Pandora's Box

[ChrisNuttall]

Hi, everyone

Pandora’s Box is the direct sequel to The Chimera Coup, available on Kindle Unlimited (see link below). All you really need to know is that our hero is part of a band of adventures who do work in the wastelands on the edge of civilised society, and they’re about to bite off more than they can chew.



I’m not actually sure how things will go, as I have a lot of other things to do – and a bunch of upcoming medical appointments – but I will do my best.

As always – gets down on hands and knees, assuming the well known ‘taxpayer’ yoga position – I welcome all comments; spelling, grammar, continuity problems, moments of dunderheadedness, etc.

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Thank you

Chris

PS - want to write a magic school story? Fantastic Schools 5 and Fantastic School Hols – Call For Submissions

 

[ChrisNuttall]

Prologue, Five Years Ago

“Are you paying attention?”

John, Son of John, tried not to flinch as Master Yemen bore down on him. Magical Engineering was an interesting class, under other circumstances, but the lecture had been boring and he’d spent most of it staring at Katrina Amador. She was so different from the girls he’d known in the village, in so many ways, that she’d caught his attention without ever trying. He wanted to speak to her and yet he found himself tongue-tied every time he tried.

“Yes, Master,” John lied.

He braced himself, expecting everything from a stern lecture to a punishment that would leave him scarred for life. Master Yemen wasn’t known for being kind to students who didn’t pay attention in his class. The lectures might be long and boring, but they imparted information the students desperately needed when they moved to practical work. John had devised a small charm to help him recall the tutor’s words and yet, for reasons he’d yet to figure out, it wasn’t perfect. The recorded words lacked a certain immediacy.

“I see,” Master Yemen said. “Perhaps you could explain, to the class, the importance of attaching one’s Motivator to one’s Locomotive?”

John silently thanked all the gods he’d read ahead. “The Motivator provides the power for the Locomotive, but the power can spill out in all directions if the connections are not hardwired into the device,” he said. “If that happens, the very best you can expect is the device simply melting or warping under the influx of tainted magic.”

Master Yemen cocked his head, sharply. “And at worst?”

“The device will explode,” John said. He was still hazy on precisely where the magic power came from, before it was channelled into the device, but there were enough horror stories for him to guess the answer. “Or anyone standing nearby will wish it had exploded.”

“A fanciful answer, but technically correct.” Master Yemen turned and walked back to the front of the class. “As you can see, the Motivator is a vitally important piece of modern magic. It provides the clean magic we rely on to run our devices and” – his voice lightened slightly – “it was invented by our very own headmaster.”

John kept his face under tight control. Headmaster Greyshade was a hero. Everyone said as much and, to be fair, he really had done most of the things they said he’d done. He was the sole surviving magician from the old days, before the Cataclysm had shattered the world-spanning civilisation beyond repair and reduced the known world to thirteen kingdoms on the edge of a warped and twisted landscape, and the one who’d first codified the new principles of magic that brought sorcery back into the world, but … John didn’t trust him. He wasn’t sure why, yet his instincts insisted there was something wrong with the headmaster. He smiled too much.

And the way everyone kisses his arse doesn’t help, he reflected. He’d grown up in a village where everyone had to pretend they liked the local landlord, even though they wouldn’t shed a tear if he was brutally murdered by wild wizards or outlaws, but the old bastard hadn’t received even a hundredth of the flattery poured on Greyshade. There were times when it seemed everyone was competing to come up with newer and better ways to crawl in front of him, begging for his favour. Does anyone really know the real him?

Master Yemen continued. “You will be provided with Motivators for your practical work,” he said, his tone returning to normal. “You will be expected, at the end of the year, to produce a working device, one that channels the power into something useful. Something magical. Remember, plain and simple is better than flashy and complex.”

John nodded. The old man was right about that. The more complex the designs, the harder it was to put them into practice and the greater the chance of something going spectacularly wrong. The wreckage of the days of yore, where sorcerers had built castles in the clouds or great flying cities or even compressed giant mansions into simple apartment blocks, stood in mute testament to the folly of relying too much on magic. John had no idea how many of the stories were true, and how many had grown in the telling, but he didn’t have to walk far to see the ruins of bygone days. The older students had dared him to spend a night in the ruins a few months ago. The prefects had put a stop to it before he’d left the school.

Katrina Amador stuck up her hand. Master Yemen barely looked at her. “Yes, Miss Amador?”

“You tell us you’ll be providing us with Motivators,” Katrina said. If she was insulted by his lack of regard, she didn’t show it. “Why don’t you teach us how to make them for ourselves?”

Master Yemen stared at her for a long moment. “If you had read your textbooks, you would have noted that Motivators are extremely complex pieces of magical engineering, requiring a level of skill far beyond fourteen-year-old students. They are generally produced by magicians who have spent years honing their craft, magicians who have been practicing magic longer than you have been alive. I would not expect this class to produce a working Motivator. It would be like expecting a child to take up adult responsibilities before even leaving the crib.”

John saw Katrina flush and felt a hot flash of anger. “Master,” he said before he could think better of it, “why are there no instructions for producing Motivators in the library.”

“Because their design is a state secret,” Master Yemen said, tartly. “The craftsmen who produce them, young man, take oaths of secrecy so intense they literally cannot share the details in any way, shape or form. The secret must not be allowed to get out.”

“Yes, Master,” John said. “But …”

Master Yemen eyed him nastily. “But what?”

John hesitated, trying to put his arguments into words. The hell of it was that he had a pretty good argument, if he was willing to discuss his past. He’d grown up in a village where half the work was done by hand and the rest by animals. Access to even a handful of the wonders he’d seen as a student magician would change the villagers lives for the better, but there was no hope of that as long as the supply of magical devices was so limited. And while the textbooks hadn’t made it explicit, John knew enough to deduce the reason the supply was so limited. There just weren’t enough Motivators to go around.

But he couldn’t say it. He’d learnt to keep his mouth shut about his origins.

“The shortage of Motivators limits the expansion of our society,” he said, finally. “If we had more, we’d be able to expand faster and develop newer and better ways to make use of magic, instead of relying on cables and …”

Master Yemen cut him off. “You are aware, of course, that the widespread use of magic played a major role in the collapse of the old world? They used magic for everything! They built their homes out of magic, raised great towers out of magic, lifted cities to the skies through magic … and when the laws of magic changed, that society crumbled to dust and died. We dare not risk the loss of our society. If we put the secret out, if we let everyone produce their own Motivators, what will happen to our world?”

Greyshade would no longer be in control, John thought. The headmaster didn’t rule the world, not precisely, but he had enough influence to ensure his suggestions were almost always taken for orders. His control over the new magic was almost absolute. And who knows who’d take his place?

“We might have more healing spells,” he said, instead. It was funny how Motivators made it easier to devise spells and potions, even though they could be cast or brewed without one. “Or newer and better sliders and landships and …”

“We must not repeat the mistakes of the past,” Master Yemen said. “And you can write me an essay on the dangers of allowing uncontrolled magic to fall into unworthy hands, for … I think the end of the week.”

John groaned. A punishment essay. He’d sooner take the manual labour. The aristos might bitch and moan about having to go chores – oh, the horror – but he’d grown up in a village. Chopping firewood was hardly a new thing for him. He’d even earned some money by working for the janitor, doing tasks that were unpleasant but hardly difficult. And yet the aristos made them sound worse than being flogged to death.

He sighed, inwardly, as Master Yemen started assigning partnerships. He had little love for his village’s landlord, nor the greater master above him who served a greater lord in turn. The man wasn’t a complete fool, but … who knew what he’d do if he found himself with unrestricted magic? Or the kings … they might swear blind they could trace their ancestry back thousands of years, yet in truth they were little more than lucky warlords. What would they do, if Greyshade gave them unrestricted access to magic …?

“Hi,” a female voice said. John looked up to see Katrina. “It seems we’ll be working together.”

John blinked, feeling his heart start to race. “We are?”

“Yeah.” Katrina sat beside him and shoved a sheaf of papers under his nose. “And I already have great plans for our project. We’ll get the highest grade in the class.”

And they did.

 

[ChrisNuttall]

Chapter One

“I feel like an idiot,” John moaned, as he walked down the street. “And I look like one too.”

“I couldn’t possibly comment,” Scout said, archly. “But no one will be looking at your face.”

John sighed. The outfit was almost a grotesque parody of the clothes he’d worn when Katrina had dragged him to a masked ball, right down to the sheer whirlwind of colours that made him look like a blancmange on legs. He might not be a sight for sore eyes, the nasty part of his mind reflected, but anyone who looked at him would get sore eyes … the mask, covering his upper face, was almost pointless. He’d given himself a handful of fake warts and scars on his jaw, to mislead anyone who happened to look at his face, but he doubted anyone would. They’d be too busy sniggering at the walking jelly.

“Perhaps not,” he agreed. “But at least you look stunning.”

Scout elbowed him. Her dress was as elaborate as the ballroom outfits Katrina had worn, once upon a time, complete with a frame under the silk that ensured no one could do anything more intimate than hold hands, unless they were prepared to break the frame. Scout had covered herself from head to toe, then used cloth to make her breasts and hips look several times larger than they were. It looked almost as if she were wearing a tent. It was difficult to believe the girl he knew was the fancy woman in front of him, but … he shook his head. No one else would recognise her, the moment she took off the dress and ran. Scout’s weirdling gifts made her hard to see even at the very best of times.

John held out a hand, bracing himself as they started to walk towards the lodge. It was easily the largest building he’d seen in the badlands, five floors and a surprisingly pretty garden surrounded by walls. He had to admit it stood in odd contrast to the grim mining town around it, where men worked their lives away in hopes of striking it rich … he shuddered, reminding himself, not for the first time, that he could have had a worse childhood. The children he’d seen in the town were lucky if they weren’t fetching and carrying for the miners almost as soon as they could walk, then working in the mines themselves when they reached puberty. John had heard the tales. The town’s owners had their entire population trapped in debts they could never hope to repay, debts passed down from parents to children …

He schooled his face into a blank mask as they passed the guards, who looked them up and down before waving them into the lodge. In theory, the lodge belonged to everyone, the one place the entire population could meet as equals. In practice, it was owned and effectively dominated by Boss Edwards, the undisputed master of the town … a man, if the reports were accurate, had somehow merged his roles as a ruthless businessman and an underground kingpin into a single entity. It was not that different, John reflected, from the aristos to the east. If you enjoyed the boss’s patronage, you went far; if you didn’t, you were screwed … and not in a good way.

The music seemed to burst out at them as they pushed through the doors and stepped into the lodge itself. It was a ballroom and a pub and a dining hall and a multitude of other things, all compressed into one. John’s eyes swept the room, spotting dozens of men and women in fancy outfits and masks, the bright colours blurring together into a nightmarish mockery of the aristos he’d known. There were no visible weapons – Boss Edwards had ordered his guests come unarmed – but he’d be astonished if some of the people weren’t carrying concealed weapons or objects that could be turned into weapons at a moment’s notice. A handful of maids scurried about, dressed in outfits that belonged in brothels rather than aristo ballrooms. John doubted anyone knew or cared about the maids not being particularly authentic. They were only here because their master had summoned them.

Boss Edwards himself sat on a raised chair, his eyes sweeping the room. He was a tall powerfully-built man, his slight paunch and long beard failing to detract from the air of menace and imminent violence that surrounded him like a shroud. His suit was poorly tailored, yet John doubted anyone would dare point it out to him. The gold chains clearly visible were proof he was a very powerful man indeed.

A maid stopped in front of them and bowed so deeply she left nothing to the imagination. “Would you like a drink, My Lord?”

John felt a stab of pity. The maid looked utterly terrified. “No, thank you,” he said. “We want to dance.”

The maid bowed again and hurried off. John scowled in disgust, then forced himself to relax as Scout pulled him onto the dance floor, leading the way around the room. The dancers didn’t seem to know what they were doing, but half were too drunk to care and the other half were merely having fun. John kept his eyes open, mentally tagging the guards, the guests who were probably carrying weapons and the locations of the exits. The lodge had quite a few secrets, they’d learnt from their sources. The entire structure had been designed to allow the master and his trusted associates to move around without being seen …

He kept his face blank as he spotted Joyce and Bard on the other side of the room, whirling around as if they were a middle-aged couple trying to reclaim their youth. John felt a twinge of admiration at how well they played their role, from Bard constantly ogling the maids to Joyce dragging him away every time his staring became too obvious. If he hadn’t known him, he would have fallen for the act. He allowed himself another twinge of pity as he saw the maids backing away. They had no way to know it was all pretence.

Scout’s dark fingers twitched into a message. Magic?

John closed his eyes, trusting her to steer him around the floor as he reached out with his senses. Magic was rare in the mining town, but if there was anyone in the district who had a semi-legal or flatly illegal magician in their service it was Boss Edwards. He frowned, briefly, as he mentally touched a handful of wards, low-power but put together with enough skill to worry him. He couldn’t tell if the caster had been trained at school, like himself … he scowled. Boss Edwards could pay in more than just money. The bastard would happily indulge the worst of perversions if it meant keeping a magician under his thumb.

Wards, he signalled back. Low-level, but there.

He tensed as the clock chimed the hour. It was time.

Joyce bumped into a gaudily-dressed man, then swung around and shouted. “How dare you grope me?”

Bard howled something incoherent and punched the man with immense force. John knew he’d held back – Bard was a blademaster, and a great deal stronger than he looked – but it was still something his victim couldn’t ignore. He staggered forward, his companions closing ranks behind him; Joyce shouted again, acting for all the world like a woman demanding her man protect her honour, as Ted and Hans made things worse by punching the nearest targets or throwing beer in their faces. The fight was on before anyone, even Boss Edwards, could stop it.

John had no time to watch as Scout led him to the exit. A guard stood beside it, his arms crossed over his chest as his eyes flickered between Scout’s fake chest and the growing fistfight. John muttered a quick charm and the guard’s eyes unfocused, slipping into a waking dream as John and Scout pushed past him and into the corridor beyond. John muttered a brief command – entranced people tended to be highly suggestible, and having a guard go wild would add to the chaos – and then closed the door behind him, drawing his focus as they hurried to the hidden staircase and headed up. The sound behind them faded with astonishing speed. John glanced at the walls, puzzled. They were so thin he thought he could put a fist through them without even trying.

Scout collapsed the frame under her dress as they reached the top of the stairs and stepped out into a meeting room. John tried not to roll his eyes at the décor – the chamber was as crude as any other, but the lodge had hung a flag from the wall – as Scout found the inner door, then nodded to him. John stepped forward, tapping his focus against the lock and reaching out with his magic. It was a fiendishly complex design, with several spells woven into the metal to make it impossible to pick without magic. John allowed himself a brief moment of admiration, then channelled his own magic into the lock. The designer was clever, but not clever enough. John didn’t have to pick the lock. He just had to convince it he’d put the right key in the keyhole.

The door clicked open. John raised his focus, bracing himself. Boss Edwards was no magician, as far as anyone knew, but he had at least one magician in his service, someone who might sense the lock opening and come to investigate. They’d found out everything they could about the lodge, yet … none of their sources had ever been into the boss’s private chambers. There could be anything in there, from his private drinks cabinet to a small army of guards or whores. The air smelled unpleasant as they inched into the darkened chamber. John muttered a night-vision spell and peered around. The office was as dark and silent as the grave. The walls were bare, save for a single painting that dominated the wall behind the heavy wooden desk. John was no prude, but even he flushed when he looked at the painting. It was so explicit he found it hard to look at it …

“Check behind the painting,” Scout ordered. “And hurry!”

John nodded. The fight wouldn’t last forever, no matter what the team downstairs did to prolong the struggle. And then Boss Edwards would start wondering if the whole affair had been a diversion … he put the thought out of his head as he tested the painting for magic, then started to pull it away from the walls. A weird spell flickered underneath the canvas, barely detectable even to his senses … he cancelled it with an effort, then pulled the painting away and rested it on the floor. The wall behind looked unbroken to the naked eye, but his senses picked out the concealment charm hiding the safe. He had to admire the workmanship as he dismantled the spell, then started to work on the safe. Whoever had put the safe together was a remarkable magician.

And probably someone kicked out of school like me, John thought. He’d never dreamed he’d be expelled until it had happened and then … he’d been lucky to find employment with Joyce and her adventures. If Greyshade hadn’t given him a hand … he wondered, sourly, if he’d have allowed hunger and thirst to drive him into criminal hands. It was easier to have a sense of morality when one had a full belly and enough money to ensure one wouldn’t starve in a hurry. What happened to this magician?

His lips twitched, silently thanking the gods he was a natural magician. The safe was designed to resist anyone who came at it with a focus, rather than inherent magic. Odd … it was crafty, and brilliant in its own way, but … were they wrong? Did Boss Edwards have magic of his own? It wasn’t impossible. The Grey Men rarely came this far from civilisation and they certainly weren’t testing for magic. And no one knew for sure where Boss Edwards really came from …

But that’s hardly unknown out here, John reflected. The safe clicked, the sound loud enough to make him start. Half the population wants to forget their pasts.

The hatch opened. John peered into the safe. It was larger than he’d realised, the interior made up of multiple compartments that each housed a different set of documents. John’s eyes narrowed as he scanned the titles, looking desperately for the papers they’d been sent to find. If they weren’t here … Scout was already checking the rest of the office, relying on her instincts and weirdling talents to find any other hiding places, but time was running out. How long would it be, he asked himself, before …

He grinned as a sheaf of papers came into view. “Got them!”

