A Perilous Power (Arucadi Series Book 5)

by E. Rose Sabin

  “If anybody sees us,” Les whispered behind him, “they’ll take us for a couple of drunks. What are we going to do, Trevor? He even took your letters of introduction. If we find your uncle’s friend, we’ve got no way of proving who we are. Do you remember his address?”

  “No.” Trevor groaned again. “The address and directions were on the envelope. Guess I should have memorized ’em, but I didn’t.”

  “Well, we do know his name. Maybe we can find him, and maybe he’ll believe us when we tell him who we are and what happened. Right now we better get out of here. This doesn’t look like a safe place.” Les offered a supporting arm.

  Leaning on Les’s arm, Trevor took a few more steps. His head hurt, he was dizzy, and his stomach was churning. Les was right, though; they had to move, had to go somewhere.

  But where?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A CLASH OF POWERS

  Although still shaky himself, Les supported Trevor as they turned from the alley onto the street. He looked up and down, searching for a recognizable landmark, hoping they’d been left behind the hotel Carl had taken them to last night. What was its name? His mind was still fuzzy and his head ached.

  Inn of the Fifth Lord, that was it.

  They reached the corner and looked at the fronts of the buildings that abutted the alley. Old buildings, warehouses, mostly. No hotel.

  “Maybe it’s on the other side of the block,” Les said. “Can you make it?”

  Trevor nodded. “I’m feeling better. And sorry I didn’t listen to you.”

  Les shrugged. “I’m just sorry we won’t get that wonderful tour of the Maritime Museum.”

  “Okay, okay.” Trevor gave a shaky laugh. “We’ll miss out on that fancy restaurant, too. Hope Carl enjoys the meals he has there on our money.”

  “And all the exotic junk he buys in those fancy shops.”

  “Don’t forget the meals in the café where his sister works,” Trevor said. “If he even has a sister.”

  They didn’t find the Inn of the Fifth Lord on the other side of the block.

  “They must have carried us away from the hotel to dump us,” Trevor said.

  “And get us thoroughly lost.” Les glanced up and down the street. He had a feeling that they were far from the center of town, far from the train station, and in an unsavory area. The buildings were old and dilapidated, and an unfamiliar odor filled the air. There were no people nearby, and the vehicles passing in the street were mostly horse-drawn wagons. Maybe they could hail a driver and get a lift back to the train station, where they could hunt for Carl and try to recover their money and the all-important letters. Carl probably spent most of his time at the station, watching for victims, but if they couldn’t find him, they could find their way to the hotel from the station and confront the sinister counterman. Carl had been no stranger to him; the two had worked together.

  To regain his strength, Trevor needed food. And for food they needed money.

  They’d circled the block and headed along a street that seemed to have more traffic. As they walked, Trevor grabbed Les’s arm and pointed across the street to an empty lot strewn with rubble from a building that had burned or been torn down. “Four points!” he said with an air of triumph.

  At first Les thought Trevor had gone mad. Then he saw it. Not the lot. What lay beyond it. Water. Blue water.

  They were only a block away from the ocean.

  “Let’s go!” Trevor said.

  They picked their way through the trash, came out at last on a street that ran along a wide seawall, over which they could see, between the passing carriages and wagons, a sweeping expanse of ocean. They crossed the street, dodging traffic, and Les helped Trevor clamber up onto the seawall where they could get a closer look.

  The pungent smell was stronger here. No wonder! The ocean water gave off that salty, fishy odor, strengthened each time waves crashed against the seawall, dousing them with spray and sending foam scudding over the stone.

  Several docks jutted out from the seawall, and at some of these large ships were anchored. His headache forgotten, Les stared in fascination at the activity on the quays. Men ran up and down, shouting and pointing and manipulating winches to load or unload crates, bales, sacks, and barrels. The dock nearest them was piled with lumber that was being loaded onto the deck of a battered freighter.

  “Like a closer look, fellas?”

  Les jumped, surprised by the stranger’s silent approach. The man wore a blue uniform with gold braid on the shoulders and around the sleeves. His seamed face held a jovial smile. Les did want a closer look at both ships and ocean, but the man’s manner reminded him a little of Carl.

