By a Thread

by Nyna Queen

  And why exactly is that? he wondered.

  The plan had been simple enough: ambush the coach in the woods, neutralize the guards, take the children, dispose of the bodies. Clean and simple—no top performance required.

  He had provided all the necessary information. It should have been a no-brainer. But, no, some people even managed to mess up the simplest tasks.

  He gritted his teeth. He should have known. Should have expected something like this to happen. Ex-milits! His face twisted into a grimace. All muscle and no brain to come with all that brute strength. Thought the war wasn’t over yet, the lot of them. Way too itchy on the trigger finger, too.

  So, really, what had he expected? But his contact had assured him that the men had been handpicked for this mission and were all well suited to handle the case with the required discretion.

  Discretion! Hah! They probably didn’t even know how that word was spelled, lest what it meant.

  In fact, he hadn’t expected them to be overly subtle himself, but raising a spellgun at the children in a crowded public establishment, even if it was only charged to stun? Great Mother, he’d kill the bloody moron himself if he wasn’t already dead.

  And now he had a bloodbath in the Forest of Silt, five men dead in a stinking halfborn ghetto bar and the children … oh, the children. A hard hand gripped his throat and squeezed until he choked. How—just how was he going to explain this mess?

  He reached the massive dark wood door at the end of the corridor and stopped, pretending to check the fit of his shirt, while working up the courage to knock. He hadn’t done anything wrong. No sir! This whole mess wasn’t his fault.

  And it really wasn’t, but he also knew that it wouldn’t matter. At the end of the day, he’d been in charge of this operation, so the fault lay with him. And the master wasn’t one known for easily forgiving mistakes.

  The collar of his silk shirt suddenly felt too tight. He hooked his index finger into it and tugged at it viciously, but the air failed to find its way into his lungs. He dropped his hand. Closed his eyes. Come on, get ahold of yourself!

  He’d been promised the sun and the moon if he got this job done right and he wouldn’t—couldn’t—fail on this. He had climbed too high already and the fall would snap his neck.

  Realizing that he couldn’t postpone the moment any further, he took a deep breath and operated the eagle-shaped knocker.

  There was a moment of silence. Then—

  “Enter.”

  The word was enough to turn his legs into mush. Scooping up the last bit of self-control he could muster, he straightened, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

  The master’s study was one big room, slightly elongated to the right. A massive mahogany desk dominated the left side facing the door. Neat stacks of paper filled its top beside a holographic printer, a vis-aural communication emitter, a state of the art Offenbach Cube and what looked like an antique replica of a Dagger of Smite. Behind it, a huge painting adorned the back wall of the room. He recognized “La Misa de Verra,” a priced unicum of Jacques-Philippe de Rhinoux, a highly venerated advocate of the contemporary arts. This piece alone was worth a small fortune.

  The right part of the room combined the serviceability of a reception area with the pleasantries of a living room: dark bookshelves lined the walls top to bottom, classy brown leather couches bordered a delicate glass table on three sides that supported a crystal decanter filled with water and slices of lime, several iced glasses, and an ornate silver cigarette case. The emotional sound of an aria from a famous classical opera came out of the huge speaker crystals hanging in the corners of the room. He recognized the tune, but couldn’t recall its name at the moment, not even if his life depended on it.

  The master stood behind the couch table at the backward window with his hands clasped behind his back, overlooking the forest that stretched into the distance below like a dark green carpet. He didn’t turn when the informant entered, nor did he give any other indication that he’d noticed the other man’s entrance.

  The informant took a couple of tentative steps into the room and halted, twisting his fingers together. Silence stretched.

  A minute passed. Two. Three …

  He nervously shifted from one foot to the other. But he had been called in, had he not? Perhaps, if he cleared his throat? Clearly, that would be politer than just standing here and—

  “Well?”

  The sudden sound startled him so much that he jumped almost half a foot in the air. He glanced at the master, who was still with his back to him, but this time there was no doubt, that he had spoken.