“Check them,” Scout advised. She was picking through a desk drawer that seemed to be crammed with alcohol and tobacco. “Make sure they’re the right ones.”

John nodded, scanning the documents one by one. The land ownership titles were printed on charmed paper, making them difficult – if not impossible – to duplicate or destroy. Boss Edwards had stolen the papers, intending to use them to lay claim to lands further to the west … or so John had been told. He didn’t really know or care if the story was true. Boss Edwards was a monster and putting a finger in his eye would be a good deed in itself, even if the other side was just as bad. It wasn’t uncommon, not in their line of work. And yet … he liked to think he’d clung to his ideals …

“Got them,” he said. The charms were intact, proving their validity to all who knew how to look. He folded up the papers, then shoved them into his undershirt. “We need to get out of here and …”

“Ahem,” a new voice said. “Who are you?”

John blinked, nearly jumping out of his skin. A young girl, no older than himself, stood by the doorway, her hands clasped behind her back. There was something about her face that was subtly wrong … another weirdling? Scout was hardly the only person whose ancestors had been exposed to wild magic … hell, she was one of the lucky ones. John had met weirdlings who looked like shambling parodies of humanity, others who appeared to be impossible crossbreeds … and, worst of all, things so warped and twisted that the only thing anyone could do was put them out of their misery. And yet … the girl wasn’t like that. She was just … wrong.

He cast a minor spell, a simple entrancement charm. The girl looked as if she’d just gotten out of bed. She could go back to sleep and wake up the following morning with no memory of them. John had no idea who she was and he didn’t much care. Their time was running short. Boss Edwards might have asserted his authority downstairs by now and …

The girl brought her hands out from behind her back. John barely had a second to recognise the focus - two focuses – before she cast a spell of her own. His focus was yanked from his hand and thrown across the room, his body slammed back into the wall … the girl’s hand barely twitched as she tossed a simple freeze spell at Scout. John gritted his teeth as he gathered himself, mustering his magic … she was the magician! He kicked himself for his oversight. Katrina had been a powerful magician and she’d been far from the only sorceress in the world. Just because it was rare to encounter a female magician so far from civilisation didn’t mean they didn’t exist.

And she’s had some training, he thought, numbly. The girl stepped forward, keeping one of her focuses aimed directly at his head while holding the other at the ready. John was mildly impressed. Wielding two focuses at the same time was tricky, to say the least, and it was an art he’d never mastered. He’d never needed to master it. But she doesn’t know what I can do.

He gathered himself as the girl closed on him. She wasn’t been dumb. Magicians who could cast spells without a focus, even a makeshift one, were rare. Under normal circumstances, she could be sure of putting a bolt of raw magic through his skull before he could so much as twitch. And yet … he concentrated, shaping the magic in his mind. The downside of being able to cast spells without a focus was that they lacked proper form … the tattoo on his palm twitched, a grim reminder of Katrina’s near-death. Perhaps if he channelled power through the tattoo instead …

“I will ask this only once,” the girl said. Her accent was odd, a strange mix that reminded him of middle-class girls from school. There was a gleam in her eye that chilled him to the bone, a faint sheen of sweat that bothered him in a way he couldn’t put into words. “Swear yourself to me or die.”

John cast his spell. The girl’s eyes went wide with shock, but she reacted with admirable speed. John had hoped to blow her right across the chamber, stunning her before she hit the wall, yet she deflected much of the spell before it could strike her. John would have been impressed if the encounter hadn’t been so dangerous. The girl brought up her second focus – she hadn’t even lost her grip on the first – and started to cast. Scout smacked her on the head before she could finish the spell. The girl started to say something, then collapsed.

You froze her dress, John thought, answering the unspoken question. All she had to do was stand still until you looked away, then melt and escape the frozen tent.

“We need to go,” Scout said. She hesitated, seemingly unsure if they should kill the girl while she was stunned, then turned away. “Now.”

John nodded. In the distance, he could hear the sound of running footsteps.

Their time had just run out.

 

[ChrisNuttall]

Chapter Two

“Search every room,” someone shouted. The lodge seemed to shake as the footsteps grew closer. “Check each and every room!”

John forced himself to think. They dared not be caught in the office. There was no way out, no way to get past the guards without a fight. His magic sparkled around him, reacting oddly as the wards started to tighten. He couldn’t tell if it was automatic or if Boss Edwards had another magician in his service, but it hardly mattered. If they got caught, their chances of fighting their way out were minimal.

“This way,” Scout hissed. “Stay close to me.”

She left the remnants of her dress behind as she practically flowed out the door, practically a living shadow. It was on the tip of John’s tongue to tell her to hide in the darkened rooms and wait for the guards to walk past her before making her escape, but he knew better than to say it. Scout would never forgive him for telling her to abandon him to his fate. He gripped his focus tightly in one hand, then scooped up the fallen magician’s focus and charged it with raw magic. The design was poor – he wondered, suddenly, if she could use magic without a proper focus too – but it would last long enough for him to leave it behind as a surprise for the guards. It might just keep them busy long enough for them to escape.

The sound grew louder, footsteps echoing from both sides of the lodge, as they inched down the corridor. John had to admit the guards were good. Judging by the sound, they were securing both the public and private staircases before advancing to search the offices. It would have been easier if they’d charged forward, giving John and Scout an excellent chance of slipping around them and escaping through the window or down the stairs before it was too late. He cursed under his breath as they picked up speed, heading further from the office and stunned witch. If the guards were that good, they’d probably locked the lodge gates too.

But even Boss Edwards can’t keep everyone prisoner for long, John thought. The boss had little formal authority. What he did have rested on force, on his ability to keep a gang of ruthless killers under his control. And if he pushed the miners and the rest of the townspeople too far and they banded together against him … Is he gambling he can trap us upstairs without having to lock the gates and reveal he’s being burgled?

He grinned, suddenly, as the building shook violently. Someone had just stumbled over the charged focus, setting off an explosion. The blast had been contained by the wards – John hadn’t really expected otherwise – but it would still be a nasty shock for the guards. He heard a scream behind him, followed by more shouting. The guards might have been trying to keep everything on the down low, trying to keep the guests from realising anything was happening as they searched the upper floors. That wasn’t going to be possible now. The music might be loud, but there’d be no hiding the explosion. The entire building had shuddered when the focus detonated.

A pair of guards appeared at the far end of the corridor and gaped at him, then started to bring up their swords. John raised his focus, hastily readying a spell as they charged … only to be slammed aside by a living shadow that detached itself from the darkened walls and sent them crashing to the ground. John smiled wryly – even he had trouble seeing Scout, even though he knew she was there – and followed her into a larger room. It looked like a chamber of horrors, where the boss tortured his prisoners for his own entertainment. Manacles – thankfully empty – hung from one wall, while two more were covered in instruments of torture. John tried not to shudder. He’d run into a few sadists in his second career, from the maddened Skinlord to a serial killer whose lack of magic hadn’t made him any less dangerous, but this … proof, if they needed it, that Boss Edwards was a monster in human form. He tried not to think about the horrors inflicted on anyone unlucky enough to be the boss’s prisoner …

“They’re in the dark room,” someone shouted. “There’s no way out!”

John glanced around, realising the bastard was right. There was one set of doors – the ones they’d come through – and nothing else. Scout didn’t seem concerned, even as the sound of guards sealing off the one entrance grew louder, but John … he gripped his focus, cursing under his breath. She’d led them right into a trap and all they could do was sell their lives dearly, saving the last curse or stab for themselves. He swallowed hard. The thought of being chained up himself was bad, but the concept of having it done to Scout was even worse. He had no doubt Boss Edward would invent some new horrors just so he could inflict them on her …

“Take out the floor,” Scout said, as she slammed the doors closed. The guards laughed so loudly they could be heard even through the walls. “Now!”

John blinked, then kicked himself for missing the possibility as he hastily mustered his magic and shaped the spell. If he was right, the torture chamber was directly over the ballroom and if the floor happened to collapse … there were several floors between the upper floor and the ground, of course, but the shock would certainly send most of the guests fleeing for their lives. The floor proved no challenge for his magic, tilting under his feet as he sliced through the rafters and carved through the plywood. Scout grabbed his arm as they plummeted downwards, her hand seeming to turn to jelly … John had no time to notice as he divided his attention, cushioning the fall – for them – as they hit the next floor and smashed through to the floor underneath. He had a glimpse of a couple, as naked as the day they were born, running for their lives before they crashed though another floor and came to a rough stop … the floor starting to collapse underneath them. Someone screamed, loudly, as the floor – the roof, to them – caved in, pieces of debris crashing down. John felt a twinge of guilt as they jumped clear, his magic slowing the fall to allow him to land neatly in the middle of the ballroom. The racket was so loud no one, not even Boss Edwards, could slow the flight to the gates. John grinned savagely as he started to run, trusting Scout to remain in the shadows. The odds were good no one would even notice she was there …

He felt his grin grow wider as he reached the gates. A pair of brutally-beaten guards lay on the ground, ignored by all. He guessed they’d made the mistake of trying to stop the crowd, only to discover – too late – that their fear of death was stronger than their fear of their master. Boss Edwards was still bellowing orders, behind them, but no one was listening. John slipped through the gate, picking up speed as he ran down the street to the rented stables. A flash of light lit up the sky, followed by a thunderous explosion. Joyce had warned them, when they came up with the plan, that the timing might easily go askew. It sounded as if the timing had come off perfectly.

The darkness swallowed him as he ran onwards, silently thanking the gods – and the sergeant – that he’d had enough practice at running over the last year. He’d thought he was fit until he came to the frontier and discovered he was deluding himself. If he hadn’t had magic, he would have been the weakest member of the team … and, in truth, there were times he thought he still was. There was no way he could match Joyce, let alone Bard or Ted, in an endurance contest and he knew it.

“Here,” Joyce called. She was already taking the horses out of the stable. “You got it?”

“Yup,” John confirmed. “And you?”

“Left behind a few surprises,” Joyce said, passing him the reins. “But we have to move now.”

John nodded as he scrambled up onto the horse, Scout flowing up behind him. The plan called for them to remain anonymous, to let the blame for the theft fall on Boss Edwards’s enemies. There was little point in trying to hide what they’d stolen – Boss Edwards would go through his files with a fine-toothed comb, once the excitement calmed down – but the boss would be a little more careful if he thought he was dealing with capable rather than hired adventurers. Personally, John had his doubts, but he trusted Joyce. Besides, Boss Edwards was known for being vindictive. The man was unlikely to let the team get away with their theft, even though chasing them to the point of absurdity would make it harder for him to hire adventurers and mercenaries himself. But he might feel he didn’t need them.

He braced himself, then pushed the horse to follow Joyce as she cantered down the darkened streets. Scout wrapped her arms around him as the horse picked up speed. He tried not to notice her breasts pushing into his back – it really wasn’t the time – or the fact the road was steadily getting worse as they reached the edge of the town. They’d gone up and down the road network in broad daylight – it was a morass of ancient roads and dirt tracks laid down by the miners and nearby farmers – but the darkness posed all sorts of dangers for unwary riders. If a horse put its foot in the wrong place …

We have to get clear before the boss can get his men organised, John told himself, as Bard galloped past. The blademaster would be the first to engage the enemy, if Boss Edwards managed to somehow signal ahead. It wasn’t completely impossible, if one had magicians in one’s service. If we can get out of the region before daybreak they’ll have to let us go.

Scout’s grip tightened. “Shit.”

John risked a glance behind them. The darkness was absolute now – they’d been few lights in the town and none in the countryside – but the night vision spell was still working. A handful of horsemen were giving chase, waving weapons as they pushed their beasts to the limit. John cursed Boss Edwards under his breath. The man had had no reason to expect trouble, not when his reputation alone kept the rest of the town thoroughly cowed, but he’d still managed to organise a pursuit. John’s heart sank. There were limits to how far the horses could gallop … two miles at most, from what he’d been told, before they had to slow to a walk. He’d heard stories of enhanced horses that could gallop for hours, but …

Joyce barked a command. John leaned down and dug in his spurs. There were fewer routes they could take through the mountains, fewer still suitable for galloping horses. The enemy knew the paths at least as well as the adventurers and probably better, which meant outrunning them was the only realistic option … John swallowed, hard, as it dawned on him he wouldn’t want to return to Boss Edwards empty-handed. The boss’s torture chamber might be gone, but there was nothing stopping him from using his fists.

But if he beats up his own people for an entirely understandable failure, he told himself, surely they won’t stay with him?

He kept glancing back, cursing under his breath. The enemy were pushing their horses to the limit, reminding him of the dogs he’d seen chasing carts down the road. They hadn’t known what they’d do if they caught the carts, but John was entirely sure the enemy troops knew what to do with their prisoners. He glanced at Joyce, half-expecting her to order the team to turn and fight even though it was likely suicide. The enemy outnumbered them three to one and they might have a magician …

Something hissed through the air. John blinked in shock. “What …?”

“Arrows,” Scout muttered. Another arrow hissed past, vanishing into the darkness before he was even aware it was there. A third followed, then a fourth … John glanced back and saw the enemy leaders raising their crossbows for another volley. Crossbows and longbows were rare along the frontier, but … he had to admit it was good thinking. The boss probably had a team of archers under his command, ready to wipe out any angry mob before it could reach the lodge. “We need to …”

Hans grunted, then fell off his mount and tumbled to the ground. John swore as he saw the arrow sticking through the man’s brain. He was no healer – he lacked more than the basics – but there was nothing even the most skilled healer could have done, not when the arrow had punched through the victim’s skull and killed him before his body fell. John started to put together a spell to grab the corpse – Hans deserved better than being trampled into mush, or having his body tortured to scare the boss’s enemies – but there was no time. His horse was already starting to flag and more and more arrows were already coming at them. And if he used magic, he might frighten his horse so much they’d be thrown from the saddle …

Joyce glanced at him, her face grim. “Flare,” she ordered. “Now!”

John didn’t hesitate. He’d learnt to trust Joyce’s tactical sense months ago. If she felt it worth the risk of using magic, even when it might frighten the horses … he drew his focus and raised it up, casting the brightest light spell he could. The night seemed to turn to day, throwing their enemies into stark relief. John saw their horses shying, rearing up or simply galloping away as blinding light burned into their eyes and panicked them. His own horse wasn’t much better, but at least the beast had been spared the worst. It didn’t keep the horse from galloping faster, despite sweat staining its coat. The poor beast’s breathing suggested it was on the verge of a heart attack. John hadn’t heard gasping like that since ...

He cut down on that thought and stared behind him. The enemy pursuit had collapsed. The archers were on the ground, or fighting desperately to control their horses, or dead. He half-expected Joyce to order them to turn and fight, to pick off the rest of the enemy before it was too late, but there was no point. The light would have been visible for miles. Boss Edwards was probably already sending reinforcements and their horses were pushed to the limits already. There was no time even to recover Hans’s corpse.

“Nicely done,” Scout said, as they cantered onwards. The bottom of the mountainous region greeted them, marking the edge of Boss Edwards’s territory. “We can lose them now.”

John nodded. The badlands outside the mountains posed no challenges to horses. They’d have no difficulty vanishing into the night, then putting enough distance between them and enemy reinforcements to be sure of escape. And then … he felt his body start to shake as the adrenaline slowly drained away. It wasn’t their first narrow escape – they’d been very lucky to escape Skinlord – and yet, somehow it felt worse. Boss Edwards was a very human monster.

The horse slowed to a trot. John glanced back, silently breathing a sigh of relief there was no sign of pursuit. Boss Edwards had lots of enemies. It was quite possible some kindly soul had put a knife in his back as he ranted and raved, freeing the mountain from the fear that hung over it like a shroud. Or that he was gathering his men to make a show of strength to discourage challengers. Or … he scowled as they continued their slow ride into the badlands. He’d loathed his family’s landlord, and he hadn’t been very impressed with Katrina’s father either, but Boss Edwards was worse than both of them put together. Men like him simply didn’t exist in the civilised lands to the east.

There’s no law and order out here, save what the locals make for themselves, he reminded himself. Even the Grey Men don’t try to interfere unless magic is involved.

“We might have to go back for Hans,” Bard said, grimly. “If they took him alive …”

“They didn’t,” Scout said, flatly. “The arrow went right through his head.”

“And to think I used to say he didn’t have a brain,” Ted said, sardonically. “I stand corrected.”

John scowled. Ted’s partner had been killed – worse than merely killed – by Skinlord, leaving the sergeant embittered and cynical. He’d done his duty by Joyce and her team, yet … John sighed inwardly. He hadn’t known Hans that well – the young man had only recently joined up – but he hadn’t deserved to die, not with an arrow through his brain. And yet … he hoped, prayed, Hans had followed orders and left behind anything that might lead his killers to the rest of the team. Boss Edwards really wouldn’t let them go unpunished if he had someone to blame.

“We did it, at least,” he said. “I’ve got the papers.”

“And so we will be paid,” Joyce agreed. “We’ll camp shortly, then resume our journey tomorrow.”

“And I’ll entertain you all with a song,” Bard added, cheerfully. “The Ballard of Boss Edwards Fall …”

John groaned. Bard was … not … a great singer, to say the least, and the act got tiresome after a while. He understood Bard’s need to hide his true nature, but still … “What did we ever do to you?”

“We need to rest,” Joyce said, before the argument could get any worse. “We have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow.”