  “I’m first mate of that freighter.” He pointed to the ship taking on the lumber. “Saw you two standing out here watching and thought mebbe you’d like to come aboard and look around. Matter o’ fact, we could use a couple more hands with the loading if you’ve got two or three hours free and a will to work.”

  Les cast a glance at Trevor. “You feel up to it?” he asked, uneasy enough about the offer that he hoped Trevor would say no.

  “I’ll do what I have to,” Trevor said with a shrug. “How much do you pay?”

  “Five mid-coppers an hour.”

  The answer conveyed little information, since they had not had a chance to learn the value of Port Province coppers, but they were in no position to bargain. At the least, they’d earn enough for a meal and a bus ride back to the station.

  They followed their new employer onto the quay and over a none-too-sturdy gangplank onto the ship.

  The freighter was larger than it had appeared from shore, but no cleaner. The first mate put them to work helping to guide the bundles of lumber onto the stacks, secure them into place, and, when a stack reached maximum height, tie tarpaulins over it. The work was hard and dangerous. The bundles of lumber, lowered from the hoists, came down swinging and had to be caught and steadied. Les’s hands grew raw and studded with splinters; his muscles ached despite his farm conditioning. He cast frequent glances at Trevor, but his friend seemed to be holding up well and had probably sweated out the residue of the drug. Les was light-headed from not having eaten, and Trevor must have felt no better, but they persevered until the work was done and the first mate beckoned them away from their fellow workers.

  “Time to settle up,” he said and led them through an open hatch down a ladder to a narrow passageway below decks. He took them into a tiny cabin. The door closed behind them, and Les started at the sudden sound of the ship’s motors.

  “Warmin’ up to leave,” the first mate explained. “We’re behind schedule. That’s why I needed your help.” He stepped to a locker and opened it. “I made a good choice when I went after you two. This crew needs strong, healthy men.”

  He turned, a long-barreled pistol in his hand. “Sorry, boys. You will get paid for your work, but not till the end of the run. You just signed on for a two-month cruise.”

  The mate’s hand was steady on the pistol and his gaze was hard. To Les’s horror, Trevor closed his eyes and sagged against the wall.

  You can’t pass out on me, Trevor! We’ve gotta get away.

  But Trevor didn’t fall, and when Les looked again at the pistol he saw the barrel bend slowly back toward its owner. The mate swore and dropped the gun.

  “Nice use of power, Trev!” Les leaped forward and slammed his fist into the man’s face.

  “Nice use of those farm-boy muscles, Les!” Trevor yanked open the cabin door and raced for the ladder, Les at his heels. They clambered up onto the deck, shoved startled crewmen aside, and sprinted to the gangplank.

  It was gone. A width of dark water the height of a man stretched between ship and dock.

  “I always did want to see the world,” Les quipped.

  “Yeah, but not just yet.” Trevor gripped Les’s arm. “Jump on three,” he said, crouching, poised to spring. “One! Two! Three!”

  They launched themselves into the air, Trevor clutch
ing Les’s arm. A blur of water passed beneath them, and they fell sprawling on the quay. Les didn’t need to hear the amazed shouts of the ship’s crew to know that their leap had been spectacular. Trevor’s power had saved them again.

  Les struggled to his feet and glanced back at the freighter, expecting to see it return for them. But it moved steadily out to sea, gray smoke puffing from its stacks. He gave the staring crewmen a jaunty wave.

  Looking down, he saw that Trevor hadn’t moved. “Trev, you okay? Trevor?” He shook his shoulder, and Trevor groaned and rolled over to look up at him, his dark eyes dull and deeply shadowed.

  “No strength left,” he said. “Used too much power.”

  “You got us off the ship. I’ll find a way to get us out of here.”

  He walked off the quay and watched the traffic rumbling past. Could he trust anyone in this city? If he made a mistake and picked the wrong person, with Trevor too exhausted to use the power again, they might not escape a third time.

