The Rogue Retrieval (12 page)

“Let me go. Help!” Quinn shouted. But no one in the crowd around seemed to hear him. He didn't dare draw his sword, or try the elemental projector. He could reach the pack of cards in his sleeve. That was about it.

“Impersonating a magician is a serious crime, as I'm sure you know.”

Maybe he could talk his way out of this. “Who says I'm not one?” Quinn asked.

“A fair point.” The bald magician pressed a finger to Quinn's temples and held him fast. His touch was like ice. A chill flowed down from his hands. It felt like he was slowly freezing Quinn to death from the outside in. His face went still, his ears numb, his shoulders quivered.

Some part of him fought this. Deep in his gut he clung to the only warmth he had. Almost like a hot meal in the stomach, but deeper. The cold from the magician's fingers pressed against it. Did it recoil, even? Yes. Quinn found the source of it and
pushed
. Then the heat was emanating outward, shoving back against the cold. Surging into his shoulders, his face. The balding man's eyes widened. His arms were flung away. He stumbled a step backward and stared.

“Gods,” he whispered. “How?”

Quinn wasn't sure himself, but he had this guy on the ropes and intended to take advantage. “Release me, and I'll tell you.”

But the man only moved closer to him, and threw a cloaked arm over his shoulders.

“Wait,” Quinn said. “What are you doing?”

The magician ignored him. He looked down, muttered a command. Quinn felt a surge of panic—­or rather,
another
surge of panic—­and started to struggle, but the magician's arm was like stone. He couldn't break his grip. He worked a few cards out of the pack and let them fall. Then he tugged the jack of spades out enough that he could press his thumb down on the switch. Not that he thought Thorisson could help, but he was desperate.

The plaza flickered around him. The magician's arm held him like it was made of steel. A light flashed, blinding him.

He fell into darkness.

“B
radley, report,” Logan said. He stood on the balls of his feet, ready to start moving the second he got confirmation. But Bradley hadn't said a word after “Stand by.”

On the marble steps, a man's voice boomed through the speaker. “Our troubles are over!”

“That's Admiral Blackwell,” Kiara said. She sounded surprised. “Top commander of the Valteroni fleet. They're certainly bringing out the big guns for this one.”

“Maybe he's taking over,” Logan said. It wouldn't be the worst thing. This dump of a city could use a leader with some discipline.

“The Prime must be a civilian,” Chaudri said. “It's one of the few restrictions.”

Still no word from Bradley, but he'd probably forgotten to unmute his comm link. In the background, Blackwell was speaking ponderously about all that Valteron had lost in the days of unrest, the dead, the damages.

“All of that is behind us, my fellow citizens,” the admiral said. “Leading us into the future is a man that many of you know. Someone who was born here. Who understands what Valteron needs. A man who will ensure that we remain the greatest power in Alissia for another century!”

“This is quite an introduction,” Chaudri said.

“Let me delay no more. We have suffered long enough.” Blackwell paused for effect here.

He's already contradicting himself.

Chaudri must have had a flicker of insight; her voice came over the comm link. “Oh my
God
!” She'd even forgotten to make it plural.

Something in her tone gave Logan a feeling of dread. He connected the dots then. A day late, as usual.

“The new Prime of Valteron,” the admiral boomed. “Richard Holt!”

For the first time since Logan had known her, the lieutenant had no words. Either that or she'd fainted, but he didn't consider that very likely.

“All right, everyone,” Logan said. “Let's regroup at the inn. Get there as quick as you can.”

Holt's voice came over the amplifier and it fixed him to where he stood.

­“People of Valteron,” Holt said.

Chaudri gave a soft gasp.

“Jesus,” Logan whispered. It was him, all right. He'd know that voice anywhere.

“All of us are orphans,” Holt said. “My predecessor, the former Prime, was like a father to us. Without him we've been like a ship without anchor.”

Not a bad metaphor for these ­people, Logan had to admit.

“Consider the course righted. There are days of change ahead. Days of growth and prosperity like none that Valteron has ever known. I have seen things in our future. Ships that move without sails. New sources of heat. Advanced weapons for the admiral and his fine navy.”