 

[ChrisNuttall]

Chapter Three

Joyce was no fool, John reflected, and she’d been very careful when planning their escape from the mining region. They’d headed south through the badlands for several hours before turning west, heading along the well-trodden road to Debone. There’d been no sign of pursuit, something that bothered John more than he cared to admit. Boss Edwards was hardly the type of man to just let them go, or to let himself be assassinated by his former subjects. And yet … he kept scanning the horizon as they crossed the slider tramlines and kept moving, reaching the frontier town by nightfall. It seemed to have grown overnight, again. There were at least thirty tents and a dozen buildings John was sure hadn’t been there the last time they’d passed through the town …

“Quite a wagon train over there,” Scout said. She’d tied herself to the saddle and gone to sleep, waking only as they neared the town. “And more sliders coming in too.”

John nodded, thoughtfully, Debone was quite some distance from the border as the crow flew and quite some more as the human walked. He was surprised the slider network had been extended so far from the border, even though extending the network had been one of Greyshade’s pet projects for the last dozen years. The sliders hissed past him and came to a halt at the station on the edge of town, disgorging a surprisingly high number of passengers. John had no idea where they thought they were going. Debone was rough – very rough – and the odds of the newcomers finding good jobs were very low. It was far more likely they’d wind up in indentured servitude within the week.

Curious, he reflected, as they reached the inn. Did someone start selling falsified land deeds again?

He put the thought out of his head as the stable boy – actually a girl, wearing male clothing – came forward to take the reins. John waited for Scout to scramble off, then followed her down to the ground. His body ached from head to toe, a grim reminder he probably needed to spend more time in the saddle. And yet … he sighed inwardly, wishing for a hot bath and a long soak. The odds of getting anything more than a bucket of lukewarm water, at least at the inn, were very low. He might have to go to the public baths if he wanted a proper soak.

“Get something to eat, then bring it with you and join me upstairs,” Joyce ordered, curtly. “We’re not quite done.”

John nodded. Joyce would be speaking to their employers, then … John wasn’t quite sure. Joyce had a sense of morality, which was more than could be said for many others along the frontier, but times were growing harder. They’d been lucky not to have to take jobs that forced them to choose between their values and not getting paid and … he sighed inwardly as he followed Ted and Bard to the door. It was easy to get work if one had no qualms about looting, raping and murdering one’s way across the region, but harder if one wanted to keep one’s hands clean.

The doorkeeper barred their way, jabbing a finger at Scout. “We don’t serve her kind here …”

Ted punched him in the stomach, hard. The doorkeeper folded and hit the ground, gasping for breath. Bard kicked his head, placing the blow so precisely the guard went out like a candlelight and would wake up a few hours later with a splitting headache. John was tempted to cast one of his nastier curses as they walked over the stunned man and pushed their way into the inn. Weirdlings weren’t always welcome, even along the frontier, but Scout was one of them. How dare the doorkeeper stand in her way?

The inn was as dark and gloomy as he’d expected, a common trait of inns that wanted to hide the mess as much as possible. The air stunk of beer, tobacco, vomit and human misery, the latter coming from men drinking as much of their pay as possible before staggering back to their homes or down to the yards to see if the foremen had work. A pair of whores stood on the stage, dancing naked in front of men too far gone to pay attention … one of the girls, John noted, wasn’t even trying. Why bother, when strong drink had taken away both the desire and the ability? He tried not to wince as he nearly trod on a man who’d drunk himself senseless, lying on the floor because there was nowhere else to go. If he’d been a little less lucky, he might have ended up like that.

Bard gave the barmaid his brightest smile. She didn’t look remotely impressed. “Four plates of the local stew, my love, and four pints of your finest booze.”

The barmaid shouted a command into the kitchen, then poured four pints of beer. John sniffed his warily – he’d never been much of a drinker, but they owed it to Hans to hold a proper wake for him now they were safe – then took a sip. He’d had some ghastly beers in his time, but this … he bit down on the urge to tell the barmaid to pour it back into the horse or dog or whatever. It wouldn’t make it any better. The inn looked to be falling on hard times despite the influx of newcomers. He dreaded to think what might be in the stew.

“We’ll drink later,” Bard said, firmly.

“Tomorrow,” Ted said. John couldn’t tell if he meant it or if he was just trying to start a fight. Either was possible. “We’re in no state for anything tonight.”

The barmaid slipped into the rear and returned, carrying four plates of stew. John tried not to wince. The meat was slathered in a brown sauce that made it impossible to tell what it actually was – cold logic suggested he should be grateful – and the potatoes looked as if they hadn’t been removed from the water before being mashed into a pulp, leaving them looking like a watery mess that was barely edible. He reminded himself, sharply, he should be grateful to have anything at all, after being expelled from school. The money he’d been saving was needed for something far more important than food and drink.

Ted cleared his throat. “Upstairs,” he said, curtly. “I don’t know about you lot, but I want to go to bed.”

Bard nodded and followed him upstairs. John and Scout exchanged glances, then followed … Scout taking advantage of the shadows to accidentally-on-purpose pour her drink into the drain. John wished he could do that without being spotted. The beer tasted so bad … he saw a man lurching out of an upper room – a bedroom, he was sure – and pushed the pint glass into the man’s hand. He took the glass and downed it in a single go. John wasn’t sure if he should be impressed or horrified. But at least he didn’t have to drink the beer himself.

Joyce nodded to them as they filed into the conference room, closing the door behind them. John took a sniff and regretted it instantly. The air stank of … he wasn’t sure, but it smelled worse than a pigsty that hadn’t been cleaned for a few weeks. The wooden walls were grimy, covered with mould, while the floor was stained by vomit and alcohol. He didn’t want to know what the bedrooms were like.

“Fuck,” Bard said. “Can’t we hold the meeting in the brothel? Or the baths? Or …”

“It’s the last place anyone will look for us,” Joyce said. “And we haven’t been paid – yet – for recovering the land deeds.”

John eyed the chairs – they looked as if they’d collapse the moment a child sat on them, let alone him – and decided he’d sooner stand. The others made the same decision. Joyce didn’t seem to care.

“We did secure the deeds and they’ve been verified,” Joyce said, after a moment. “The farmers who paid us to steal them back will be happy, now the deeds are back in their possession. Boss Edwards will, if the plan worked, assume they carried out the raid and are, in fact, more formidable than he thought. Hopefully, it will keep him from avenging himself on them.”

“He’ll certainly think it was them,” Bard said. “It isn’t as if they could hide their possession of the deeds, not now.”

John nodded. Land deeds were supposed to be unique, keyed to whoever owned the land … in theory. In practice, possession of the deeds was nine-tenths of the law and Boss Edwards would have been able to claim the farmers were his tenants, as long as he held the deeds himself. No one with the power to do anything about it would have questioned his story of how he came to hold the deeds. Hell, given how many towns and farms failed when the settlers ran into something they couldn’t handle, there was no reason to ask questions. The deeds were meant to be transferrable, after all.

And if the farmers started insisting the deeds had been stolen, he thought curtly, Boss Edwards would simply bribe the authorities to ignore them.

He sighed inwardly. They’d taken the deeds, and given Boss Edwards a black eye into the bargain, but how much difference would it make … really? He might insist he owned the land anyway and dare the farmers to do something about it, or send his men to burn the farms to the ground and sell the farmers into slavery, or … who knew? The authorities were weak beyond the border, and the land deeds were of strictly limited value. In the long run, the raid might have made no difference at all.

Joyce tapped the table. “We should be paid tomorrow,” she said. “And then we can start looking for another job.”

“I could always sing for our supper,” Bard said. “I hear rotten fish and mushy tomatoes can make a pretty good dinner …”

“They’ll be throwing bricks here,” Ted predicted. “I suppose we could collect them up and try to sell them on.”

“We need something a little more realistic,” Scout said. “Perhaps we could ask them to pay for Bard not to sing.”

John eyed the plate in his hand. “Or we could offer to cook for them instead.”

Joyce snorted. “We need another job,” she said. “Ideally, one that pays well enough to let us pick and choose the job after that.”

“Yeah,” John said. His earlier thoughts came back to haunt him. “Are there any kidnapped girls that need rescuing, again?”

“Not as far as I know,” Joyce said. “But I’ll see what I can find.”

“We could move further west,” Scout said. “Or even take up convoy duty …”

“The settlers rarely have the money to pay well,” Bard said. “They’d offer to pay in land that isn’t worth the effort.”

John nodded. There was a lot of unclaimed land beyond the frontier, despite the patches of wild magic and weirdling settlements and the gods alone knew what else, but very little of the land could be turned into a prosperous settlement without a great deal of hard work. For every settlement like Debone, and the countless nameless towns he’d seen in the past year or so, there was a settlement that had failed, the population walking away and leaving their handiwork to decay into dust. The settlers could give the team a land grant so large it would make Katrina’s father’s holdings look like nothing, but the land grant would be worthless without settlers to turn it into something useful. And he had no intention of settling down.

“There might be other things they could offer,” Ted said. “A base of operations, perhaps. Or a long-term share in the town.”

“A base would be nice,” Joyce said. “But it would tie us down.”

“True,” Scout agreed. “We have to move with the frontier.”

John grimaced. Adventurers – and mercenaries – were very welcome and practically unrestricted on the western side of the frontier, but to the east … the rules and regulations governing their operations were so strict it was hard to see how any of the teams made any money. The mercenaries, at least, could take service with local aristos or town councils; adventurers, free-thinking and independent, had no place in civilised lands. Sure, they could set up a base in a new settlement far from the border, but it wouldn’t remain there. It would be just a matter of time before the border washed over the settlement, bringing all the advantages – and disadvantages – of civilised society in its wake.

“We’ll see what I can find,” Joyce said. “There’s always something.”

She cleared her throat. “We’ll have to find a replacement for Hans too,” she added. “He’ll be missed.”

“Unfortunately, he wasn’t missed,” Ted said, snidely.

Joyce fixed him with a look. John tensed. If it came to blows … they were tired and sore and feeling the pinch and they needed to rest before all hell broke loose. Ted would be better after a good night’s sleep, if that were possible in the inn. John feared the beds would be hard and the blankets covered with slime …

“Hans did his part,” Joyce said, finally. “And we owe it to him to mark his passing.”

Ted nodded, bowing his head shortly. John sighed inwardly. Ted and Len had been more than just sexual partners. They’d been lovers who’d given up a hell of a lot for each other. Ted could go to the brothel and find someone to fuck, if he wished, but no amount of fucking would make up for what he’d lost. How could it? John knew he’d be a mess if Scout were to die ..

“We’ll drink ourselves silly tomorrow,” Bard said, as if it had been his idea. “What about his share of the loot?”

“He listed no relatives,” Joyce said. “What little he owned will be shared out to those who want it, and what’s left will be handed over to the store. His share of the payment will be split between the kitty and us.”

“Splendid,” Bard said. “With such wealth I could buy another match!”

Scout leaned forward. “Was there no one? No wife, no children, no nothing …?”

“Not as far as I know,” Joyce said. “He said little about his past.”

John nodded. There were hundreds of thousands of people in the badlands who wanted to leave their pasts where they belonged, in the past. Hans might have been a runaway groom, or a father with ten kids, or a criminal, or merely someone who hadn’t doffed his hat deeply enough when the local aristo rode by. Who knew? There was certainly no way to track down his heirs, assuming he even had them. Joyce didn’t have the time even if she wanted to try.

He scowled, feeling his heart sink. Hans had been a comrade … given time, they might have become friends. And now he was dead … it bothered John he wasn’t that bothered. Death was common along the borderlines, let alone the untamed lands beyond, but he’d grown up in the east. Surely, a dead comrade should have bothered him more. He’d been welcoming, of course, but … he knew, now, how the others had felt when he’d joined the band. They hadn’t known they could trust him until he put his life on the line for them.

“We will be looking for replacements,” Joyce said. “I’ll put the word out, see who might be interested. We’ll hold try-outs this week, if we find a few possible candidates, and proceed from there. Until then …”

She stood, passing out the room keys. “Go get yourselves some rest. And if you’re going to the whorehouse, remember to wear protection.”

“Yes, Mother,” Bard said, cheekily.

“And if your manhood rots away because you stuck it in a rotting hole, I’ll be forced to use iodine to treat it,” Joyce said, in the sweetest possible tone. “It’s for your own good.”

John shook his head as he left the room, taking the empty plate with him and heading down to the room. It was easy to find, as always … he braced himself as he pushed open the door and peered inside. The room was surprisingly clean and tidy, but there was a stench in the air he didn’t like at all. There was no washroom, no tap or sink … just a covered bucket of water and a chamberpot under the bed. He reminded himself, rather sourly, that he’d slept in worse places.

He didn’t bother to take off more than his boots as he sat on the bed and warded the room. It was unlikely they’d be attacked in the inn – inns were neutral territory, normally – but he’d grown used to making sure he was safe. The risk was just too high … he leaned back, half-wishing Scout had joined him even though the bed was barely big enough for him. Ted was going to have very real problems getting comfortable … John sighed and shook his head. It wasn’t his problem.

I need to write another letter, John reminded himself. He’d written to Katrina once a month, although she’d never replied. In truth, he was unsure the letters were even reaching her. It was illegal to tamper with the mail service, but her family were powerful enough to defy the law and keep her from reading his letters. And then I need to go to the bank.

He sighed, inwardly, as he closed his eyes. He’d been saving for her medical care, telling himself he owed it to her to pay even though her family was wealthy beyond the dreams of avarice. It was the least he could do to make up for what he’d done to her …

But he knew, as he drifted off to sleep, that there was nothing he could do to make up for what he’d done.

 

[ChrisNuttall]

Chapter Four

John awoke, slowly, to the awareness he was no longer alone.

He tensed, despite the complete lack of any sense of threat. The room was still closed, the door was still bolted and the wards were still firmly in place. There was only one person who could have slipped through the defences – probably coming through the window – and not cut his throat while he lay sleeping. He opened his eyes, careful not to move too much, and saw Scout curled up against him in her underwear. A flicker of lust ran through him, quelled by the grim awareness they had nowhere to wash. He was surprised she could bear to be so close to him. Her senses were sharper than his.

Scout shifted and opened her eyes. “Did you sleep well?”

“I don’t recall,” John said. His body felt stiff and sore, as if he’d been in a particularly brutal fistfight. He hadn’t felt so bad since the first day he’d worked on his uncle’s farm. “I just closed my eyes and went to sleep.”

He glanced at the window and scowled. If bright sunlight hadn’t been streaming through the dirty glass, he would have thought he’d barely slept at all. Scout uncurled herself and stood, her face calm and composed. John couldn’t help staring at her. She was physically perfect, unlike many other weirdlings, but her skin was impossibly dark and her eyes were pools of shadow. Even her nipples were dark … he forced himself to sit up, cursing under his breath. The bed was hard enough to make the soreness worse.

“I need a bath,” he said, crossly. He had no idea what the inn offered for breakfast and he didn’t want to know. “You want to come with me?”

“Someone has to watch your back,” Scout said. “We can go eat properly afterwards.”

John nodded and stood, rummaging through his knapsack for his spare outfit. The public bathhouse washed and dried clothes for its patrons – a service beyond price as far as he was concerned – but he didn’t want to spend most of the day in the water. He probably wouldn’t be allowed, either. Debone was a boom town and the bathhouse owners would want as many customers as possible. He’d have to pick up his clothes later.

Scout dressed quickly, then stepped aside to let him open the door. John had to admire the way she’d dressed to hide her skin and eyes, just in case the bathhouse owners didn’t want weirdlings anywhere near water. It wasn’t a disease and people couldn’t catch it by sharing a bath – or something more intimate – with a weirdling, but prejudice was rarely logical. John suspected it had more to do with the very human need to kick people below you in a bid to convince yourself you were higher up the ladder than you were. And yet, the innkeeper and his staff were pretty big fish in a very small town …

The air outside was hot and dry, the sun beating down on him menacingly. John took Scout’s hand and led her down the street, noting just how many newcomers had magically appeared overnight. He wasn’t the only one either. Some shopkeepers and small-time craftsmen were hawking their wares, while pickpockets and sneak thieves were slipping into position to take advantage of the target’s distraction. The more expensive shops weren’t trying to convince pedestrians to give them a chance. Everyone who needed their services – and could afford to buy them – already knew where they were.

“The sliders have been coming and going faster than ever before,” Scout commented, reminding John of his earlier thoughts. “How many more people are coming here – and why?”

John shrugged. There were some good farming settlements nearby, but he doubted they could afford to feed all the newcomers. He’d heard horror stories about settlements planned by beancounters who’d never so much as set foot in the badlands, beancounters who thought the territory could support a population two or three times bigger even though it simply wasn't true, but … was anyone really that dumb? He raised an eyebrow as he saw a pair of wagons rolling by, clearly being prepped for a journey into the unknown. Perhaps the newcomers were all heading west. It was as good an explanation as any.

The bathhouse had once been the largest building in the town and even now, it was still strikingly large. There were none of the frills he’d come to expect from aristocratic bathhouses back east, just a simple blocky brick building with a pair of weirdling guards standing outside. It was early morning and it was already doing a rousing trade. John and Scout joined the line, which was moving with surprising speed. It slowed as they entered the lobby, ensuring they had a chance to look at the adverts. The bathhouse wasn't the only community centre in the town, but it was certainly the one nearly everyone visited at least once a week.