  He gulped in a deep breath. Not his fault. Explain, yes. Somehow, he’d explain.

  Clearing his throat several times, he wished there was a way to sugarcoat this but unfortunately couldn’t see any.

  “The children, Sir … I … they … have escaped.”

  The master still didn’t turn, but there was a visible tension between his shoulder blades.

  Cold sweat built on the informant’s brow. He swallowed but couldn’t get another word out.

  “I wonder how that was possible.” The master’s voice was quiet, not betraying any sort of emotion as if they were merely having a chat about the weather outside. “Tell me, how hard can it possibly be to abduct two children? Especially with all the information we had. Information,” he added quietly, “which, if I recall it correctly, you provided us with.”

  There was an unmistakable sharpness in his last words and the informant felt the strong urge to reach for his neck to make sure it wasn’t nicked. Before he could stop himself, the words gushed out of him.

  “It wasn’t my fault, Sir! There was virtually nothing I could have done to—”

  The master turned and the words stuck in the informant’s throat. He cringed under the barely contained fury in the other man’s gaze. Closed his mouth.

  “No please”—the master waved his hand in an inviting gesture—“indulge me,” his pleasant voice completely at odds with the dangerous glitter in his eyes. “I am highly interested in why exactly you think this wasn’t your fault.”

  Suddenly there didn’t seem to be enough air in the room. The informant tugged at his collar again, but it was fruitless. He wet his lips. They were exceptionally dry, perhaps due to the fact that all his body fluids were congregating beneath his armpits, drenching his shirt.

  The master was watching him with cold, predatory eyes. Waiting. He had to say something. He’d gone about this the wrong way, he knew that, but now there was nothing to do but to go on.

  Somehow, he managed to unlock his jaw. “My men ambushed them in the Forest of Silt as planned and neutralized the guards. But before they could get ahold of the children … the boy—Maxwell—he … teleported them out.” And that’s when it all started to go downhill.

  The master’s eyebrows rose an inch. “Did he now?”

  He slowly strolled over to his desk, tapping his fingers together in front of his chest. “Well, surprising, but then, nothing that couldn’t have been anticipated. After all”—a thin, nasty smile stretched his lips as he looked at his informant—“you were well aware of that particular talent of his, were you not?”

  The informant could hardly keep from scowling. Of course, he was. And he had been prepared, despite the odds.

  “There was a mimicry on the team,” he squeezed out through gritted teeth, “and a first unit followed them through the rift almost immediately.” At least they had managed that much, the morons. Not that it had helped in the end. “Brought them right into some dinky joint in a gone-to-rack neighborhood called Lillyfields in Bhellidor County.”

  And that was an unsolved mystery in itself—a boy with barely an education, and Bhellidor being miles away …

  “They were about to apprehend the children, but—”

  “But?” the master probed softly. Too softly. Too dangerous.

  The informant straightened his shoulders. “They were attacked, Sir.”

>   “Attacked?”

  “Yes, Sir.” He took a deep breath. “By a shaper.”

  That finally provoked a real reaction. The master’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “A shaper?”

  “Yes, Sir.”

  He couldn’t have prepared for that, now could he? It was yet another mystery how some fang-toothed mongrel had managed to overpower a group of battle-hardened mercenaries; and it, too, reflected badly on his choice of operatives.

  The master rubbed his chin, thoughtfully.

  “A shaper,” he repeated slowly as if tasting an uncommon flavor he wasn’t yet ready to judge. “How most peculiar.”

  That wasn’t exactly the first word that would have come to his mind in light of the events, yet it was some kind of concession to the queerness of the situation and the informant darted for it like a man in the desert dying from thirst would dart for a glass of water. Maybe he could get out of this with a mere rap on the knuckles.

  “Indeed, Sir,” he said. “Bloody beast killed my men and then it left with the children and—”

  The master glanced up sharply. “The shaper took the children?”

