The Stiehl Assassin

by Terry Brooks

  “So even though she wasn’t able to go inside Assidian Deep, she could climb its walls without it affecting her?” Shea asked. “It is only the iron of the prison that weakens her and makes her sick? You planned for her to come get us all along? But couldn’t Tindall have gotten out that way without me going in? Couldn’t Seelah have placed the compound on the bars from outside the cell—or given him the substance to do it himself—and then simply pulled him through the window once it was open?”

  Rocan glanced over. “Full of questions this morning, aren’t you? Well, I like a young man who doesn’t just accept events and wants to know the reasons behind them. So ask yourself this—how in command of himself, physically and emotionally, do you think Tindall is? How does he seem to you?”

  “A few oars shy of a full boat,” Shea answered at once. “And I am already sick of him griping about everything. Is he always like this?”

  “Pretty much. But he gets away with it because he is so smart. There’s no one else like him; no one even comes close. His ability to create and build is astounding, Shea. It hasn’t always brought him happiness or wealth, but it gives him immense satisfaction to solve problems other men and women would simply consider unsolvable. His mind works differently than any other mind I’ve encountered. He looks at something from inside his head, takes a road no one else would have even thought of taking, and comes up with a way to make the impossible possible.”

  “Like with Annabelle?”

  The Rover shrugged. “Not exactly. But if you want to know about Annabelle, you’ll have to ask Tindall.” He shook his head. “No one else can tell the story like it demands to be told.”

  Shea nodded. “I’d like to hear that story if he can stop calling me ‘boy’ for five minutes and stop grumbling about everything.”

  The Rover nodded. “Well, you’ll have your chance. I’m going out for a while. We need to leave this city. And with Annabelle, if we want to keep her.”

  And with a smile and a wave to Tindall, he was out the door and gone.

  * * *

  —

  Left alone with the old man, Shea decided to wash up first before talking to Tindall about Annabelle or anything else. He was feeling grungy and rank from crawling through the sewer ducts of Assidian Deep, and he wasn’t sure when he would get a chance to clean up again if Rocan planned on leaving soon. So he made his way over to the small washroom that the Rover had indicated earlier, entered, and closed the door behind him.

  Soon enough, he had steaming water in the tub and was soaking himself in a half-catatonic state, letting the warmth ease the aches in his muscles and erase the stench of sewage from his body. When he was finished he washed his clothes in the bathwater, then hung them on a series of pipes, hoping they would dry before it was time to leave. Lacking another outfit, he wrapped up in the cloak Rocan had given him and went back out to find Tindall.

  The old man was sitting on a bench, looking up at Annabelle in a speculative way, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped.

  “She’s something, isn’t she?” he said to the boy without looking over.

  “I guess so.” Shea sat down next to him.

  “Took me ten years to build her.” The other’s tone suggested he was mostly talking to himself. “Ten years of trial and error, of fighting off interference from officials who thought they knew better than I did how it ought to be done, of working not just openly but in secret, of scrounging for credits and equipment and supplies and all the rest. It wasn’t easy, I can tell you.”

  “Doesn’t sound it.”

  “Mostly, in this world, when you come up with an idea for an invention, you go through a few stages. There’s the stage where you question yourself because the idea’s still too new and seems too preposterous. Then there’s the stage where you come to believe fully and completely, and commit yourself body and soul to the proving of it—only no one else believes in it. Then there’s the stage where, even if everyone comes to believe and gets behind the idea, you find that the execution will be more difficult than you had thought possible. Things don’t work the way you hoped they would. The parts don’t hold up to the strain or don’t serve their purpose. The credits dry up. Testing fails over and over. Patience grows short and time becomes an issue.”

  He paused, turning to look at Shea. “But the worst stage is the one when you finally complete your work and realize that those you thought supported you are only interested in doing so because they want control over what you have invented. They want it for their own private, selfish reasons and have no intention of seeing it used for the betterment of Mankind. That one is the worst stage—the most depressing and despicable.”

  “The Federation wants your machine for themselves?”

  “Oh, yes. But not because they want to use it for the peaceful purposes for which it was intended. That would be bad, but tolerable. No, what they want is to employ it as a weapon. They want to use it as a hammer against everyone who crosses them. Because if no one else has anything like it, they can’t compete. Meaning they are forced into a state of dependence on the possessor’s willingness to share.”

  Shea nodded. “There’s not much chance of that happening with the Federation these days, is there?”

  “Not much at all,” Tindall agreed.

  They were quiet for a bit as Shea took a few moments to think through what the scientist had just said. Then he asked, “Does Annabelle really work now? Can she do what you built her to do?”