John’s eyes narrowed. There was the usual collection of adverts and ‘help wanted’ signs, but … he frowned as he read an advert offering to pay well above market rates for Motivators, even ones still attached to their devices. He hadn’t even been sure there was a market rate this far from the school, where the vast majority of the Motivators were produced by magical craftsmen. A working Motivator wouldn’t be quite priceless, but pretty close to it. And yet, the advert was offering vast sums of money …

Absurd, he thought. How many people so far west have even one Motivator?

His mood darkened as he considered the question seriously. More than one might expect, he suspected. They’d be a Motivator in each of the sliders, if he was any judge, and probably quite a few more scattered over the region. It wasn’t entirely impossible to produce a working device without one, but the device would lack the power it needed to run without constant replenishment … he thought. He’d read everything he could find on Motivators, back when he’d first been introduced to the concept, but there’d been almost nothing beyond the bare essentials. Master Yemen had been right. The only people who knew how to make them were craftsmen who’d taken oaths of perpetual secrecy.

He put the thought aside as he scanned the WANTED posters, feeling a shiver run down his spine. He hadn’t seen his own face on the wall, not yet, but he feared it was just a matter of time. The people on the posters looked unpleasant, their crimes ranging from cattle rustling to murder, rape, and something unspecified, yet with a surprisingly high bounty. The smaller requests for information were less worrying, but it wouldn’t be long before someone working for Boss Edwards tried to use the board to track down Joyce and her team. He was mildly surprised it hadn’t happened already. They were lucky Hans wasn’t known in Debone or someone would try to claim the reward.

The air grew warmer as they paid at the desk, then split up to go into the changing rooms to undress. John kept a wary eye on his companions – he had grim memories of pranks played in the school changing rooms – although none of them did anything to worry him. He told himself not to be silly as he undressed and carried his clothes to be cleaned, then placed his other outfit in a locker. The rules were strict. No matter what you saw or heard, you kept your eyes and your hands to yourself or you’d be lucky if you were just kicked out on your arse.

Scout met him as he stepped into the first washing room, the air so thick with steam it was hard to see much of anything. John nodded to her and slipped into the warm water, letting out a sigh of pure pleasure as the heat started to work its way into his body. The steam seemed to grow thicker – magic was involved, he was sure – as Scout sat next to him, her fingers brushing against his. They couldn’t do anything else. That would get them kicked out too.

They should offer private rooms for people who want to do more than hold hands, he thought, wryly. They’d make even more money that way.

He leaned back in the bath, resting his skin against the tiles. People came and went, their bodies hidden within the steam to the point he couldn’t tell if they were male or female, young or old, or … who knew? A weirdling might pass completely unnoticed in the steam haze, if he was lucky …

“Don’t go to sleep,” Scout advised. “Drowning out here would be a terrible way to go.”

John nodded, resisting the urge to just stay in the water until he was ordered to leave. His body protested mightily as he stood and made his way out of one bathroom and into the second. The water was colder here, with a handful of people standing on the steps trying to nerve themselves up to go deeper and deeper. The haze was more overtly magical too, making it impossible to see much of anything. John sighed as he forced himself to step down into the pool, feeling his senses come alive as ice-cold water brushed against him. Scout followed, a little more carefully. She’d never washed herself in a lake, unlike John. Doing it in the badlands was asking for trouble.

“Cold,” Scout said. “Shall we move on?”

“Yeah,” John said. He’d enjoyed swimming in the lake near his village, but it hadn’t been this cold. The water was so chilly he expected to see chunks of ice bobbling in the waves. “Let’s go.”

The next bathroom was larger and warmer, although not as hot as the first. John sat in the deep end and forced himself to relax, knowing it was just a matter of time before they had to go back to the inn to meet up with the others. And then … he wondered, suddenly, what he’d do if the only jobs they could find were tasks that would require him to get his hands dirty. What would he say, if it was a choice between doing something shitty and starving …? He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

A man settled in the water next to him. John blinked in surprise. There were bathrooms where customers were allowed, even encouraged, to meet up and chat about nothing in particular, but this wasn’t one of them. Getting so close was poor etiquette unless the bathtub was full to bursting and it clearly wasn’t. He braced himself, wishing he’d been able to bring his focus with him. The fact he could cast spells without it was a secret he’d like to keep as long as possible.

“Sir,” the man said. “May I have a moment of your time?”

John hesitated, then nodded. “You may.”

“I am Cameron,” the man said. “I represent New Hope.”

John looked at Scout, who shrugged.

“I’ve never heard of New Hope,” John admitted. “What is it?”

“We are planning to establish a major settlement some distance to the west,” Cameron said, sounding rather put out. “We’ve been recruiting settlers and escorts for the last six months.”

“We’re only passing through Debone,” John said. He vaguely recalled hearing something about a large settlement project, but it hadn’t stuck in his mind. He’d had other things to worry about at the time. “What can I do for you?”

“Two things,” Cameron said. “You’re a magician. We’d like to hire you.”

John eyed him thoughtfully. How had he known? It wasn’t as if John cared to dress himself in magical robes, outfits he’d always thought a little silly. Besides, shirts and trousers were a hell of a lot more practical in the badlands. Had he spied the focus? The tattoo? Or did he have enough magic of his own to sense another magician? John hadn’t sensed anything from him, but that was meaningless. He hadn’t been paying attention to the crowd.

“I have a job, thank you,” John said. Cameron didn’t know it – perhaps – but hiring John would cause legal problems further down the line, when civilisation swept over New Hope and swallowed it. He was, technically, an unregistered magician. “I may consider it later, but not now.”

Cameron nodded, simply. “And that leads to the second question,” he said. “If you have a Motivator, we’d like to buy it.”

“What?” John found it hard to believe what he’d just heard. There were few magicians who had their own personal Motivators and they pretty much all lived near the school. Hell, the devices weren’t that useful unless they were inserted into a bigger device. “You think I have one?”

“I have to ask,” Cameron said. “We’ve been trying to obtain a handful for the settlement.”

“You’d need to apply for them back east,” John said, slowly. It was the first thing anyone who wanted to buy a Motivator learnt, that and the price. The advert he’d seen outside the bathhouse was chancy. He’d be surprised if there was even a single response. “Anyone who has one out here needs it too much to give it up.”

Cameron scowled. “We’ve been stalled,” he said. “And the ones out here are effectively under armed guard.”

John frowned. Stalled? Refused to sell? It was possible the price had risen again – the demand certainly rose higher and higher with every passing year – but he doubted anyone would refuse to sell if someone offered to pay the asking price. Unless … had Greyshade vetoed it for some reason? It was possible, perhaps … and it would explain why Cameron had taken the risk of coming to him. He risked nothing, save for some time, and stood to gain much …

Except he doesn’t, because I can’t help him, John thought. Can I?

“I don’t know where you can find one,” he said, seriously. There’d certainly been rumours of someone – someone else – figuring out the secret, but John didn’t place any credence in them. The supply would be a great deal less limited if there were more craftsmen who could make them. “And I don’t know how to make them myself.”

Cameron made a face. “Does anyone? I mean, apart from the inventor himself?”

John shrugged. He doubted there was something only Greyshade could supply. It was a basic rule of magic that there was nothing one magician could do that couldn’t be duplicated by another. Greyshade certainly didn’t have the time to craft each year’s supply by himself … no, he’d shared the secret with oathbound magicians to ensure they’d be enough to supply everyone. And the oaths were airtight, John was sure, or someone would have found a loophole by now. There was certainly one hell of a lot of incentive.

“I can’t help you,” he said, finally. “I’m sorry.”

Scout leaned forward. “What makes New Hope so special?”

Cameron jumped and tried to hide it. “We are not just a band of settlers trying to find a place in the unknown,” he said. His tone became more enthusiastic as he went on. “We intend to build a whole new society, one free of the jumped-up warlords who call themselves kings and princes, who took advantage of the destruction of the old world to shape the new. We have the resources to set up a solid settlement and create a new order that will remain in place, even as the frontier sweeps over our lands.”

John got it. “You’re trying to build a whole new Free State?”

“I wouldn’t call the Free States actually free,” Cameron said. “How many of them are ruled by kings and princes and aristos, rather than elected representatives’?”

“Not enough,” John said. If he hadn’t had his commitments to Joyce, and the burning need to save money for Katrina, he would have been tempted. Very tempted. “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful.”

Cameron stood. “Thank you for your time,” he said. “And if you change your mind, feel free to give me a note.”

John averted his eyes as the older man clambered out of the water and headed into the next room, his mind churning. Had Cameron recognised him? Was he someone John had met and forgotten? Or … had he just sensed a magician and tried to recruit him? Or … had he seen John’s face on a wanted poster? Dead or alive, preferably dead? John had no illusions about what Katrina’s parents would have done, the moment they heard what had happened to their daughter. Greyshade had warned John himself. Katrina’s parents would have put enough money on John’s head to set his killer up for life.

“Interesting,” Scout said. “Do they have a hope?”

“A new hope,” John said. Scout elbowed him. “I don’t know. Really, I don’t.”

He sighed inwardly. The Free States were trying to expand east. The ever-growing slider network was part of it, as were the Grey Men. But … it wasn’t easy. He suspected quite a few kings and princes and whoever else was making the big decisions were deliberately letting independent settlers tame the land, then moving in to take over. And if that were true … he scowled. What could anyone do about it? None of the settlements, even the bigger towns, could stand up to even the smallest of the Free States. Hell, in some places, the Free States might be better for the locals. They’d certainly be far superior to Boss Edwards.

“We should go,” Scout said. “We need to get lunch before Joyce calls us home.”

John made a face. “Do we have time for another hot soak?”

“Maybe,” Scout said. “But we will be coming back here before we go.”

“True,” John agreed. It was unlikely Joyce could find anything that required them to leave at once. “But we should enjoy it while it lasts.”

 

[ChrisNuttall]

Chapter Five

“I hope you had a pleasant lunch,” Joyce said, when they made it back to the inn. “And that you didn’t cause too much trouble.”

“I barely touched the fellow,” Ted called, from inside the room. “And besides, he deserved it.”

“We had a good lunch,” John said. He strode into the room and hung his cloak on the wall hanger. “What’s up?”

“The first candidates are coming this shortly,” Joyce said. “I’m going to ask them a lot of questions. You’re going to watch and take mental notes and raise any concerns you might happen to have. Afterwards, you get to say your thoughts before we come to any final decisions.”

John raised his eyebrows. “Did you do that for me? Or Hans?”

“You both came highly recommended,” Joyce said, dryly. “And we still tested you carefully before accepting you as one of us. Didn’t we?”

“Yeah.” John wondered, suddenly, what doubts and questions had been raised by his performance. Greyshade might have sent him with a letter of introduction, and Joyce owed him a huge favour, but she wouldn’t accept John if it meant alienating the rest of her team. There were limits to anyone’s authority when their subordinates could simply walk away at any moment. “How many argued I should be kicked out at once?”

Ted grinned. “Do you really want to know?”

“No,” John said, after a moment. He’d been a naive fool back then, an ignorant man unaware of the depths of his ignorance. He liked to think he’d learnt better since then, but every so often the wildlands managed to surprise him. “As long as you don’t want to kick me out now …”

“You’re one of us now,” Joyce said, waving him to a chair. “If you are loyal to us, we will be loyal to you.”

John sat, looking around with interest. Money must have changed hands, because the meeting room had been scrubbed from top to bottom and the rotting furniture replaced with chairs and tables that didn’t look as if one good push would turn them into sawdust. The blinds had been closed, leaving the only source of light a pair of lanterns hanging from the ceiling. Scout didn’t sit. Instead, she leaned against the wall nearest the door and faded into the shadows, ready to intervene if the interviews went horrifically wrong. John knew she was there and yet he had problems picking her out against the darkness. Anyone who didn’t know to look wouldn’t see her at all.

Joyce glanced at them, her eyes flickering from face to face, then stepped out of the door and pulled it closed behind her. John had a moment of awkwardness, a sense he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, before the door opened again and Joyce led a newcomer into the room. John felt his eyes narrow as they skimmed over the man. He was almost absurdly handsome, his clothes tailored to make him stand out a mile; he wore a sword at his belt that had a decorated pommel, covered with gold leaf and precious stones. John felt a twinge of dislike that grew stronger with every passing second, backed up by the sense something was subtly wrong. It took him longer than it should to work out what was bothering him. The fancy outfit was quite bad enough, drawing every eye for good or ill, but it wasn’t tailored to allow the wearer to move easily. John felt his eyes narrow. This was not a man who expected the unexpected. He certainly didn’t move like a blademaster.

Neither does Bard, John thought. And yet, Bard tailors his clothing to make sure he can move easily if push comes to shove.

He put tight controls on his emotions as Joyce waved the newcomer to a chair, then walked around the table to sit on the other side. It was quite possible the carefully-constructed appearance was an act, one designed to make people underestimate him … just like Bard, John noted, or John himself. His perfect blond hair, and teeth, and flawless skin might be the product of magic, rather than clean living … John hated to admit it, but the vast majority of frontier folk bore the signs of a hard life on the edge of civilisation. There was no room for a peacock in the badlands.

“I am Starling,” the newcomer said. His accent dripped aristocracy, to the point John was sure it was an act. Katrina’s father was so aristocratic he made normal aristos look like commoners and his accent hadn’t been so aristocratic. “I thank you for seeing me.”

Joyce didn’t seem impressed. Instead, she bombarded Starling with question after question, ranging from his experience as an adventurer to his knowledge of healing, magic and everything else that might come in handy in the badlands. John was no expert himself, but he was fairly sure Starling was failing the test. His answers were vague, almost to the point of uselessness, and he was very good at avoiding specifics. Joyce kept her expression carefully bland, but John knew her well enough to be sure she was irritated. John had arrived with skills she needed, even if it meant having to show him the ropes before he accidentally ate the wrong thing and killed himself; Starling, for all his braggadocio, didn’t seem to have any useful skills. John made a mental bet with himself Starling hadn’t been in the badlands that long.

“You’re new in town,” Joyce said. Clearly, her thoughts were going in the same direction. “Why did you come so far from home?”

Starling’s face flickered, the emotion coming and going so rapidly John couldn’t place it. “There was a spot of trouble with one of the serving maids,” he said, his tone mildly irritated rather than embarrassed or angry. It was enough to convince John Starling was telling the truth. “I was advised to leave for a few short months.”

“I see.” Joyce’s tone was flat, but John could tell she was annoyed. “You may go. We’ll send a messenger once we make up our minds.”

“But …” Starling saw something in Joyce’s eye and hastily changed his tune. “I’ll await your reply with baited breath.”

He turned and left the room, closing the door behind him. John let out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. Starling came across as a fop and a fool and yet … John suspected it was at least partly an act, but what was it concealing? Did it matter?

Joyce cleared her thought. “Thoughts?”

“No,” Scout said, from the wall. “Just no.”

“That guy is either a fraud or a very good actor,” Ted put in. “And he was very definitely lying to us.”

“Of course he was lying,” Bard agreed. “The question is, what was he lying about?”

Joyce nodded. “I think we will give him a pass,” she said. “Or does anyone want to argue in his favour?”

John shook his head. Starling felt wrong. He was far from the only person to reinvent himself, after leaving the civilised lands, but … no, Ted was right. Starling had been lying about something, even if they didn’t know what. And … he didn’t have anything like the right skills to convince Joyce to overlook her concerns. Starling was either going to learn a few hard lessons very quickly, now he was so far from home, or he was going to wind up dead in a ditch, as naked as the day he was born. If he really had embarrassed his family, they might be quietly hoping he wouldn’t come home …

“I’ll call in the next one,” Joyce said. “And hopefully she’ll be better.”

“She can hardly be worse,” Ted opinioned.

John suspected, five minutes later, that Ted was wrong. The second candidate was a runaway, probably from the brothel or some other form of indentured servitude. Joyce was surprisingly gentle with her, asking several questions in the hopes of discovering she had hidden talents, but there was nothing. John felt a flicker of awe and respect as Joyce gave the girl some money and advice, even though he feared the former would be stolen very quickly and the girl would have no opportunity to use the latter. Her master would already be tracking her down … probably. Pimps tended to be very vindictive indeed.

The third candidate was a little more interesting. “I came out west to marry someone,” she said, cheerfully. She was a couple of years older than John, with long brown hair dangling over a simple brown dress. “He turned out to be an asshole, and the promised shop only a figment of his imagination, so I ditched him and found work in a trader’s wagon train. It pays, but it’s boring. I was hoping for something more exciting to do.”

Joyce cocked her head. “Can you fight?”

“I have a dagger,” the candidate said. “But most of my skills are intellectual.”

“I’ve yet to meet an intellect that can stop a blade,” Ted commented.

Joyce shot him a sharp look. John winced inwardly. He’d seen too many young men being beaten up by their peers for being too smart, or going to a distant school and coming home with airs and graces more suited to a town than a village. Being clever wasn’t enough to protect you if you weren’t smart enough to realise that shoving your smarts in someone’s face would only anger them, particularly if you didn’t realise the difference between theory and practice. And yet, the cleverer you were, the more you could do with magic. John knew, without false modesty, that he was very clever indeed.

And that’s the sort of thinking that normally ends with you having egg on your face – or worse, he reminded himself. If you start thinking you’re invincible, you’ll be dead before you realise your mistake.

“Thank you for your time,” Joyce said. “We’ll send a messenger once we decide.”

“She’s a nice girl,” Ted said, once the woman was gone. “But totally unsuited to life out here.”