Logan sighed. He hoped that didn't mean what he thought it did.

“Go back to your homes, your shops,” Holt was saying. “The admiral has been kind enough to reopen the harbor, starting tomorrow.”

Men in feather caps cheered. The more shabbily dressed seamen muttered curses.

Logan didn't wait to hear the rest. He began shouldering his way toward the exit. Kiara and Chaudri were silent across the comm link. He let the flow of Alissians carry him out of the square. They were jubilant, most of them. Excited about a new future, and talking about Holt as if they knew him well. Funny how just yesterday no one had ever heard of him.

Valteron City still had a charred smell to it, but at least the sky had opened. The fog was lifting, and the city was vibrant.

 

“Magic is like a religion to Alissians. The practitioners are revered and secretive. Either that, or they're avoiding us.”

—
­
R
.
H
OLT,
“Q
UESTIONS
ON
A
LISSIAN
M
AGIC
”

CHAPTER 11

TAKEN

W
hen Quinn could see again, he was somewhere else. A clearing surrounded by forest, and the trees were the largest he'd ever seen. They towered like California redwoods, the tops of them lost in low-­hanging clouds. Some time seemed to have passed; it was near evening here. A footpath lined with round stones led away from the clearing, deeper into the forest. He thought he heard the distant sound of ocean surf.

He whirled on the magician. “Where are we?”

“We are no longer in Valteron, I will tell you that. This is a place not found on any maps.”

“What kind of place?” Quinn said.

“Call it a home, call it a school, call it whatever you will. This is where we come to be with our own. With magicians.”

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. . .

“Let's take a walk, shall we?” The man started down a path lined with round stones. Not looking back to see if Quinn followed.

He was unrestrained; he might have tried to run away. But he had no idea where he was. And he was as curious as he was frightened. So he followed.

“Tell me your name, son,” the magician said.

“Quinn.” He said it automatically, not thinking to use the cover identity that Chaudri and her team had assigned to him.
Damn
. “Well, I was born Thomas More. But I go by Quinn.”

“You have a strange way of speaking, Quinn,” the magician said. “You're not from Valteron, are you?”

“You didn't tell me
your
name,” Quinn groused.

“You may call me Moric.”

“I have a few other things I'd rather call you.”

The magician didn't seem to move, but a burning sensation lashed across Quinn's wrists. He cried out, rubbing them against his chest.

“That's for your impertinence,” Moric said. “You shouldn't speak that way to magicians. Particularly after masquerading as one.”

He went cold when he heard that. The man's tone was light, but the accusation was there. “Maybe I did indicate that I had certain abilities. It was only to save my own skin. There were these mercenaries—­”

“It's still a crime. One that true magicians take rather seriously,” Moric said.

Quinn sighed. He should have known that posing as a magician in a world where real ones existed was going to get him into trouble. “I didn't hurt anyone.”

“I'm aware of that. If you had, this would be a far less friendly conversation.”

The man kept looking at him sideways while they walked, as if Quinn were a strange animal or something.

They turned a bend in the path and climbed a hill. Quinn hadn't been imagining the sound of surf; aquamarine water glinted at him through the woods to their left. He tried another angle.

“Where I come from, you're innocent until proven guilty.”

“You come from a soft place, my friend.”

Quinn considered making a run for it again—­this time he was sure he didn't
want
to find out what was going on. And maybe Moric was tired from his recent exertions. He'd climbed the hill with no difficulty, though, and seemed perfectly hale to the appearance. Looking closely at him, Quinn realized the man wasn't as old as he'd thought. He was middle-­aged, probably in his late forties. The shaved head added years.

“This is just too weird,” Quinn said at last. He didn't know how else to put it.

Things rapidly got stranger. A flock of massive birds flew overhead. They were the size of small airplanes, and wheeled and dove with one another with a strange sort of intelligence. Quinn studied them for a second, shook his head, kept walking.

“How did you make the fireball?”

“What fireball?” Quinn asked. He had to be careful here.