  “What? Change the weather?” Tindall nodded slowly. “She can do that and more. She can actually make weather, in some instances.” He looked over again. “You know, in the Old World, before the Great Wars, they had machines that could impact the weather, so this isn’t a new idea. Those machines could affect the movement of the winds and clouds, could make it rain or be dry, could make it snow or…”

  He trailed off. “All that technology was lost. All that science disappeared with those who understood it, or was simply cast aside by those that survived but were afraid of what would happen were it brought back. Poisons, weapons, plague, and all the other dreadful end-days advancements—no one wanted that back. So they turned to magic instead, and only in the last hundred years or so have they started looking at science again for their answers. Mostly here, in the Federation, where magic is considered untrustworthy, and new ways of advancing civilization—or, more accurately, advancing the interests of those in power—are being sought. Elves, Dwarves, Druids, they prefer to keep things just as they are. The Elves have always used magic; it’s the backbone of their culture. The others, they just don’t like change. But magic is dangerous, too. More so, maybe.”

  Shea thought about it. “Not that many can use magic,” he said finally.

  “Fewer still can use it well. It’s too dangerous, too dependent on the intent of the users. It doesn’t always work the way you want it to. It doesn’t always perform as you expect. Science is more reliable. It always has been. Machines and mechanical devices of all sorts will always work the way you expect once you get the science right. The margin for error shrinks to almost nothing. A machine does exactly what you built it for. It doesn’t just go off on a lark.”

  Shea frowned. “But that’s not so, is it? Doesn’t science sometimes prove unpredictable, too? And not just in a random way. And even if you use it for a good cause to begin with, sometimes it can be used for a bad one, too. Or the other way around. A machine is just like magic. It depends on the user’s intent.”

  Tindall gave him a long look. “Well said. You’re right, of course.” He gave the boy a smile. “There’s more to you than meets the eye, Shea. That was a well-stated argument. But I would argue in response that you always know and understand a machine’s function. And anyone can learn to operate a machine. But none of that’s true with magic. Not everyone can use magic. Only some can use it, which creates a p
rivileged class, and even the most talented can’t always be sure of the result. It is a mercurial, quixotic form of power, and the Druids mostly keep it for themselves for just that reason. Plus, there is no safety net with magic. That’s why it will never be available for use by the common man.”

  Shea shifted a bit on the seat. “But doesn’t that mean that there are fewer chances for things to go wrong? If fewer people can use magic, then fewer bad things are likely to happen. Machines, though, can be operated by anyone. And if anybody can use a machine, then the possibility of it being used for evil increases.”

  Tindall sighed. “And then there’s the argument about what constitutes good or evil usage. A very subjective standard, at best—one that gets broken down and put back together in new ways all the time.” He paused, rubbing his hands as if to rid himself of the thought. “But I still think it is wrong for power to be placed in the hands of just a few, like the way the Druids control magic.”

  “You might not have to worry about it anymore,” Shea said. “I heard the Druids were wiped out by those invaders.”

  The old man nodded slowly. “I heard that, too. Another of those rumors that creeps into prison cells to entertain the occupants. I heard that one from a guard, who heard it from a cousin, who heard it from whomever. But is it true? It doesn’t seem possible, given the power of Paranor and its occupants and all those many safeguards employed against anyone breaching the walls.”

  Shea worked his bare foot across the rough flooring. “Well, you know what they say. Nothing can ever keep you safe from everything. There’s always something that can get you, even if you have magic.”

  Tindall did not reply, returning to his contemplation of Annabelle. Shea found himself wondering what the old man would do now that he was an escaped prisoner hunted by the Federation. He was in his twilight years and not in great shape. If the Federation wanted him back, they would not find it all that difficult. So Tindall would have to leave the Southland and move to another corner of the Four Lands. Probably, he would have to go into hiding. And what would he do then? To invent things, you needed credits and someone to provide for you while you worked. Even Shea knew that much.

  Perhaps Tindall and Rocan could join forces; they both seemed to share similar values when it came to the welfare of the Four Lands. And they shared a history. Rocan appeared to be well enough off. And he probably had a large Rover family somewhere to help back him up if the Federation went on hunting for him—which they would, wouldn’t they?

  Shea shook his head, finding the whole business too convoluted, then excused himself to go dress. Pulling on his mostly dry clothing, he considered their discussion anew. None of the answers to the questions he had asked mattered all that much—not to him. What mattered was how he could detach himself from both men and return to Varfleet before things had a chance to get any worse.

  He went back out and sat down again with the old man, mulling things over for a time without coming to any definitive conclusion as to how he should handle his departure. He didn’t want to leave without saying why, or leave Tindall alone while Rocan was gone. And he didn’t want to take the coward’s way out by slipping away unnoticed and without explaining himself. He didn’t like what impression that would leave in the minds of those he abandoned. He might not amount to much, but he was better than that.

  “Did you hear something?” Tindall asked suddenly.

  Shea shook his head, still lost in thought. Moments later the door to the chamber flew open and a dozen Federation soldiers surged into the room, weapons drawn.

  And Commander Zakonis followed them in, a smile on his face.

  SIX

  CLIZIA PORSE WAS SEVERAL miles away by the time Drisker Arc had finished collaring Tavo Kaynin, already taking steps to cut her losses. Letting Tavo go was the easiest choice she had ever made. He was reckless, undependable, and mentally unsound, offering her no real assurance that he would ever be able to do anything she asked of him. The evidence had been provided this very morning by his failure to kill Drisker as she had ordered, instead giving in to his uncontrollable obsession with killing his sister.