“She has survived for a year or two,” Scout pointed out. “That’s quite impressive for someone who started with nothing.”

“She found work, with someone who had the inclination to look after her,” Ted countered bluntly. “If she’d been on her own, she would probably have wound up warming someone’s bed – at best.”

“A likeable person, but too untrained,” Joyce said. “I’ll fetch the next one.”

John tensed, the moment the fourth candidate was shown into the room. He was a bland man with a bland face and blander outfit – the sort of person who would pass unnoticed in a crowd - and yet all of John’s senses were screaming a warning the moment he laid eyes on the man. It was … he stared, trying to put his feelings into words. The man was just … wrong. He saw Ted put a hand on his sword, ready to draw his blade at a moment’s notice. Bard seemed to have stiffened too.

“I rode with Rackham,” the man said. His voice was a faint lisp. “And …”

“That will be all,” Joyce said, coldly. “You may go.”

The man hesitated, one hand dropping to his sword. Ted stood and drew his sword. John grabbed his focus, readying a spell, as violence hung in the air. The man stared at Joyce for a long cold moment, then turned and walked out the door. He didn’t even bother to slam the door behind him. Joyce kept her hand on her dagger as she closed the door herself, her face grim. John had no idea what had happened, but it felt bad.

“What …?”

“Rackham is … is a monster,” Joyce said, curtly. “He and his gang bill themselves as mercenaries, but in truth they’re little better than glorified thugs selling themselves to the highest bidder. They’re destroyed towns, poisoned wells, killed men and raped women and children before selling them into slavery … I believe they even did some work, once on a time, for Boss Edwards until even he got sick of them. They keep moving because there’s no way they can get permanent employment.”

“And the bounties are incredibly high,” Bard added.

Joyce nodded to him. “Anyone who willingly rode with him will have picked up bad habits,” she said, curtly. “I’m not going to take chances with someone who might commit an atrocity on a whim.”

“Shit,” John said. “Why doesn’t anyone stop them?”

“They’re a tough bunch,” Joyce admitted, sourly. “They wouldn’t be much of a threat back east, where an army regiment or two could be tasked to deal with them, but out here … fifty or so armed men can dominate an entire town or country, as long as they stay together.”

“And Rackham is good at binding men to him,” Bard said. “If you weren’t a monster when you entered his service, you’d have to become one just to survive.”

“He doesn’t bother to hire decent people,” Ted said. “If Rackham is looking to hire you, the chances are good you’re a psychopath or worse.”

John shuddered. “Can’t we go after them?”

“There are fifty plus of them,” Joyce said, flatly. “We’d be heavily outnumbered.”

She shook her head. “I’ll bring in the next candidates,” she said. “And hopefully they’ll be better.”

John leaned back in his chair, wondering why Joyce hadn’t asked more questions before inviting the man to the interview. It smacked of carelessness and Joyce wasn’t particularly careless. She certainly didn’t allow her teammates to become careless themselves. Perhaps she hadn’t looked too closely or, more likely, she’d wanted to make sure the entire team was involved in selecting their new teammates. The team was too small for any major disagreements or conflicts to be tolerated, not when it could distract them at a crucial moment. Joyce knew better than to recruit someone unpleasant and try to force the rest of the team to accept them.

The door opened, revealing Joyce and a pair of young girls. John blinked in surprise. They didn’t look dangerous, even though there were daggers hanging on their belts, but there was something about them that set alarm bells ringing at the back of his head. One had a primitive focus dangling beside her dagger, the other had a magical device John didn’t recognise. And … his eyes opened wide as he realised they were practically twins. One had her dark hair cut shorter than the other, but otherwise they were identical.

Joyce took her seat. “Tell us about yourselves,” she said. “And why we should consider you.”

The girls exchanged glances. “I’m Jayne and this is my sister Jane,” she said. “We were born on the frontier, in Prestwick … a small town that is now dust. Our parents wanted to build a new home far from the old … I think they met and married out here, but I don’t know for sure. They rarely talked about their past. When we were ten, the town was attacked by raiders and put to the torch. Our father told us to run into the wildlands while he fought the attackers, but it was too late. They killed him and captured us.”

John swallowed. He’d heard the same story time and time again, a grim reminder – if he needed it – that life so far from civilisation was never safe. The girls had been lucky to survive. They might have been the only survivors from a once-prosperous town.

“Our captor took a shine to us,” Jayne continued. “He taught us everything he knew, including a handful of simple spells. I think … I don’t know what he had in mind, him and his gang. When we had a chance to kill them all, we took it and ran. Since then, we’ve been doing odd jobs for cash and places to rest our heads.”

Joyce leaned forward. “Odd jobs?”

Jayne hesitated, noticeably. “Spying, sometimes,” she said. “A little theft, a little assassination … we traded our services, once, for additional lessons in swordplay and other things. And as we grew older, it became harder to move freely …”

“You’ve been on your own for … what? Six years?” Joyce looked from Jayne to Jane and back again. “Can you follow orders? And work as part of a team?”

“Yes,” Jayne said, flatly. “We can.”

John studied her thoughtfully as Joyce ran though the same questions she’d asked Starling, trying to figure out how much they actually knew. The girls were head and shoulders above him when it came to local knowledge, correctly noting which plants were safe to eat and which were just too deadly to risk cooking and eating unless you knew precisely what you were doing. John had been told not to try anything with them unless he was desperate and even then, starvation might be a better way to go. Starling had been a handsome ignoramus. The girls, he decided, were smart enough to be useful.

“Wait outside,” Joyce ordered, finally. She turned to the team as soon as the girls were on the far side of the door. “Thoughts?”

“I heard Prestwick was burnt to the ground,” Ted commented. “The word was there were no survivors.”

John grimaced. “Do you think they’re lying?”

“No,” Ted said. “They’re clearly smart enough to come up with a better lie.”

“They’re also more capable than they wish us to believe,” Bard added. “They move like experienced fighters.”

“They probably are,” Joyce said. “They’re pretty enough to draw unwanted attention.”

John grimaced. Back east, women weren’t expected to have to defend themselves. A man who attacked a woman would be lucky if he got a trial before he was marched to the nearest tree and hanged. Even female magicians were rarely challenged openly. The taboo on attacking women was strong. But here … a woman who didn’t know how to look after herself was asking for trouble. She might have to knife an attacker at any moment.

“They will do,” Scout said. “They’re certainly the best we’ve seen so far.”

“Agreed,” Joyce said. “Any objections?”

John shook his head. “Not from me.”

Joyce smiled. “You’ll have to test their magic,” she said. “And perhaps teach them more.”

“Ouch,” John said. It was technically illegal to teach magic outside school. He was still surprised, sometimes, that he’d gotten away with doing it last year. “If I must …”

 

[ChrisNuttall]

Chapter Six

“We could just stay in bed and snuggle,” Scout said. “Couldn’t we?”

John grinned at her, although he knew they had to get up. The last few days had been weirdly chaotic, both hectic and relaxed. He’d spent his time testing Jayne and Jane’s magic skills, training with Bard and Ted and, somehow, going to dinner and the bathhouse with Scout. It bothered him to remain in one town for so long, not least because Boss Edwards might be looking for them, but there was no sign of another job. It boded ill. Joyce hadn’t said anything yet, but there was a very real risk of them having to choose between their morals and their empty stomachs. Or taking up work that meant tying themselves down for the foreseeable future.

He stood, looking down on her as she lay on the bed. She was beautiful and so very different from the girls of his childhood, or his teenage years. It was impossible to imagine Katrina, or any of the village girls, coming so far from civilisation to make a home in the wildlands … but then, Scout had had no choice. Weirdlings were rare in civilised lands. Scout might pass for a denizen of the Free States, with a great deal of luck and a coherent cover story, but others would be lucky if they weren’t stoned out of house and home. It wasn’t fair, yet … there was nothing anyone could do about it.

Scout sat upright and reached for her clothes. “Are their magics coming along?”

John hesitated. “It’s tough,” he said. “It feels like I’m teaching children.”

“You were a child once yourself,” Scout pointed out dryly. “How did your teachers teach you?”

“They knew I was a child,” John said. He’d been twelve when he’d gone to school Jayne and Jane had been vague on precisely how old they were, but they had to be somewhere between sixteen and eighteen. “They knew I was lacking in the basics and … they taught me from scratch. The girls have much more to unlearn. Whoever gave them their first lessons didn’t bother to explain the basics. It’s like putting a broadsword in the hands of a complete novice.”

Scout shrugged. “And it’s too late to suggest they go to school?”

“They’d probably be rejected,” John said. He couldn’t recall anyone older than fourteen entering the school and he’d been the firstborn son of a warlord-turned-king. “If they had the money, they could pay for a proper tutor, but they’d still have a lot to unlearn.”

He sighed inwardly as he donned his shirt and trousers. He’d expected Scout to be annoyed –or jealous – if he spent time with the girls. He’d even invited her to watch the lessons. And yet, she hadn’t shown much of any reaction. He wasn’t sure what to make of it. Back home … if she’d been a village girl, they’d spent enough time together to ensure both sets of parents would be encouraging them to tie the knot before she fell pregnant. Here … he had no idea. Should he ask her to marry him? Or should he wait for her to ask him? Or …

“It’s not going to be easy,” he said, unsure which subject he meant. “What do you make of them?”

“Hard-edged, but basically good people,” Scout said. “They could easily have gone very bad instead.”

John nodded. Joyce had asked around – and sent Bard and Ted to do the same – to check out as much of Jayne and Jane’s story as possible. Most of it appeared to be true, although they’d left out some details. One would-be rapist had been castrated, another had been knifed and left to bleed to death … John hoped that wasn’t a sign of sadism. It was hard to blame a woman for wanting to hurt her attacker, but it was easy to go too far.

He waited for her to finish dressing, then led the way down to the dining room. Breakfast had improved – a little – but he would still have preferred to eat out. Joyce – sitting at a small table – waved to them before he could suggest going somewhere else, so he headed over to her and nodded. She was drinking something that looked suspiciously like water with brown flakes in it, a grim reminder that coffee was in increasingly short supply. The barmaid brought two more mugs before John could say a word. He eyed his mug warily. There were horror stories about what people ate and drank, if they didn’t have the money to get real food.

“We may have a job,” Joyce said. “We’ll discuss it upstairs.”

John nodded and took a sip. The coffee tasted foul and dusty, as if the grains hadn’t quite dissolved. He stirred it with his fingertip – it was probably cleaner than the spoons – and took another sip. It still tasted foul, but at least it was drinkable. The barmaid brought bread, honey and cooked meat. He didn’t want to know what it was. Thankfully, it was reasonably tasty.

“A job,” Scout said. “Are we going to approve?”

“I don’t know,” Joyce said. “We’ll discuss it upstairs, as I said.”

John nodded – there might be listening ears – and ate his breakfast quickly. Joyce waited patiently, then led the way back to the meeting room. Bard and Ted were already there, but there was no sign of Jayne and Jane. John had no idea if that was a good sign or not. They wouldn’t have any say in the team’s decisions until they proved themselves, but surely they should have at least some input. If nothing else, the team had to know if they were willing to carry out the job. It could get very sticky if it turned out the answer was no.

“Times are hard,” Joyce said, without preamble. “And things are changing.”

“I’ll say,” Bard said. “There’s normally more bravos swaggering around, looking for work.”

“Boss Edwards is apparently recruiting,” Ted put in. “His agents are snatching up everyone who knows how to carry a sword without slicing off his own head and sending them to his town. I have no idea why.”

“His people are revolting,” Bard said. “In all senses of the word.”

“Or he’s looking for us,” John said. “We never found out what happened to Hans’s body.”

“If he’d been carrying something that would have led them to us, they would have caught up with us by now,” Joyce said, flatly. “I searched him myself. He wasn’t carrying anything dangerous.”

“There are bounties posted for us,” Ted reminded her. “Sure, they don’t know who we are, but …”

“So what?” Scout spoke with surprising passion. “The only people who can point the finger at us are the people who hired us, and they couldn’t do that without revealing it wasn’t them who robbed the lodge and stole the land deeds. Boss Edwards is just trying to save face by posting the bounties. There’s little hope of anyone figuring out who did it and then grabbing us.”

Joyce cleared her throat, loudly. “Jobs are also scarce,” she said. “Most of the proffered missions are … morally unsound. A couple are less unsound, but beyond our ability to handle. And … there’s one that might be interesting, if you don’t mind a very long-term commitment. New Hope.”

John frowned. “The same people who approached us in the baths?”

“They must be desperate,” Bard teased. “Or they had something else in mind.”

“They have been hiring a lot of people,” Joyce said. “There’s hints they actually hired craftsmen and experienced farmers from a dozen other towns, men who broke the land and planted the soil before growing bored and selling their farms to others. And they want a bunch of guards. Their offer is actually pretty good, if we’re willing to be tied down for at least two to three years. We provide escorts, then security …”

Bard leaned forward. “Just how likely is this to get us in trouble with the folks back home?”

Joyce’s lips thinned. “It’s hard to say,” she said. “New Hope is pretty clear about the fact it is setting up a settlement far from the Free States, a settlement that will be shaped by a very different set of circumstances and … and one that will hopefully big enough to maintain a degree of independence even when the border rolls over their lands. They’ve gone out of their way to recruit dozens, perhaps hundreds of dissidents who are willing to put their lives on the line for a whole new world. And they have enough money and supplies to make sure their settlement has the best possible chance to put down roots.”

She paused. “My sources aren’t very clear on how the Free States are reacting to this unexpected challenge. Some think the dissidents are being ordered to leave. Others think the dissidents are being ordered to stay. There’s been no official response from any of the councils – or Greyshade – which may be good or bad. I suspect they simply don’t know what to do.”

John frowned. In his experience, most commoners didn’t have time for any sort of political activity. They were too busy working to keep their heads above water. The middle classes were more likely to want things to change, but … they could head west, if they thought they could make it out there. And yet … were the kings and warlords really interested in sending the dissidents west? On one hand, they might die or wind up working too hard to rock the boat; on the other, they might found a state that would pose a threat to the Free States in the next few decades. Who knew?

“So we have some freedom of action,” Bard said.

“We won’t if we join the wagon train,” Scout said. “It won’t be just us, will it?”

“No,” Joyce said, flatly. “They’ll have others riding escort too.”

“Then no,” Ted said. “There’s too great a risk of a disagreement turning into a fight.”

John blinked. “In the middle of a job?”

“We are a small team,” Ted said, curtly. “New Hope will need at least five or six teams our size to protect them – and, arguably, a few more. There will be a lot of personality clashes – the leaders will all think they’re the real leader, the bladesmen will think they’re the real bladesmen, the magicians will think …”

“We’re not in the habit of holding pissing contests,” John said, stiffly.

“You’ve never worked with your fellow magicians,” Ted said. “Take it from me. They can and they do hold pissing contests. And then someone winds up croaking on a lily pad or something worse.”

“There’d need to be a proper chain of command,” Joyce said. “It could be handled.”

“I doubt it,” Ted said. “You know I was at Blaydon Fields?”

He went on before anyone could answer. “The army was from a dozen different states and cities, and had a bunch of volunteers too. The commanders worked overtime to smooth out the differences and sort out a chain of command that no one really liked, but everyone could work with. They had to, you see. And then the rebels somehow manage to kill the entire fucking officer team and command devolves on a frilly-dressed idiot who panics and orders a retreat. Perhaps not a bad idea, but the retreat is in the open and the enemy are hunting us down and pressing us hard and …”

His face twisted. “There was a mutiny in the middle of the retreat. Half the troops panicked and ran, either in formation or alone. The remainder were run down by the enemy and hacked to pieces. The idiot stabbed himself in the back repeatedly, but it was too late to do more than get as many men out as possible and hope for the best. It was a majestic fuck-up and we lost around five thousand men.”

“I heard it was one thousand,” Bard said.

“They lied,” Ted said, bluntly. “The figures were massaged until they said what their masters wanted them to say.”

He looked at Joyce. “A regular army unit could do it,” he added. “They wouldn’t have so many problems when they came under pressure. But a team put together from a dozen smaller teams is just asking for trouble. My very strong advice is that we turn the job down.”

“It depends on the price,” Bard said. “What are they offering?”

“It isn’t worth it,” Ted said. “Frankly, what are the odds of their settlement surviving long enough to pay us?”

“They have scouted out the terrain,” Joyce said. “They have the land deeds and enough supplies to provide a considerable degree of mutual support, including a breeding population of oxen and horses. They shouldn’t have the shortages most new settlements develop in their first year or two …”

“Which will also make them targets for every asshole who thinks anything that isn’t nailed down is ripe for the taking,” Ted said. “We will be pinned down, unable to leave or even to manoeuvre. It will end badly.”

Joyce nodded, curtly. “John? Scout?”

“I don’t know,” John admitted. “If we go …”

He hesitated, unsure what to say. A year or two ago, the idea might have appealed to him. The prospect of finding a place in a settlement, particularly one so well-funded by people who wanted to free themselves from a suffocating society, would have been as attractive as a pretty young girl. Now … he wasn’t so sure. He needed to keep saving money for Katrina and that was going to be hard if he went west for a couple of years, with only the promise of a big payment at the end of it. And Cameron had talked about buying Motivators … it struck him as odd. There were aspects to the whole settlement project he suspected remained unseen.

Scout leaned forward. “I don’t believe the settlement plan will suit most of us,” she said, bluntly. “None of us wish to be tied down …”

“I recall Bard getting tied to a bed and robbed,” Ted teased. “That must have been embarrassing.”