“A witness claimed that you conjured a globe of fire. Like this.” He raised a hand, shook the sleeve of his robe clear, and curled his fingers together. A ball of blue flame appeared at their tips, hissing and curling. Quinn could feel the heat from it on his face. Then Moric let his fingers fall apart, and the ball dissipated.

“I definitely never did anything like that,” Quinn said. Blue flame. He wished he'd thought of that one. There was just something intimidating about fire in such an unnatural color.

“Fire is destruction personified,” Moric said. “Wielded only with the greatest care. It builds nothing, it only consumes.”

“It cooks things,” Quinn said. “That's a kind of producing, if you ask me. And you can use it to reshape metal.”

Moric pursed his lips thoughtfully. “You're not quite as foolish as you've been acting. And you've managed not to try and run away, though I could see you were thinking about it. That's good. It prevents an awkward situation in which I must drag you back by your ears. Or strip you bare and let you float along beside me.”

“What can I say? I'm a fast learner.”

Moric smiled, though there was no humor in it. “You'd better be. If I'm right about you, you're as dangerous as anyone who's ever come to this island.”

So it was an island. That was something useful, if disappointing. It meant that Quinn wouldn't have any luck escaping on foot unless he got hold of a boat. A big boat. The research team's reports on predators in the Alissian seas had been simply haunting.

“What makes you think I'm dangerous?” he asked.

“Because you've either been masquerading as a magician, or you have a talent that we don't understand.”

Quinn shook his head. “I'm not threatening anyone. All I wanted was to stay alive.”

“So you say,” Moric said.

The stone-­lined path led out into a large clearing. A group of children sat together on the grass some distance away, listening to a shaggy-­haired old fellow who was showing them something in tree bark. Moric and Quinn walked about a quarter mile, passing low stone buildings and huts, a small section of farm plots, and an outdoor farrier's yard. It was like a tiny little community here. They had a bit of everything.

“Is everyone here a magician?” Quinn asked.

“For the most part, yes.”

Quinn made a quick mental tally, like a blackjacker counting cards in the casino. About forty ­people were in view, including the children. At the estimated rate of magic capabilities in the population, this was beginning to explain why magic users had been so difficult to find.

“I didn't realize how many of you there were,” he said.

“Few do. We prefer it that way,” Moric said.

“Which hut is yours?”

Moric chuckled. “Oh, I don't live here. This is one of our farms. A place of peace and contemplation.”

One
of their farms? Quinn shook his head in wonder. The company researchers weren't a little bit off about the numbers of magicians here. They were off by an order of magnitude. Finally, he knew something that they didn't. And he liked how it felt.

Moric steered him along the road, where some of the other islanders—­that was how Quinn thought of them now—­called out a greeting to him. They eyed Quinn strangely, but said nothing.

This was the highest point on the island. The ground stretched downhill before them for a quarter mile and then dipped out of view, perhaps into a steep vale. Quinn could see water on either side. To their left was an inlet bay, dominated by several docks to which ships were unloading boxes of cargo. Strangely, there were no dockworkers carrying the boxes out on their shoulders. Instead, two gray-­robed men stood waving their hands, moving the boxes around in midair with complex gestures. The crates sailed out of the holds of squat cargo ships and stacked neatly on the docks.

Beyond them, in the deeper part of the inlet bay, was a tall sailing ship with a deep hull and three masts. Like something out of a storybook. Only this craft looked out of place compared to Legato's trading vessel and the other ships Quinn had seen. There was a sleekness and style about her that didn't fit in to this place.

And it looked familiar . . .

Recognition clicked. It had to be the
Victoria
, the company's lost ship. His mouth fell open; he almost said it out loud. But he didn't know what Moric had in store for him, whether he was a friend or an enemy.

All Quinn could think about was Kiara. Was her sister here, and alive?

“Do you know what happened, when I touched your temples back in the plaza?” Moric asked suddenly.

“I know it was cold,” Quinn said.

“Yes, that's how it feels for some. What else?”

“I pushed it away. The cold. It felt like you were turning me into a block of ice.”

Moric grunted. “That test should have gone differently. It should have numbed you completely to my touch. Instead, I felt a resistance in you. A resonance. When I tried to cast a delving, you pushed back.” He chuckled. “I admit that surprised me a little.”