  Caught between panic and hope, the informant nodded his head vigorously. “Yes, yes. They were already gone when my second unit arrived. But it was confirmed by several eyewitness reports. Obviously, there was a lot of mayhem going on there, after … well. It was hard to get a straight account of events.” He grimaced. “You know how people are. They see a shaper and all their brains are left in the cloakroom. All they remember are the teeth and claws, but nevertheless, all the witnesses agreed that the creature took the children when it left.”

  And now they were in the hands of that beast …

  The master didn’t say anything for a moment, while the informant was sweating bullets. He licked his lips, knowing his fate hinged on whatever the master said next. In the silence, the aria crescendoed to its climax, a high-pitched octave that filled his ears with a foreboding ringing.

  “My men managed to get included in the local investigation by the law enforcement,” the informant supplied helpfully, hoping to tip the invisible scale in his favor. “They are keeping me updated on the progress of the search. If there is any sign of the children, we will know within the hour. Perhaps there might even be a chance to seize them.”

  Leaning against his desk, the master steepled his fingers and leaned forward slightly, facing him with an unmerciful expression. “Let me make this very clear: I gave you a rather straightforward task. You failed me, and I am not pleased.”

  The informant took a step back before he could resume control over his muscles. A bead of sweat built below his ear, rolled down his neck, and sluggishly made its way between his shoulder blades. He felt it all the way down but didn’t dare to move to rub it away.

  “However,” the master said with a slight curving of his lips, “you might be in luck. Perhaps we can use this rather … odd development to our advantage.”

  Relief flooded the informant so profoundly that his knees slightly gave way, but he forced himself to keep upright. It wouldn’t be a good idea to show anymore weakness than he already had.

  The master picked up a paper from the desk and studied it. “Meanwhile, I want you to keep me informed on all developments.”

  “Of course, Sir.” Recognizing the dismissal—and being glad about it—the informant bowed his head, backing toward the door as quickly as propriety allowed without actually running. Reached for the handle.

  “One more thing …” The soft croon of the master’s voice made him freeze, his hand hovering above the handle, that golden promise of escape. Slowly, he turned, his hands shaking like those of a tottery old man.

  “S-sir?”

  The master was still studying the piece of paper as if his fate was of the least importance among his concerns—and it probably was.

  “You’ve proven valuable so far, but you are not irreplaceable.” He looked up and fixed his informant with a distinct predatory stare. “Don’t make me regret my decision.”

  It sounded like a well-meant piece of advice, yet there was no mistaking the threat below the wrapping. His next words came out in a snarl. “No more mistakes.”

  The informant swallowed the world and was surprised he didn’t suffocate on it. “Yes, Sir.”

  With a careless flick of his fingers, the master released him. Dropping all kind of pretense, he gathered his coats and fled from the room. The corridor blurred in front of his eyes as he dashed along on shaky legs, the conversation replaying in his inner ear until it screamed at him from every angle trying to crush his skull.

  When he had taken a couple of turns, he stumbled over his own feet and braced himself against the wall in the shadow of a decorated arch breathing hard.

  What have I done? Suddenly unable to stay upright, he crumpled to the floor and burst into tears. Great Mother, what have I done?

  THE man called the master absently stared at the door where his informant had exited rather unceremoniously a moment ago before he turned back to his desk.

  So, the children had slipped away. A shame. And he had really thought he could count on that squirmy little worm to fulfill this task properly. An oversight. And one he didn’t intend to repeat.

  He picked up the Dagger of Smite from his desk and rolled it over in his hands. Ambition was a useful tool, quite like this one. It spurred people to peak performance, yet it did have its offsides. Especially when personal ties were involved. He stuck the dagger into the nearest flowerpot and watched the delicate blue blossoms wither and turn black in front of his eyes.

  No matter.

  It was a blow, certainly, but only a minor one. Nothing was lost yet. And his informant, oblivious though as he might be to it, had not just brought him bad news.