  A horse-drawn wagon clattered toward him. He scrutinized the driver’s face as the wagon neared, but gave up trying to decide whether the man looked friendly. Carl and the first mate had both looked friendly enough. He’d have to take a chance.

  “Ho!” he shouted, running alongside the wagon. “Can you help me? My friend is sick, all our money’s been stolen, and we need a ride to the train station.”

  The driver, an old man with a thick gray beard, halted the horse and squinted down at Les. “What makes y’ think I might be headin’ toward the station?”

  “Nothing. I was only hoping.”

  “Where’s your friend?”

  “Back there on the quay.” Les pointed to Trevor, who’d managed to sit up but was resting his head in his hands.

  “Can you get him here and into the wagon?”

  “You bet I can!”

  “Okay, make it fast. Ain’t got all day. I’m not goin’ all the way to the train station, and I won’t go out of m’ way for you, but I’ll take y’ far as Carnover Park. That’s not but five blocks from the station.”

  The man’s brusque, no-nonsense manner made Les inclined to trust him. He ran to Trevor. “I’ve got us a ride.” He helped him to his feet and practically carried him to the wagon.

  The wagon ride jolted Trevor and brought back the pounding in his head. He was relieved when the surly driver halted his horse and announced, “This here’s Carnover Park. You gotta walk to the station from here or hitch another ride. Go alongside the park and straight on for five or six blocks, and you’ll see it.”

  They thanked him, jumped down, and watched as he shook the reins and drove away.

  Trevor sniffed the air. A strong odor of frying meat reminded him of his hunger. If only they had money!

  Les pulled him in the direction the driver had indicated. “Come on, let’s get going. I smell it, too, but why torture ourselves?”

  But Trevor broke away and entered the park, not stopping until he found the source of the scent. In a kiosk set among trees, a woman was frying meat cakes on a griddle. The sight made his mouth water.

  He spied an empty bench near the kiosk and dropped onto it.

  Les joined him. “What good’s this going to do?”

  Trevor leaned his head against the back of the bench, closed his eyes, and breathed in the aroma, trying to imagine he was eating. His stomach refused to be fooled. It needed the real thing. If he hadn’t already used so much power today …

  He opened his eyes and watched the woman in the kiosk. With a spatula she scooped a meat patty off the griddle, flipped it onto a bun, covered it with peppers and onions from a simmering pan, wrapped it in waxed paper, and handed it to a customer. Several more people waited in line.

  When the cook was busy making change, he focused his mind on the buns stacked on a tray beside the griddle. Tired and weak as he was, he had to strain to find the power, draw it out, and send the lines of force, wavering, uncertain, snaking toward the stack of buns. He concentrated on the usually effortless process of snagging his quarry, lifting it, reeling it back along the lines of force.

  Two buns flew through the air and landed in Trevor’s outstretched hands. Resisting the urge to pop one into his mouth, he opened them and watched the cook. She tossed more meat cakes onto the griddle and turned to speak to a customer. Two of the frying patties sailed through the air and landed on the open buns.

  “Good job!” Les exclaimed, a wide grin splitting his face. He reached for a bun.

  “Wait,” Trevor said, and sent his mind reaching for the peppers and onions.

  That trick proved his undoing. The cook turned in time to see a mess of onions and peppers lift out of the pan, dripping hot oil, and slither through the air like eels. With a scream she swatted at the phenomenon with her spatula. The clump exploded and greasy strands of onions and peppers showered cook and customers. Only three or four strands reached their destination.

  Amid the confusion, one small boy retained the presence of mind to follow the flight of the garnishes. “They did it!” he shouted, pointing straight at Les and Trevor. “Look! Thieves!”

  In the act of taking the first bite of his meat-filled bun, Trevor found himself the focus of a crowd of hostile stares. He ate faster.

  The child kept shouting. “They did it. Get ’em! They stole the patty cakes!”

  “I think we better run for it, Les.” Trevor got the words out through a mouthful of sandwich.

  Les nodded, crammed more of his patty cake into his mouth, and jumped to his feet.

  “They’re running away! Stop them!” screeched the obnoxious boy.