  And he had even failed to do that, somehow revealing himself enough for the Druid to trick him and take him captive.

  Fine, then. Let the fool have him. He would cause Drisker more trouble than Clizia could ever think to create, and distract him from the things he needed to be doing. She had recovered the Stiehl, and that was all that mattered. At least this most dangerous of all weapons would never fail her.

  Admittedly, she was stung by the extent of what she had failed to accomplish over the past few weeks, especially where Drisker Arc was concerned. Her conspiracy with the Skaar had succeeded in drawing the Druid into the Keep, and there she had imprisoned him by dispatching Paranor into a limbo existence, effectively ending any threat he might present. With the Black Elfstone in her possession, she controlled when, if ever, the Druid’s Keep and its reluctant prisoner might be returned to the Four Lands.

  Or so she had imagined. Because, as it happened, she did not have possession of the Black Elfstone after all. Had she only thought she had taken it from his unconscious body? Or was something else at play? Whatever the case, all her efforts had gone for naught. Drisker had managed somehow to extricate himself without her help and return Paranor to the Four Lands. He had undone everything she had accomplished, and placed her alliance with the Skaar princess in serious jeopardy. She was now a fugitive from Drisker and his companions herself, and likely no longer welcome much of anywhere in the Four Lands, including the encampment of the beleaguered Skaar.

  And yet there was still hope.

  There was always hope.

  Her hard, sharp features tightened as she felt her disappointment shift to rage, her eyes aglow with the dark magic she longed to release against this man who had defied her. She was sitting in her small two-man airship, grounded and in hiding near the mouth of the Kennon Pass, on the far side of the Dragon’s Teeth. She had flown there directly following her escape from Drisker, the Stiehl successfully retrieved, but her path forward was a puzzle awaiting a solution. She needed direction, not simply a vague, long-term goal of resurrecting the fallen Druid order with herself as Ard Rhys. That would come with time, but not without better planning for what must happen first. It had been clear before Drisker’s return what was needed, but now she must reassess.

  It was cold within the unheated shell of her small craft, but it was pointless to fly any farther without a specific destination. She might have disembarked and made camp for the night, built herself a fire and gotten some sleep, but she was too angry and unsettled to allow herself any rest without knowing what lay ahead.

  Drisker would come searching for her; that much was certain. He would have already tried, but she had magic, too. And hers would have kept her hidden long enough for her to get this far. But there was a cost for using magic to deflect the power of the Seeking Stones, and she could not afford to use it freely. Her mind and body were already wearied and aching from the effort this time. Soon, Drisker would try using the Elfstones again. Now that he knew the extent of her treachery, he would not be satisfied with anything less than tracking her down and eliminating her. Her part in the destruction of the entire Druid order was something he would take personally, even given his exile. He was that kind of man. Cross him where friendships and commitment to a cause were concerned—even one as hopeless as preserving the old Druid order—and he would not rest until things were put right. It would be the same with her.

  So she must find a way to protect herself better, and that meant finding an ally who would stand with her against Drisker.

  She thought back to the fleet of airships that had drawn her attention the previous night. Airships from the north, where no airships were to be found—especially not in those numbers. Not in the tribal lands of the Trolls, those bestial, primitive creatures. Given their size, m
ost of them must have been transports for soldiers and supplies. So if they did not come from the Four Lands—as she was certain they did not—then it was logical to assume they might be Skaar vessels.

  Which meant the Skaar king had arrived ahead of schedule.

  She had wondered about Ajin d’Amphere’s ability to control her father’s movements. Her Penetrator, the man known to Clizia as Kassen, had seemed confident that Ajin’s father would allow her the freedom she required to gain a beachhead in the Four Lands before the larger army would follow, but Clizia had not been so sure. It felt more likely to her that Cor d’Amphere would be like most rulers—distrustful of allowing too much power or control to fall into the hands of others. Cor d’Amphere had not sounded to her like a particularly complacent ruler, not even where his daughter was concerned.

  Now, it seemed, she had been right. The arrival of those airships might signal the king’s impatience with Ajin’s progress. Unless, of course, his daughter had summoned her father early.

  In either case, it was to the Skaar that Clizia must offer her services. That alliance was stronger than any she was likely to secure with any of the other governments of the Four Lands, and likely the best she could hope to find right now. She had harbored hopes for an alliance after her visit to the Elves, but it seemed that her efforts to charm Gerrendren Elessedil had failed. And she could no longer afford to wait on the Elven king, in any event. Not with Drisker Arc hunting for her.

  She powered up the two-man and engaged the thrusters. The small craft lifted off, rising from its place of hiding and heading for the Mermidon and the Skaar encampment. Clizia flew until the forefront of a vast storm forced her into hiding. Then, when it finally passed a little before dawn, she continued on, flying close to the mountains as she made her way downriver, keeping within their shadow as the sky lightened on the horizon ahead. She would need to get close enough to the encampment to walk in and confront the princess, and she did not want to be spotted before then. It was a bold decision to face down Ajin d’Amphere with her failures, but she thought she had the means to win her over and regain her confidence.