  He shook his head. A shaper! This was curious. Very curious indeed. Now, why would one of those mongrels take the children with it? Yet in the end, the why didn’t matter either. What mattered was how he could use this unforeseen event to benefit his plans.

  Let’s see: Rouge shaper murders Guardaí unit and abducts trueborn upper-class children!

  Now that would make a fine headline. A sharp smile curled the master’s lips. It was time to pull some strings.

  He sat down behind his desk and used magic to activate the vis-aural emitter. A gentle white-blue light ignited around the saucer-sized silver disk and a moment later a professional female voice emanated through the speaker, “Good afternoon, Sir. How may I be of service?”

  “Please connect me to Mrs. Chandler from Southern News Today.” The master hesitated for a second. “And activate our insiders in the guardaí department in charge of Bhellidor County.”

  His informant might have his men inside the investigation but having another pair of eyes and ears wouldn’t hurt. He was a careful man, and he hated to leave things to chance.

  “My pleasure, Sir.”

  The vis-a gave a low clicking noise and dimmed, except for a sequence of arcane glyphs successively flaring along its outer line. While he waited, the master leaned back in his black executive chair and lit a thin dark cigarette, watching the smoke curl in the air, like a complicated weaving pattern that dared to be unraveled. The longer he thought about it, the more he realized how well this change of events played into his hand. The former plan had been solid, but this? Another smile curved his lips. If handled carefully, this could turn out even better …

  The emitter hummed once, signaling an external call coming. A moment later another female voice, this one sonorous and slightly husky, sounded from the communicator.

  “This is Sadie Chandler from Southern News Today. What can we do for you?”

  “Hello Sadie,” the master said softly, and the cold smile deepened around his lips. “I have a story which I believe you might find quite interesting.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  GRAY afternoon light filtered in through the blinds, painting pale swirls onto the wooden floorboards. Max sat with his back against
the wall and watched his sister pace up and down the tiny hall, hugging herself. She hadn’t said a single word since the shaper woman—Alex—had left. It couldn’t have been much more than a couple of minutes, but to him, it felt like an eternity, especially since he tried to sit completely still and not make any sound. He knew his sister well enough to recognize she was in that particular mood. He called it her “snappy mood” because no matter what you did or said it guaranteed you’d be snapped at. Sometimes when she was in this mood, he’d provoke her just to see how far he could go until she cracked, but right now he didn’t feel like being snapped at. Not again!

  No matter what she said, it wasn’t his fault that they’d ended up here. True, he had teleported them here, but that was just because those evil men had chased them. And he couldn’t be blamed for that, could he? And if he hadn’t phased them …

  The memories popped up behind his eyes like the projection of a televisum cinematica: the blood running down the window of the coach, bright red like squeezed strawberries; Captain Gavary sprawled on the floor, a mushy hole where his head had been only a moment ago; the smell …

  Max swallowed. In books it always sounded so glorious when robber bandits mugged careless wanderers in the forest, taking their toll. The reality wasn’t quite like that. It was messy and brutal, and it reeked. And he really didn’t want to think about it.

  His stomach growled loudly in the unnerving silence, reminding him that his last meal had been midday at school. Sheppard’s pie. Yummy. And pudding with chocolate crumbles for dessert. His mouth watered at the thought and his mind automatically wandered to the possibilities of dinner. It was Saturday, so Cook Beatha would make something special. Hopefully lamb stew. Max loved lamb stew. Especially Cook Beatha’s lamb stew. And she always put a few extra prunes on his plate since she knew he liked them so much.

  Max sighed wistfully, knowing stew and prunes would have to wait until they got home.

  Home. The word made him realize how far away they were from it and that there was no telling how soon they would be back there. An unexpected painful heaviness expanded in his belly as if he’d stuffed himself with too many cookies, only worse. No, he didn’t want to think about home either. It made him feel small and alone and he didn’t want to get all whiny. He wasn’t a baby.