  Jamming the rest of their food into their mouths, Les and Trevor raced toward the street. They leaped over a hedge, pounded through a flowerbed, and veered around a fountain and several startled strollers. Trevor could hear their pursuers swarming behind them.

  A shrill whistle blasted his ear. He looked up to see ranged in front of him three police officers, billy clubs raised.

  Trevor skidded to a halt, and Les pulled up beside him. The crowd encircled them and the policemen, screaming accusations.

  “Hold it!” an officer bellowed. “One at a time. What’s going on?”

  The cook pushed forward, wiping sweaty hands on her grease-stained apron. “They’re thieves and sorcerers, that’s what,” she said in a voice shaking with anger. “They stole meat cakes from my stall—lifted them right into the air and made them fly. This lad saw it; he can tell you.”

  The police looked skeptical, but the boy jumped up and down. “I seen it, yes, I seen the whole thing. It was magic! They used magic to steal patty cakes.”

  One policeman pulled a notebook out of an inner pocket of his jacket and began writing down the testimony of the cook and the boy. The other two—big, burly fellows—grabbed hold of Les and Trevor.

  “Wonderworkers, eh?” one said. “And thieves to boot. We’ve got good, secure jail cells for the likes of you. Come along. No tricks.” He slapped his truncheon against the palm of his hand. “We don’t put up with your kind in Port-of-Lords.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  A COSTLY RESCUE

  Les sat on the ledge that served as a sleeping platform in the tiny, windowless cell. Resting against the brick wall, he watched Trevor pace back and forth, back and forth in the small space. He ought to be dizzy; Les felt dizzy from watching.

  Since being locked into the cell, they’d been fed a watery but edible stew and both had slept for several hours, taking turns stretching out on the narrow, bare ledge. Trevor had slept first, then Les napped as well as he could on the hard stone. He’d awakened to find Trevor pacing like a caged cat.

  “Trev, stop wearing a hole in the cement and sit down,” he begged.

  Trevor continued pacing as though he hadn’t heard.

  Maybe he could distract Trevor with conversation. He asked a question that had been bothering him. “Trev, if there is such a big Community of the Gifted here in Port-of-Lords, why does any display of power s
urprise people, and why are they so antagonistic?”

  “Guess we’ll find out when we find the Community,” Trevor said, not slowing his pacing.

  “Your uncle said he hadn’t had any contact with his friend here in years. You don’t suppose the Community’s dispersed or been wiped out and he never heard, do you?”

  Trevor merely grunted.

  Les reconciled himself to waiting until Trevor worked through whatever was driving him.

  Abruptly Trevor broke from the pattern and threw himself down beside Les. “I’m going to risk sending a call for help. When I called you to come to Sharpness, Uncle Matt said every gifted in the county could hear. I’ll cast out in every direction, and we’ll see what happens.”

  “Is that wise? You know what happened in Sharpness.”

  “I don’t know what else to do,” he said. “I can’t open the door. I tried to use my power on the lock, but it doesn’t work.”

  Les glanced at the heavy iron door. “Maybe you just haven’t gotten enough strength back yet. Why don’t you relax and give yourself more time?”

  Trevor shook his head. “We didn’t come to Port-of-Lords to spend our time in jail. Don’t you want to see the Maritime Museum?”

  “If our jailers find out what you’re trying, it’ll add to the case against us.”

  “They won’t find out unless they’re gifted, and if they are, they may be willing to help us.” Trevor leaned back, eyes closed, a frown of concentration puckering his forehead.

  A moment later all Les’s thoughts were blocked by a cry that screamed through his mind, sending his hands crashing against his temples, squeezing in a futile effort to stop the explosion within.

  Help us. Strangers here. Robbed. Jailed. Need rescue. Help.

  Over and over the message shrieked through his brain. He slid from the bench to crouch on the ground with his arms over his head. The relentless blast continued, nauseating him, forcing him to crawl to the rank hole in the corner of the cell and heave up his recent meal. After that, he huddled against the wall as far from Trevor as the tiny cell permitted, clutched his head, and felt himself slipping into unconsciousness.