned and walked back to the door, his fathe
r called after him. “Since you are already in the city, say hello to your mother while you are here.”

  THE FRONT door to the condo opened almost immediately, as it always did. Jake smiled at the woman who presented herself to him. Tall, but not too tall. Blonde hair that must take two hours to do up right. A chest that stuck out a mile.

  “Hello, Jake,” she said. “You are a little ahead of time.”

  “Hello, Mother Margo,” Jake replied. “Yeah, the old man and I did not go the full hour this time around. The bastard. He says he is going to reduce my allowance two stacks a month.”

  “Well,” Margo smiled as she ushered him in. “Let’s talk. Maybe there is something I can do about that. Do you want something first to calm you down?” She waved her arm with a practiced ease at a credenza groaning with a dozen fancy bottles of cut glass.

  Jake shook his head. A hint of a blush began to color his cheeks. “No, not until after. You know that. Before, before — ”

  “I know, Jake.” Margo smiled. “Pleasure first and then business after.”

  She took him by the hand and led him into her bedroom. They disrobed, and soon were forgetting about anything else.

  AFTERWARD, THE two were sitting up in bed, Jake hunched over, and Margo with her back stiff and straight, showing her figure to best effect.

  “If you are my mother,” Jason said, “then that makes me a motherfu —

  Margo put her finger to Jake’s lips. “You know I don’t like hearing that,” she said.

  “Then both you and I are fu — ”

  Margo silenced him a second time.

  “But that’s what we are doing, really,” Jake persisted. “Both of us want to get back at the old man for one reason or another.”

  “Yes, yes, Jonathan probably is trying to relive his life over again through you, and you resent the manipulation.” Margo shrugged. “And me, I thought he was through with the philandering. Two wives and their alimonies should have been enough. But once the thrill of the chase had faded, I became like the ones who preceded me. Like before, he is cheating whenever he can get the chance. It’s as if he had a bedpost somewhere where he was carving notches.”