“What does it mean?” Quinn asked.

“What it usually means is that you have the magic in you. The gift, the birthright. It means you've come to this island to be trained as a magician. Or else I'm wrong, and you were simply pretending to be a magician without cause. In which case you'll most likely face death. Either way, I'd say we have some exciting times ahead.”

“Oh,” Quinn said.
How is that even possible?
“Crap.”

“Yes, there will be some of that. It usually isn't pretty when we get someone as old as you. Too spirited, too stubborn. Much harder to set straight and put on the guild path.”

“What guild?” Quinn asked. He'd not heard of anything like that in his briefings. And it worried him that there seemed to be no kind of timetable in Moric's words.

Most of all, he was still reeling from the idea that he might have magic in him.
Alissian
magic.

Moric had been talking while his thoughts scrambled to find purchase. “ . . . collection of all magicians in Alissia. At some point, most of them come here to be evaluated and taught. We seek them out as children, they come here to train, they leave as guild magicians. Some stay to help with the business of the guild. Like myself.”

“Right, you're the magic muscle.”

Moric turned to look at him. “That's a peculiar expression. I prefer to think of myself as a creative problem solver.”

“You've got the creative part right, at least.”

M
ission failed.
That was all Logan could think about as he joined the crowd streaming out of the plaza. Holt was now the most powerful—­and untouchable—­man in Alissia. How he'd managed to get himself down here and elected on the brink of a civil war, Logan couldn't begin to understand. Nor could he figure out why the admiral had called him a native Valteroni. None of it made sense, and he felt the beginning of a headache creeping up.

He usually left these political complexities to the eggheads in the research department.

There was a distinctive, upbeat hum to the ­people here. Most were Valteroni, which wasn't surprising, but Logan picked out a few foreigners as well. Kiara hailed him over the comm link.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“I can't raise Bradley. Have you heard from him?”

“No. Maybe he took out his comm link,” Logan said, but a cold feeling began to form in his gut. Something was wrong. “I'll start heading over to his spot.”

“Chaudri just joined me. We'll meet you there,” Kiara said.

Logan turned and fought his way against the flow of humanity until he was back in the plaza. Many would-­be revelers had lingered there, and members of the city watch were outnumbered far too heavily to do anything about it. Well, Holt would have his first test of leadership soon.

He tried the comm link one more time. “Bradley, can you hear me?” Only static answered him.

By the time he'd reached Bradley's post, most of the crowd had thinned out. That's how he noticed the men following him. Three of them. They stuck out because they were armored and well-­fed, whereas most of the ­people in the square were neither.

“I've got some trailers,” he said softly.

“City watch?” Kiara asked.

“No,” Logan said. Watchmen usually carried clubs or steel-­wrapped cudgels, the kind of weapons you'd use for crowd control. These men had swords, and looked like they knew how to use them.

“See if you can lose them,” Kiara said.

Already way ahead of you, Lieutenant.

Logan waved at a random person ahead in the crowd, and hurried forward as if to greet him. He skirted around a group of Kestani merchants sharing a bottle of wine, chanced a look back. The men had sped up to follow. Now there were four of them, and they'd given up any pretense otherwise.

He reached the mouth of a narrow avenue exiting the plaza—­what had been Bradley's post. There was no sign of him. No blood on the ground, though. At least that was something. The swordsmen were twenty paces out.

“Heading up the street. Don't think I can lose them,” he said. “Permission to engage?”

“Try not to hurt anyone. We're almost there.”

No promises.

He ducked into the first alley and drew his sword, putting his back to the wall. The alley was narrow enough that he might avoid being surrounded. Boots pounded toward the corner. Logan counted to himself. Three. Two. One. He swung low, catching the first one across the shins. Down he went, even as Logan engaged the second pursuer. The man parried his first slash. They locked blades, hilt to hilt. Logan threw a shoulder into him. He stumbled back out of the alley into the arms of his companions. The first attacker was trying to stand. Logan kicked him in the side of the head. He went down like a sack of bricks.