Bard stuck out his tongue. “Don’t knock it until you try it.”

“The being robbed bit?” Ted’s fingers made a pinching motion. “I can pick your pockets if you want, or even steal your bag … I’ll charge for the service, of course. One gold for a stolen wallet, five gold for a pinched dagger … I’ll throw in a pinched arse for another gold.”

“Cheap date,” Bard said.

“As I was saying,” Scout snapped, “I think the job doesn’t play to our strengths. We are too few in number to escort a massive wagon train and our specialities are of little use in a settlement. Ted can train settlers to fight, and John can offer magic lessons, but Bard and I aren’t so useful.”

“You are useful,” John said, quickly. “And Bard can fight.”

“I can sing for them,” Bard said. He took a deep breath, then burst into song. “On top off …”

“Thank you,” Joyce said, sharply. Bard shut up. “Are there any other thoughts or should we move to a vote?”

“Just one,” John said. “I am not licensed to teach magic. Setting up a school will draw unwelcome attention to the settlement, certainly from the Grey Men. If that’s what they want me to do …”

“We’ll see,” Joyce said. “Is there anyone in favour of accepting the job?”

“Me,” Bard said. “It’s a steady job. They’ll be feeding us too, so we can save our pay.”

John frowned inwardly. What would happen, if Bard was the only one in favour of the job? Would he sulk? Or complain? Or strike out on his own? Or … John didn’t know. It was easy to say the team would stick together, and Joyce had told him he was free to leave if a vote went against him, but they were feeling the pinch. Bard had a point. It would be a steady job.

But Ted has a point too, John thought. The job could easily turn into a disaster.

Joyce nodded, curtly. “Against?”

“Me,” Ted said. “You’ve heard my reasons. I won’t bother to say them again.”

Scout echoed him a moment later. John hesitated, then did the same. He had no idea how Joyce would react, if she wanted them to take the job …

“It’s decided,” Joyce said. “New Hope will have to head into the badlands without us.”

“And good luck to them,” Ted said. “They should be fine.”

“I hope so,” Joyce said. “But it isn’t our problem right now.”

She looked from face to face, then lowered her voice. “We have very little in the way of company savings. Our pay for the last job will not last forever. This place” – she waved a hand at the walls – “is cheap, but we will have to move out eventually. Whatever the next job is, we may have to take it.”

“Unless it involves working for Boss Edwards,” Bard said. “That might be pushing our luck a bit too far.”

“He didn’t really see our faces,” Ted countered. “No one did.”

John had his doubts. Boss Edwards’s men might have seen Scout. If they’d gotten a glimpse of a living shadow, would they put two and two together if they saw the team? It was impossible to be sure, one way or the other. They certainly knew their raiders had magic. How else could they have broken into the safe or crashed their way through the floor?

“Still,” Bard said. “There’s no point in taking chances when we have other choices. What else is there?”

“The darker jobs,” Joyce said, curtly. She left the specifics to their imagination. “How much blood do you want on your hands?”

John scowled. “None.”

“I’ll make a few more enquires,” Joyce said. “But right now, beggars can’t be choosers.”

 

[ChrisNuttall]

Chapter Seven

John wasn’t sure, in all honesty, why he’d bothered to watch as the New Hope wagon train left Debone and rolled into the distance.

It was an impressive, if slightly shambolic, procession. He’d heard enough over the last two days to know that Cameron and his team had done a good job of recruiting settlers, procuring supplies and hiring guards to protect them in the badlands. The settlers had spent so much money they’d actually driven prices up all over the region, to the point the townspeople would probably be glad to see them go. Even the merchants and shopkeepers would be relieved. There were risks, as well as opportunities, in prices soaring upwards. The coming crash was going to be painful.

He frowned inwardly as the last of the wagons vanished into the dust. There was something about the effort that awed him, even though he was sure he was missing something. The towns and villages along the frontier had largely sprung up by chance, people finding good places to settle and inviting others to join them, but New Hope was different. Or so they planned. John had been an adventurer long enough to know no battle plan ever survived contact with the enemy. He assumed it was true of settlement plans too. And yet …

Part of him wished he could join them. It would be something different. If he was one of the first settlers, if he was one of the first men to break the ground or set up a shop or a school, he’d be set up for life. But … he shook his head as he turned away and walked slowly back to the inn. It wasn’t for him, not now. Perhaps not ever. He’d never found a place he wanted to settle down and spend the rest of his life.

Count your blessings, he told himself sourly. If you didn’t have magic, you’d be stuck in your father’s shop until you passed it down to your son.

The thought haunted him as he passed through the post office, taking advantage of the short break to check if there was any mail for him. There never was. Katrina never replied to his letters – if she even received them – and no one else would be interested in writing to him, not now. It nagged at his mind that she might be dead … her injuries hadn’t been fatal, thank the gods, but she might have killed herself rather than live with her scars. If that were true … he tried not to think about it as he left the office and headed on to the inn. The streets were quieter now the settlers were gone. John knew they wouldn’t stay that way.

Bard was standing outside the inn, drinking a pint. “We have a meeting in twenty minutes,” he said, curtly. “Get yourself a drink and go upstairs.”

“A job?” John wasn’t sure what was eating the older man. Bard was a blademaster. He could find work anywhere. “Or something else …?”

“A job, I think,” Bard said. “Get upstairs. I’ll join you in a moment.”

John nodded and stepped into the inn. The barmaid looked cross, as if she’d bitten into something sour, but she poured him a glass of favoured water without comment. John took it, muttered a brief spell to check it was safe to drink, then headed upstairs. He suspected he’d need all his wits around him. It felt odd to be without Scout, but she’d gone with Ted and the girls to get their supplies. John wondered, idly, who was chaperoning who. Ted wasn’t interested in women.

Joyce looked up as John stepped into the room. “The others will be here shortly,” she said, motioning for him to close the door. “Are Jayne and Jane ready to use their magic?”

“They can do some charms,” John said. “They don’t have the knowledge or experience to do anything more complicated. Not yet. Don’t make of them more than they are.”

“They need proper training,” Joyce agreed. She broke off as the door opened, allowing the others to join them. “We’ll discuss it later.”

John felt a shiver run down his back. If Joyce had found a job … he scowled, remembering her warning that they were running out of time and money. Would they wind up with dirty hands? Or would he choose to leave, rather than let himself be pushed into committing atrocities? It was something he wouldn’t know, he feared, until he had to make the choice.

“Close the door,” Joyce ordered. Her eyes flickered over Jayne and Jane, but she made no attempt to order them to leave. John feared that was a bad sign. “We have a job.”

John glanced at Scout, then leaned forward as the others took their seats. A nasty feeling was growing in his stomach, an instinct that something was about to go terribly wrong. Greyshade and his tutors had always sneered at such feelings, calling them old wives tales, but … out here, it was impossible to convince himself they were nothing more than his atrocious dinner working its way through his stomach and back into the word. The unease grew stronger as Joyce looked at the papers on the desk. She’d clearly done more than just signal an interest in the job.

Joyce leaned forward. “How many of you have heard of Janstown?”

“It’s a big town on the far side of the borderlands,” Ted said. “Are we going there?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Joyce said. “Janstown - to cut a long story short – discovered the remnants of an ancient city, buried beneath the earth. Our best theory is that it was actually a flying city, which fell out of the air when the magic went crazy and hit the ground hard enough to be buried, although we don’t know for sure. The important detail is that Jan – the founder of Janstown – and his men have been poking through the wreckage, trying to recover artefacts from the old world and sell them at auction. This is technically illegal, but the Grey Men haven’t tried to stop it. I think they figured Jan wouldn’t find anything dangerous.”

John felt ice dripping down his spine, despite the heat. “But he did?”

“Yes.” Joyce met his eyes. “It is hard to be sure, but he appears to have dug up an artefact of uncertain power and danger. One possibility is that it’s a plague box, an artefact designed to kill everyone within range; it may also be some other kind of weapon, something beyond our imagination. Jan is apparently billing it as a strongbox from the pre-Cataclysm days and trying to sell it to the highest bidder. If it falls into enemy hands, or merely into the hands of someone stupid enough to open it, the results could be disastrous.”

“So the Grey Men need to go after it,” Ted said. “Why haven’t they?”

Joyce hesitated. “From what I understand, politics,” she said. “The Grey Men have a legal right to operate in the Free States, but their exact status out here has been hotly debated over the last few years. Going to Janstown, brushing Jan aside and simply taking the box will alienate everyone else along the frontier, making their job much harder in future. The box may not be only dangerous thing in the ruined city – and, of course, there are plenty of other ancient artefacts to the west. If the Grey Men mishandle the situation, the next dangerous artefact may not be advertised until it is already too late.”

“Odd,” John mused. His mind raced. Greyshade had paid them to deal with Skinlord. Was he paying them to deal with Jan and his box? It wasn’t a question he could ask with so many listening ears. “What are we being hired to do?”

“Steal the box,” Joyce said. “We take it, then get it to somewhere safe, somewhere it can be disarmed and smelted down without further ado. If we do it … we will be paid enough to keep us going for five years.”

“And if we fail, we die horribly,” Bard said. “Should we not at least try to win the auction first?”

“We will,” Joyce said. “We have been sent some money for that purpose. But it may not be enough.”

John nodded, curtly. There was a thriving trade in semi-legal and flat-out illegal artefacts from the old world. Most weren’t particularly dangerous, from what he’d heard, but some of them offered insights into magic that could be turned to useful purposes. Skinlord’s books had certainly offered him some insights … his palm twitched, a grim reminder of just how close he’d come to death. And yet, he knew it wouldn’t be enough to keep him from testing the limits.

And Greyshade is the one who bans the trade, John thought. Is it for the world’s safety, as he claims, or is it to keep the power in his own hands?

“So we try to win the artefact, then steal it if we can’t,” Bard said. “This mission stinks … with the greatest of respect, of course.”

“The pay is very good,” Ted countered. “And if it really is a plague box …”

“If,” Bard said. He glanced at John. “Would you know one if you saw it?”

“No.” John tried to recall what little he’d been told about ancient weapons, but most of his lessons had boiled down to orders to keep his distance and summon the Grey Men. “From what I was taught, they were extremely dangerous; they could be used to target a specific family with a lethal plague, or exempt them from being infected. If it really is a plague box, and if it does get opened in the middle of a town, everyone in that place is going to be dead.”

Jayne looked disturbed. “There’s no cure?”

“I don’t know,” John said. “There were very few specifics in my lessons. Greyshade is the only person who might know more than wild rumours and he’s not available for questioning.”

Joyce shot him a sharp look. She knew John knew. “We don’t know who else wants the box,” she said. “We don’t even know who knows what it is. But we dare not let it fall into unfriendly hands. What could Rackham do with such a weapon?”

“Whatever he wants,” Scout said, flatly.

“Rackham has burnt towns before,” Bard agreed. “A disease outbreak would kill the people while leaving the buildings intact. There are so many outbreaks out west that no one would know for sure it was actually cold-blooded murder.”

“Quite,” Joyce agreed. “Jayne. Jane. This is your one chance to back out now, before we set out. If you want to leave, now is the time.”

“We’re staying,” Jayne said. Her sister nodded. “We’re not backing out now.”

John’s lips twitched. He had no idea what Joyce would have done, if the sisters had decided they wanted to leave. They knew too much … would she pay for them to be held in the town gaol for a few weeks, or feed them a potion to wipe their memories, or simply slit their throats? Or … no, he suspected Joyce had asked the question in private first, giving them the chance to leave without recriminations. Instead, they’d chosen to reaffirm their commitment to the team.

“Very good,” Joyce said. “Bard? Ted? Scout? John? Any objections?”

John said nothing for a long moment. He had no qualms about stealing stolen goods from the thieves and returning them to their rightful owner. He had no hesitation in blasting kidnappers, rapists and murderers. But stealing a priceless artefact someone had dug up from a ruined city? He wasn’t so sure about that. It was thief, plain and simple, and his morality revolted against it. And yet, if it was a plague box …

You wouldn’t let a child pick up a sword and cut himself because he didn’t know the blade was sharp, he thought, slowly. Would you?

His stomach churned. There were millions of broken artefacts, some so badly damaged it was impossible to tell what they’d been before the Cataclysm, but working artefacts were extremely rare. There was no way in hell any of the other bidders – kings, princes, rebels, criminals – would let morality get in their way, when it came to getting their hands on a superweapon. A plague box could shift the balance of power or … or what? Perhaps it would be triggered by accident, not in the badlands but in the heart of the Free States. How many people would die if the box was triggered in Grantville or Flint? The threat was so big he found it impossible to comprehend how many people might die. It was just too big to grasp.

“If it really is a plague box, it needs to be made safe,” he said, slowly. There was something about the affair that didn’t quite make sense. Politics be damned. If the threat was that great, you did what you had to do and apologised later. The Grey Men should be sent to Janstown and quickly. “And if it isn’t …”

“My source was very specific,” Joyce said. “I believe it.”

You believe Greyshade, John thought. But we have no independent verification of his claims.

His mind churned. Greyshade should be panicking. Why isn’t he?

Bard cleared his throat. “There are risks, but the pay is good,” he said. “I assume we’re getting a cover story?”

“Officially, we’re wandering merchants,” Joyce said. “This will fool absolutely no one, but they’re all pretend to believe it. Unofficially, we’re agents of Lord Tulloch. The old rat bastard is well known for having his fingers in many pies, none of which would please his monarch if he knew about them. Having him take the blame for sending us would be very satisfactory indeed.”

Ted raised an eyebrow. “You know the guy?”

“Suffice it to say he makes Rackham look like a sweet and kindly man,” Joyce said. There was a hint of personal hatred in her tone. “We have an … icon which will put our identities beyond question, at least for the moment. By the time they figure out they’ve been duped, it will be too late. We’ll have the plague box and be well on our way to safety.”

“If everything goes according to plan,” Ted said. “Is there anything else we should know?”

Joyce unfurled a map. “It will take at least ten days of hard riding to get there,” she said. “The auction is scheduled to begin twelve days from now. We’ll be leaving tomorrow morning, following the old roads as far as we can before shifting to head west. I’d prefer to avoid contact as much as possible … really, I’d prefer to lay a false trail too. But we don’t have time.”

“No one is going to be following us for ten days,” Scout said. “They shouldn’t be drawing a connection between a team leaving Debone and another team arriving at Janstown ten days from now.”

“We are cutting it very fine,” Ted said. “If we run into any trouble we might not be able to get there before the fun starts.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” Joyce said. “Bard, you and Scout check the supplies and horses. Purchase anything we need from the shops – we may have a budget now, but don’t forget to haggle. Ted, make sure Jayne and Jane have everything they need, then get them fed and put to bed for the night. We’ll be leaving early.”

“Stupid o’clock,” Ted said.

“John, stay here,” Joyce said. “I’ll see the rest of you tomorrow morning. Don’t get drunk and if you find a bedmate, don’t be late tomorrow.”

John took a breath as the rest of the team filed out of the room, then met Joyce’s eyes. “It’s Greyshade, isn’t it?”

“Yes.” Joyce didn’t bother to lie. “He’s backing us.”

“It makes no sense,” John protested. “The Grey Men should be sent …”

“Like I said, politics,” Joyce disagreed. “The headmaster is extremely powerful, true, but he isn’t a god. He certainly isn’t all-powerful. The kings will tolerate his supremacy in the magical sphere, but only up to a point. If he shows blatant disrespect for property rights, he’ll find it harder to convince the kings to tolerate him. And who knows what will happen then?”

John made a face. “Point.”

“So he needs agents,” Joyce said. “Deniable agents. People he can swear blind have nothing to do with him if it all goes horribly wrong.”

“Quite,” John agreed, slowly. It still struck him as odd. The puzzle was missing some of its pieces. “What did Lord Tulloch ever do to you?”

“Let’s just say he deserves everything bad that happens to him and leave it at that,” Joyce said, shortly. “Get something to eat, then get some rest. If Scout joins you tonight, make sure you both get plenty of sleep. You’ll need it tomorrow morning.”

John flushed. “I know the drill.”

“And spend some time thinking about what we can do if the box does get accidentally opened,” Joyce said. “I don’t buy anyone making a superweapon and just leaving it lying around unless they were sure they could handle an accidental opening.”

“I don’t think there is anything we could do,” John said. The stories he’d heard had been nothing more than stories. There’d been no formal instruction on dealing with a plague box some idiot had opened. It wasn’t clear if he’d even have a chance to bend over and kiss his arse goodbye. “If the plague box lives up to its legend, everyone within range could be infected and killed before we have a chance to react.”

“Charming,” Joyce said. “What sort of person would build a weapon like that?”

John shrugged. “I was told there are people stupid enough to want anything,” he said. “I guess my old tutor was right.”

 

[ChrisNuttall]

Comments?

Chapter Eight

They rode out the next morning.

The town surprisingly quiet, after the last week, but John kept his eyes open as they trotted through the streets and out into the countryside. Joyce was right – Debone and Janstown were so far apart it was unlikely anyone would realise the team had gone from one to the other – but there was no point in taking chances. He’d grown up in a small town and he knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it was very hard to do anything without someone taking note. The frontier had fewer older women who saw themselves charged with protecting the younger girls, and most folks knew to mind their own business, but people would still take note. And if someone drew a connection …

They shouldn’t, he told himself. And even if they did, we are riding under false identities.

He sighed inwardly. He’d taken a few moments to look up Lord Tulloch, in hopes of being able to bluff his way through any questioning, but there’d been surprisingly little in the town library. That was odd. In his experience, most noblemen loved talking about themselves and their huge tracts of land. You didn’t have to ask questions, just keep your mouth shut and listen while they bragged. There was normally some exaggeration, but not much. And yet, there’d been very little in the books about Lord Tulloch. The only point of any real note was that he was a landowner to the north-east, something that could easily be said of hundreds of others. But if he was that far from Janstown, it was unlikely he’d sent a represenitive to the auction.

Unless he really does want an ancient superweapon, John thought. It would be almost priceless if it was still in usable condition.

He frowned as they rode out of town and started to pick up speed. There was something about the whole affair that bothered him, something that didn’t quite make sense. He couldn’t put his finger on it, no matter how many times he churned the facts over and over in his mind. What was he missing? What was …?

Scout leaned against his back, her arms wrapped around his chest. “You’re thinking again,” she teased. “I can tell.”

John snorted. “We’re missing something,” he said, flatly. “What?”

“Good question,” Scout said. There was a long pause. “Is the artefact a fake?”

“I …” John considered it thoughtfully. There was a roaring trade in fake artefacts – he’d often wondered why anyone bothered, when there was no shortage of real artefacts – but he found it difficult to believe anyone would stake huge sums of money on an artefact without taking a careful look at it first. Most faked artefacts tended to be charmed to make them look real and functional, yet the spells wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny. “The bidders would know, wouldn’t they?”

“It depends,” Scout said. “People sometimes do blind auctions.”

John shook his head. It might make sense to sell lost luggage and sealed bags to bidders, allowing them to gamble the contents might be worth the bid, but the sums couldn’t be that high. No one wanted to spend more than a handful of coins on a bag that might be crammed with nothing more than unwashed laundry, rather than a collection of books or a passing traveller’s small fortune. There might be tales of people bidding tens of coins for something worth hundreds, if not thousands, but he suspected most of them were made up. The auctioneers would probably check inside the bags, just to be sure. It was what he would do in their place.

“It can’t be a fake,” he said, finally. “No money would change hands until the artefact was checked and rechecked.”

Scout chuckled. “But opening the box might be very dangerous,” she said. “They might decline to take the risk.”

“They’d still be able to tell the box was extremely magical, even if they couldn’t work out what it actually was,” John said. “It’s possible Jan doesn’t know it’s a plague box.”

“If it is,” Scout said. “If he doesn’t know, he might try to open it.”

John frowned inwardly. If Jan had a priceless superweapon, why try to sell it? His eyes narrowed as he considered the possibilities. Jan might not want a superweapon … or, more likely, he might expect the Grey Men to come take it from him in short order. Selling it now might be the only way to profit, before Greyshade’s representatives arrived. And … it was also possible Jan didn’t really want an independent kingdom of his very own. He might see the superweapon as more of a liability than anything else.

Particularly as it is hardly a flying battleship, he thought. It was hard to tell how plague boxes actually worked – the rumours suggested the magic worked like a directional lantern, with everyone standing in line getting infected even if they were on the far side of a solid wall – but there had to be limits or the ancients would have wiped themselves out a long time ago. It could easily infect him and his people if he kept it in his hometown. Perhaps he thinks it’s wiser to pass it on before someone accidentally opens it.

He sighed inwardly and concentrated on the ride as they galloped onwards, following the ancient road as far as they could. The road was flat, seemingly undamaged by the disaster that had swept over the world, but the landscape on both side was either dry desert or foliage that came uncomfortably close to the roadside. He kept his eyes open, scanning both sides of the road for any flicker of movement. Seven people on five horses might look more dangerous than a slow and cumbersome wagon train, but outlaws and criminals in the badlands might be tempted to have a go anyway. The rewards would be quite high if they got away with it …

The ride went on and on, pausing only when sunset sent long shadows crawling over the landscape. Joyce called a halt, then scrambled off her horse and looked around. There was no sign of anything dangerous, but it was difficult to be sure. Something nasty might be hiding under the rocks – or worse, the rocks themselves might be dangerous. The wild magic that had swept over the world, warping and twisting what it didn’t destroy, had left a assortment of strange and dangerous creatures in its wake. If half the stories were true, it was risky sleeping anywhere outside a town. But they had no choice.

“John, set up a circle,” Joyce ordered, as the rest of the team dismounted. “Bard, you and Ted can make dinner.”

John hid his amusement as he drew his focus and waved for Jayne and Jane to follow him. Back east, making dinner was women’s work and any man ordered to cook dinner would be sure to rebel, particularly if the person ordering him was a woman. The only exception were army cooks and they had a terrible reputation, often regarded as being more dangerous than enemy troops. But here, there were few gender-specific roles. Bard and Ted could and did cook very well. They’d even tried to teach John.

Why is it I can brew potions with remarkable skill, he asked himself, but not cook something as simple as a stew without burning it?

He put the thought aside and told the girls to watch as he crafted the first circle. It wasn’t an impregnable defence, not by any reasonable definition, but it would ward off any unintelligent threats while sounding the alarm if something more dangerous tried to cross. The second circle was a little nastier, crafted to hurt anyone who ignored the first … he knew it wouldn’t stand up to a trained sorcerer, yet it would buy him a few seconds to wake and react before it broke. The girls watched with interest, their eyes bright. John felt a flicker of pity. If they’d been born in the east, they’d have gone to school a year or two after him. They wouldn’t have to rely on half-assed lessons from someone who’d been expelled …

“You could make the circle a little tighter,” Jayne said, as he finished drawing the line. “Why …?”

“Two reasons,” John said. He had to remind himself of her ignorance. It was a question a first-year student would ask, not someone who should be on the verge of graduating by now. “First, the tighter the circle the more magic and attention I’d need to invest in it. Second, we are going to need to answer the call of nature overnight. You don’t want to risk trapping someone in the circle when they need to piss.”

The girls nodded, showing none of the disgust Katrina and her peers would have shown if he’d said that to them. They’d grown up along the frontier, where the facts of life were the facts of life and there was little in the way of privacy, where there was no point in trying to pretend piss and shit and menstrual cycles didn’t exist. He felt a flicker of pity, mingled with the awareness they’d understood the job when they took it. They couldn’t complain about the lack of privacy now.

“Food,” Bard called, from his cauldron. “Don’t forget to tip the cook!”

“Sure,” Scout teased. “Putting pork and beef in the same stew is asking for a bellyache tomorrow.”

Bard made a rude gesture. “That’s not quite the sort of tip I had in mind,” he said, as he ladled out bowls of stew. “I wanted you to cross my palm with silver.”

“I think you have to pay us to eat it,” Ted said, eying his bowl as if a fly had landed in his meal. “I charge ten golds per bite.”

“You’d better starve,” Bard countered, sticking out his tongue. “Ten golds? There isn’t that much.”

John shook his head, then dipped his spoon in the stew and took a bite. It tasted better than the food at the inn, although the bar wasn’t set very high. Bard might not be a master chef, but he knew how to use his dried spices and herbs to add a little flavour to dried sausage and vegetables. John was careful not to ask what else might have gone into it. If he was eating insects, or something else that would make him feel sick, he didn’t want to know. The meal was edible and that was all there was to it.

“I’ll take first watch,” Joyce said, when they were done. “Ted, I’ll wake you in four hours.”

“Wake me,” Scout said. “I got a nap on horseback.”

“Fine,” Joyce said. “I don’t know how you did it.”

“John has a very comfortable back,” Scout said. “And I didn’t have anything much to do.”

Joyce nodded. John blushed.

“You know the drill,” Joyce said. “Wake us if there are any problems, but otherwise just stay on guard.”

John unfurled his bedroll and laid it on the ground, then watched the girls as they prepared to rest. There was an art to laying out one’s bedroll and sleeping bag so he could sleep comfortably, one that had taken him weeks to learn. They didn’t seem to have any problems, so he turned away to give them what privacy he could. The temperature was falling rapidly. He took a long breath, already missing having Scout in his bed, then lay back and closed his eyes. It felt as though sleep would be a long time coming.

He sighed, all too aware of the magic around them. His spell felt like a strand of weak light against the darkness of the tainted land. It would be decades, perhaps centuries, before the towns and farms were linked together and the aftermath of the Cataclysm swept away into the shadows of history. It was all too easy to think that sleeping in the badlands would leave its mark … it was bad enough, he recalled, being aware there were things that could get quite close without setting off the alarm. Joyce might trust his magic, but she knew better than to rely on it. And the bloodcurdling threats she’d made about what she’d do to anyone who fell asleep on watch …

And she’d be right too, John thought. The threatening beatings were minor, compared to what could happen if one of the nastier creatures got into the circle. If whoever is on watch falls asleep, they could get us all killed.

He jerked awake, without ever being quite aware of being asleep. The sun was peeking over the horizon, rays of light illuminating the ground. John crawled out of his sleeping bag, answered the call of nature and helped Ted prepare breakfast. It wasn’t hard. All they really had to do was heat up the remnants of the stew and pass it around. Scout nodded to him as he gave her a bowl. It was hard to be sure, but she seemed tired. John made a mental note to ensure she slept during the ride.

Jane caught his eye. “Is it always like this?”

“It was a good night, all things considered,” John told her. “But you slept amongst armed men inside a sorcerer’s circle. Elsewhere …”

He kicked himself, mentally. Jane and her sister already knew it. They were talking about the ride, not the campsite. He shrugged as they finished their stew, then took advantage of the opportunity to teach them basic cleaning spells. They didn’t have enough water in their canteens to wash the bowls and spoons and it was incredibly dangerous to trust pools and streams outside settlements. Anything could be lurking within the water, anything at all.

“We have a long way to go,” Joyce reminded them, after they fed the horses. “Let’s go.”

John nodded and scrambled onto the horse, Scout right behind him. The beast seemed to shift uncomfortably, then followed the others back down the road. John wanted to talk, but suppressed the urge as Scout rested her head against his back and closed her eyes. He muttered a brief spell to make it a little more comfortable for her, then forced himself to recall the first magic lessons he’d been given. He was going to have to repeat them for the girls.

The days seemed to blur together as the ride went on and on. John felt almost as if he were trapped in a nightmare, the long rides broken only by short rests that never felt long enough. The dust in the air didn’t make it any easier … John felt old and tired, even though he was only a year or two older than the girls. He had no idea how Joyce and Ted coped so well. Bard complained – Ted complained that Bard complained like an old woman – but there was an odd air about it, as if he were complaining only because he was expected to complain. The girls handled themselves very well, although they didn’t have to take watches at night. John didn’t envy them. They might not realise it, but it was a sign they weren’t trusted completely. Not yet.

And we don’t have time to test them properly, he thought. There’s too much at risk to take chances now.

The landscape changed as they turned off the ancient road and headed west, further into the badlands. The roads became dirt tracks, populated by a handful of riders and wagons heading in both directions. John wondered, idly, if the people heading east had had a taste of land beyond the frontier and decided they wanted no part of it, or if they were couriers heading to the nearest slider station or post office so they could send letters back to civilised lands. A number of prisoners – men wearing shackles – were walking west, their faces dull and despondent. John shivered. The men had probably been given life sentences, then sold west so they could be worked to death. And yet, even that was merciful compared to what Katrina’s family would do to him if they got the chance.

Joyce called a halt, two miles short of Janstown. The landscape was changing again, the scrubby wasteland scarred by remnants of ancient settlements that had been brutally damaged and then half-buried under the soil. John could feel magic prickling at the air, his skin itching as if he was being bitten by invisible insects. The girls seemed more uncomfortable, their fingers constantly brushing their hair out of their faces. It would be a long time before this part of the world became safe for habitation …

“You know the cover story,” Joyce said. “Stick to it, and you’ll be fine.”

John nodded. Joyce was Lord Tulloch’s agent. Bard, Ted and John were her bodyguards. Jane, Jayne and Scout were her servants … the story was weaker than John would have preferred, but it wasn’t easy to explain the presence of the two girls without raising suspicions. Ideally, Scout would remain completely unnoticed. Joyce had no qualms about pretending she didn’t exist if no one realised she was there.

“We arrived on time,” Joyce added. “We have a day or two to get ourselves orientated before the auction begins. Don’t do anything stupid and don’t do anything that will get us kicked out before it is too late. Any questions?”

Bard stuck up a hand. “What is the price of sliced ham, per portion?”

Ted laughed. “Your mom!”

“Relevant questions,” Joyce said, as some of the tension drained out of the air. “Anything important?”

“Just one thing,” Jayne said. She sounded nervous, even though she’d been assured she could ask questions without getting her head bitten off. “Do we have a plan?”

“Not yet,” Joyce said. “We don’t know enough to put together a plan. Not yet.”

She turned her horse back to the west. “Come on,” she said. “It’s time.”

 

[ChrisNuttall]

Chapter Nine

John hadn’t been sure what he’d expected, when he’d first heard about Janstown. A cluster of wooden and stone buildings perhaps, like many of the other settlements across the region, or a handful of ancient dwellings that had been cleansed of wild magic and turned into homes for Jan and his closest allies. The settlement managed to be both and neither, a handful of modern buildings contrasting oddly with the old and surrounded by dozens – hundreds – of makeshift shacks and hovels that seemed piled on top of each other to the point the slightest cough would trigger an avalanche. He had the weird impression the settlement was both huge, easily the largest he’d seen on this side of the border, and yet compressed into a very small space. His head started to ache as he tried to make sense of it. It was just …

He forced himself to think as they neared the settlement. There were no visible gates, just people flowing in and out of the town with no rhyme or reason. They looked a diverse lot, from settlers in hard-worn clothes and women who were clearly whores to fortune hunters and aristos in all their finery. He thought he spotted a pair of magicians, but they were gone before he could make sure. A handful of women were even draped from head to toe in black cloth, their faces and bodies completely concealed. He felt an odd shiver run down his spine as he eyed them. Weirdlings? It wasn’t impossible. Scout was amongst the luckiest of her kind and she couldn’t pass for a pureblood human.

A guard stepped out of the shadows as they approached. “Your business here?”

Joyce passed him their papers. The guard looked them up and down, then shrugged and pointed to a road – it looked more like a tunnel – leading deeper into the settlement. Joyce nodded her thanks, then dismounted before leading the horse into the town. John followed suit, looking around with interest as they walked. The houses, makeshift shacks and stalls were just too close, the dry air smelling of too many people in too close proximity. His eyes flickered over the stalls, noting everything from food and drink to colony supplies and artefacts – seemingly broken – hauled out of the ground and offered for sale. He suspected most of them were worthless, but who knew? One table groaned under the weight of cheap paperbacks – novels, mainly – from the east. John glanced at the titles, and the lurid covers, and shook his head. He was entirely sure they were written by teenage virgins. They had the same air as a schoolboy bragging about his sexual conquests when he’d never even reached first base.

He kept one hand on his focus as the walls seemed to close in, the horses whinnying nervously as the crowds pressed around them. It was on the tip of his tongue to suggest they turned around and headed out, finding a place to sleep outside the settlement, before they stopped in front of a large pair of doors. Joyce spoke to the doorman, who opened the doors to reveal a massive courtyard and stables. John had to smile. It looked like a coachman’s inn, but they were normally on the outskirts. The ever-expanding settlement had trapped the inn deep inside the walls.

A young woman appeared and offered a formal curtsey. “My Lady,” she said. “It is a honour to have you attend the auction.”

“And I am honoured to be here,” Joyce said. “I trust you have rooms for us?”

The woman looked embarrassed as she dropped a second curtsey. “I’m afraid your servants will have to share a chamber, My Lady,” she said. “We have a lot of guards.”

“That’s quite all right,” Joyce said, as if she hadn’t timed the letters to ensure it would happen. “They won’t mind in the slightest.”

John concealed his amusement as he handed the reins to a stableman and followed Joyce up the stairs. The servants would mind, under normal circumstances, but no one would give a damn what they thought. Joyce was perfectly in character, pretending she didn’t care. The innkeeper was too relieved, he guessed, to question it. Their forged paperwork should have entitled them to an entire wing to themselves, which wasn’t likely to the possible. He had to smile at the thought. The more they endeared themselves to the staff, the less likely they’d be to get in the way.

He looked around with interest as they reached the second floor. The inn was a riad, a building with multiple stories centred around an open-air courtyard with a small swimming pool bubbling with water. He glanced up to see netting high overhead, keeping out insects while allowing air to circulate freely. It would be a nightmare if it started to rain, he thought, but he guessed the innkeeper wouldn’t mind too much. The water would fall into the swimming pool and stay there, or be drained into tanks if it overflowed. Out here, fresh water was as important as gold.

The innkeeper pushed open a door to reveal a surprisingly well-appointed bedroom. “The servants will have to sleep in the next room,” she said, pointing to a smaller compartment with bare stone walls. “I’ll have bedding sent up shortly.”

John kept his eyes open as they filed into the room. It was surprisingly light – the windows opened into the courtyard, rather than the world outside – and had very little privacy. John could hear someone talking in the next room and he was sure they’d be able to hear them too … he scowled, inwardly, as he shaped a small privacy ward. It would be a little too revealing, if another magician happened to walk past, but there was no choice. He put his bag on the table and smiled to himself. The master bed looked as if it had come out of a bordello.

“I think there’s enough room in that bed for four of us,” Bard said. “Can we share?”

“Mine, all mine,” Joyce said, with a grin. “More seriously, we can swap beds at night.”

She sat on the chair and scowled at her hands. “From what our host was saying, there are a lot of bidders here,” she added. “I don’t think we have much hope of winning the auction fairly.”

Her eyes lingered on John and Scout. “You two can go out and buy supplies for your greedy bitch of a mistress,” she said, wryly. She meant they could have a wander and start putting together a mental picture of the town. “Get yourselves something to eat too. The rest of us will eat here.”

And talk to the other guests, John thought, as he donned his cloak. Scout pulled her own cloak over her head, concealing her features as much as possible. See who they are and why they are here.

Janstown felt odd, he decided as they left the riad and started to walk. Some confined streets – so cramped they made alleyways look like open roads – were surprisingly peaceful, so peaceful they brought tranquillity to his soul. Others were teeming with people and animals, from elderly men walking in the middle of the road to younger men leading horses and oxen up and down the streets. Children ran everywhere, followed by dogs and cats and warped creatures they’d somehow found and tamed. John kept one hand on his focus and the other on his wallet as they walked, all too aware some of the children would be pickpockets. It was common, along the frontier. Street children had no parents to look after them, nor was anyone else inclined to try. And anyone who recruited them might have very dark intentions indeed.

The streets buzzed with chatter, about the auction and the guests and matters that made no sense to him. He listened anyway, filing the details away in his head for later consideration as they found a small café and ordered lunch. Everyone was gossiping like old women … he wondered, suddenly, if there were any information brokers in Janstown. He was sure there were – somewhere – but where? Joyce would track one down shortly, he was sure. She wouldn’t have to look far. Hell, for all they knew, the innkeeper was an information broker already.

But she wouldn’t rat on her guests, John reminded himself. Innkeepers who did tended to find themselves going out of business, if they weren’t murdered by outraged guests first. We might need to ask her to point us to someone who will.

He smiled at the thought as the food arrived, spiced meat in a flatbread roll. The meat was so heavily spiced it was impossible to tell what it had once been, although he had his suspicions. The settlement would be a breeding ground for rats, cats and dogs and all of them were edible, once you got past the gag reflex. Scout ate hers without hesitation, a reminder she'd grown up in a world where one couldn’t be fussy. John sighed and ate his, grimacing slightly at the taste. The food was just a little too heavily spiced.

“There are rooms upstairs, if you like,” the shopkeeper offered. “And they can be inhabited for a very reasonable fee.”

John felt himself blush. He was no prude. He’d known there were brothels near the school, although he’d never visited them … and yet, someone coming up to him so blatantly and offering him a room was something new. Did the man have no shame? Scout was right next to him and … John tried not to show his disgust as he shook his head. It would be cheating and she wouldn’t like it. Who could blame her?

“Charming,” Scout muttered, as soon as the man was out of earshot. “And I’ll bet good money half the girls aren’t there of their own free will either.”

John nodded, left a handful of coins on the table and led the way back out of the café. The streets seemed darker somehow, the skies overhead growing cloudy with astonishing speed. It felt as if it were going to rain … he glanced into a food store to pick up some supplies, the sort of thing servants would buy for a particularly fussy mistress, his eyes narrowing as he spotted just how many things were on offer. Janstown was quite some distance from the nearest slider and yet … the prices were high, uncomfortably so, but they should be higher. It didn’t quite make sense.

“There’s a spellmonger’s just down the road,” Scout said. “Do you want to go?”

John nodded, curious. It was difficult to get magic supplies on the western side of the border, where trained craftsmen were rare and spellmongers often had to shut up shop and leave town in a hurry when they drew attention from the wrong sort of people. Half the spellmongers he’d passed through in the last year were fakes, selling potions that were actually coloured water and focuses that were little more than sharpened pieces of wood. The latter weren’t entirely useless, but someone who wanted to cast more complex spells needed a focus that actually worked. He felt a tingle as he pushed open the door and stepped inside. The spellmongers was surprisingly large, and gave off an air of permanence. A veiled woman, inspecting the books, glanced at him and then left the shop. John frowned to himself. What was that about?

He put the thought aside as he inspected the books, then the supplies. There was more than he’d expected, from actual potion ingredients – bagged and sealed by trained apothecaries – to gold and silver-lined cauldrons a step or two above the lead-lined cauldrons one normally saw on the western side of the border. They were dangerous, he recalled; he wondered, suddenly, why the gold and silver cauldrons hadn’t been sold or stolen long ago. They would be expensive, of course, but they’d be worth it to anyone who brewed regularly …

“There’s a lot here,” he mused, more to himself than to her. “Where does it come from?”

“Oh, I have my contacts in the east,” the storekeeper said. John tried not to jump. He hadn’t even noticed the man behind the counter. “I can get anything you want, for a price.”

“Anything?” John raised his eyebrows. “Dragon Scales? Basilisk Eyes? Kraken Dung?”

“Anything,” the man repeated. “Just make sure you give me the time and the money.”

John frowned. Dragon Scales and Basilisk Eyes were incredibly restricted. Kraken Dung was far less dangerous, but difficult to collect and store. If the storekeeper was sure he could obtain them … was he looking at Greyshade’s agent? A place like Janstown practically begged for a quiet watchdog, someone keeping an eye on the untamed city for Greyshade and the Free States. And Greyshade’s agent would have no trouble obtaining whatever he needed to bolster his credentials. There’d be no need to smuggle the supplies either.

“I might have to come back,” he said. He hoped they’d have time … there were ingredients and tools on the walls that would come in very useful, if he had a chance to buy them. “Until then …”

He nodded politely to the shopkeeper, then headed outside and let Scout lead him back to the riad. The rain was starting to fall, great heavy raindrops that smacked off the rooftops and splashed down amongst the streets, rapidly forming into rivers running through the gutters and into the drains. The storekeepers didn’t bother to shut up shop, merely moving their supplies under cover and watching the water as it flowed into barrels and casks. John wondered, idly, if the water was truly safe to drink. Rainwater normally was, but they were in the badlands. Who knew?

Joyce nodded to them as they entered the room, then tapped her ears meaningfully. John checked the privacy ward and nodded. “It’s safe.”

“I met some of our competitors over lunch,” Joyce said. “There was a lot of grumbling. Apparently, some got here early and took good rooms, then got themselves downgraded because higher-ranking people and their representatives arrived and kicked them out. Lord Tulloch is a pretty big fish in his own pond, but here he’s nowhere near as important as he thinks. He’d be damn insulted on our behalf, if he knew we were here.”

“He’d be more surprised, I’m sure,” Bard said. “Didn’t they think to check our credentials?”

“How?” Joyce smirked. “The letter booking the rooms was sent by me, not his staff. They know we’re good for the money, so … why rock the boat? They might be a little more careful if they thought we were going to win, but …”

“We can’t,” Scout said, flatly. “We heard talk about representatives from Gaipajama. If they’re here …”

John nodded. Gaipajama had a fair claim to being the richest of the Free States. The king was the richest man in the known world, with the possible exception of Greyshade and perhaps a couple of his peers. Gaipajama could buy Lord Tulloch out of pocket chance and never even notice the expenditure. And yet, if they wanted the plague box …

The king is already fantastically powerful, but he wants more, John reflected. He’d heard rumours Gaipajama had even defied the Grey Men – and gotten away with it. It made a certain kind of sense. On one hand, Greyshade would find it hard to push the kingdom around without risking pushback; on the other, the king was already so powerful that any restraints would feel like he was chained hand and foot. And an ancient superweapon might make it possible.

“Then we need to lay our plans quickly,” Joyce said. “We’ll spend the rest of the day scouting the hall, then plan how best to proceed.”

John hesitated, then leaned forward. “There are a lot of magical supplies here,” he said, mentally kicking himself for not picking up a basic textbook for Jayne and Jane. The textbooks had looked valid too, rather than the ones made up of nonsense or – worse – the books designed to send prospective magicians mad. “We should be able to use them to cause a diversion, or mislead the enemy …”

He sighed, inwardly. There were going to be too many variables or his name wasn’t John Son of John. How many magicians worked in the town? How many had come to lay their own bids? How many …? He cursed under his breath as Joyce and the others collected their supplies, readying themselves to explore the city. He knew he was skilled, and he had been top of the class before he’d been expelled, but there were limits. Two or three sorcerers would be able to tie him up in knots.

“Stay here,” Joyce ordered. “Try and come up with a set of options.”

“And don’t break the bank,” Bard advised. “Lord Tulloch is not made of money.”

“The bastard would tell us to spend freely, because it’s important to make a show of wealth,” Joyce said. The hatred in her voice was striking. “Believe me, he’s as shallow as they come.”

“But we don’t have much cash,” Ted reminded them. “No one is going to believe we brought a wagonload of supplies to haul them all the way to … to wherever he parks his arse.”

“Tools,” Joyce supplied. She pulled on her coat and led the way to the door. “We’ll be back.”

John nodded, wishing Scout could stay. But Joyce knew better than to let them stay together.

“I’ll see what I can come up with,” he said. “If you can find out where the box is being kept, it would be very helpful.”

Ted shook his head. “We’ll never get into the vault,” he said. “This isn’t Boss Edwards lodge. The vault will be heavily guarded and magically sealed. There’ll be no way in without their permission.”

“But they’ll have to take the box out to show it off,” Joyce said. “And that will give us a chance to snatch it and run.”

 

[ChrisNuttall]

Comments? Please

Chapter Ten

“Peace bond all weapons, then place them in the lockers,” the guard droned, as they approached the auction hall. “Peace bond all weapons, then place them in the lockers.”

John sighed, cursing under his breath. He didn’t need his focus to cast spells – and there was no way they could remove the tattoo on his palm, assuming they noticed it – but it was still annoying to be stripped of all weapons. The others would be even less happy. Ted was tough, used to using his fists when no other weapons were available, but Bard and Joyce both preferred their swords and Jayne and Jane were helpless without their focuses. And if it all went to hell, Scout might be the only one who made it out.

He wrapped a thread around the focus, trying not to roll his eyes at the sheer inanity of thinking the thread would stop him casting a spell for even a second, then placed it in the locker before heading to the next set of guards. They were patting everyone down and not even trying to hide it, making a big song and dance about fining anyone who dared to try to slip a weapon past them. Jan had gone to some trouble to minimise the offense – he’d hired a bunch of female mercenaries to search the guests – but it was still going to cause a lot of trouble. But … John had to admit Jan had a point. There were so many guests – and their bodyguards and servants – heading into the hall that it might be wise to keep weapons out of their hands.

The thought mocked him as he stepped into the hall. The guests were finely dressed, escorted by servants and guards; he scowled as he noted one richly-dressed man who looked vaguely familiar, surrounded by a dozen unhappy men who were clearly bodyguards. John frowned, trying to place him … someone he’d seen at one of Katrina’s balls, perhaps? Her father had been very fond of showing off his daughter, before her face had been badly scarred … John gritted his teeth and looked away from the aristo, his eyes sweeping the rest of the room. It was hard to be sure, but there looked to be at least thirty to forty prospective bidders in the chamber. The ones who were sizing up the opposition were clearly expecting a major contest.

And half are probably deniable assets, John thought. If Greyshade starts putting on the pressure, their masters can deny they were ever sent and dare him to prove otherwise.

Scout gripped his hand. “Too many people here,” she muttered. “Nowhere to hide.”

John nodded. The auction hall reminded him of the riad, but with a roof over the courtyard and half the rooms turned into storage compartments. Someone had hung a heavy cloth over the far end of the room, presumably hiding the artefacts as they waited their turn to be shown to the crowd. John reached out with his magic, sensing wards and dead zones everywhere … and something, right at the edge of his awareness, that danced out of view the moment he turned his mind’s eye to it. The plague box? He’d thought it’s mere existence would poison the air, that they’d reach Janstown only to discover it had been turned into a charnel house, but he couldn’t sense it. Were the wards too strong? Or … or what?

A bell rang. John straightened, bracing himself as a middle-aged man stepped onto the stage. He wore a simple set of robes, slung over his body in a manner that suggested he didn’t need to worry about appearance or anything else. Jan? John didn’t know. He’d heard three different descriptions of the man, each so different it was clear they were describing three separate people. Jan – if it were Jan – looked more like a merchant than an aristo or a archaeologist digging up the past. His bushy beard was so red and wild John was sure it was fake. One moment to pull away the beard, another to dump the flowing robes and he’d look completely different, able to make an escape without being seen. There were no visible weapons or magical defences on his person, but that was meaningless. John had been an adventurer long enough to know almost anything could be used as a weapons, if you had the right mindset.

“Welcome,” Jan boomed. His voice echoed over the chamber. “We all know why we’re here, don’t we?”

John tensed. He’d heard the rumours on the streets, oddly non-specific. Something had been recovered, something very old and very important, but no one seemed to know what it was. Jan could have kept it quiet – if his people knew what it was, they might insist he threw it back in the hole and buried it again – and yet, John was sure something would leak out. The man’s staff would be bound to say something. Why hadn’t they?

“You’ve heard the stories,” Jan said. “Whispers passed through networks we all know don’t exist” – he winked – “word passed from person to person until it reached you or your masters. And now, you get to see it!”

A thrill of anticipation ran through the chamber as a pair of female servants pushed a large wooden trolley into the room. They were topless, but no one paid any attention to them. The artefact held their gaze, a device so wrapped in magic it was hard to pick out any actual details. John leaned forward, forcing himself to peer through the glow. The box was smaller than he’d expected, little bigger than the trunk he’d taken to school. It looked to be made of metal, but what sort of metal? No one knew what the ancients had used to produce their artefacts. And …

John had wondered, despite himself, if the box was a fake. He knew now it wasn’t.

And yet … his eyes narrowed. It didn’t feel poisonous. It didn’t feel as though opening the latch would mean immediate death. It felt … he wasn’t sure how to put it into words. Plague boxes were poisonous, their mere presence turning the air foul … this box was more centred, as if the magic was concealing its presence rather than exulting in its horror. And yet … it wasn't doing a very good job of hiding itself. John knew a dozen obscurification charms that would have concealed the box from everyone, unless they knew to look for it.

“This box was removed from the ground last month,” Jan said. “It was inspected by certified experts as a genuine – and working – artefact. The lucky bidder who ends up with the box could change the world.”

Or end it, John thought, darkly. Jan was being very cagey about what the box actually was. Did he know? It was possible he didn’t, but … surely, if he was planning an action, he’d take care to find out what he was actually selling first. Unless … he was hoping to convince a court he didn’t know, if it ended badly. John suspected that would end badly too. What is he playing at?

“There are a great many bidders here,” Jan continued, “so here is what we are going to do. You will each put your opening bid in an envelope and pass it to one of my girls” – he waved a hand at the topless women, who were now standing beside the box – “who will take them all into the backroom and sort them out. The ten highest bidders will then have the chance to bid higher and higher tomorrow, until a winner finally emerges. And then the box will be theirs.”

John’s eyes narrowed as a rustle of suspicion, eyes flickering at their neighbours and back again, ran through the chamber. He’d assumed the bidding would be open, but instead the first round would be secret … a good way, he acknowledged after a moment, to convince the bidders to raise their opening bids as high as possible. There would be no cagey bidding, no bidders trying to keep the costs low … he wondered, suddenly, if some of the bidders would start putting their money together in hopes of sharing the prize. Or stabbing their partners in the back as soon as possible. It was quite possible.

“You may inspect the box first,” Jan said, with a cheeky grin. “Don’t try to open it. That would be very bad.”

The crowd rustled, a handful choosing to break out of the gathering and make their way up to the stage. Two were clearly magicians, although without their focuses; the third was a veiled woman with a focus holster on her belt. John felt something odd as he studied the shapeless outfit, something that nagged at his mind. Anyone could be under there, anyone at all. It might not even be a woman … he put the thought aside as he stepped onto the stage himself and stared down at the box. It really was smaller than he’d expected – he could carry it on his back easily – and the magic seemed almost welcoming. Was it trying to get him to open the box? Or was it …?

“Interesting,” Scout commented. “My eyes have problems seeing the text,”

John nodded. The words carved into the box were written in the old tongue – he thought – but he couldn’t parse them out. It puzzled him. He’d been taught to read the language at school and he’d certainly had no trouble reading the ancient books he’d stolen from Skinlord and kept for himself. His tattoo itched as he studied the magic haze, trying to understand what it actually was. It felt like an accident someone had intended to happen. Or perhaps one waiting to happen.

They made their way back to the floor and joined the rest of the group. “I placed a bid,” Joyce said, playing her role. “We’ll see.”

John shrugged. He doubted the bid would be the highest. Even if it was, the other bidders would rapidly outbid her once the start point was established. Jan had played it smart, John admitted sourly. The bidders had had no chance to work together to offer a low starting bid … although he suspected it probably wouldn’t matter. The bidders who couldn’t offer the highest bids would be rapidly excluded anyway. Scout had slipped off somewhere, relying on her talent to keep people from noticing her. John closed his eyes and reached out with his mind, assessing the wards as they flickered and flared. They were much neater than most he’d seen, on this side of the border, but they had one glaring weakness. Whoever had crafted them had assumed the crowd wouldn’t be able to use magic without focuses.

And that would make sense, if they confiscated all the focuses, John thought, wryly. His palm itched, the sensation a grim reminder of what he’d done to himself – and his lover. But they didn’t account for someone like me.

Jan vanished into the backroom, after commanding his servants to carry food and drink to his guests. John took a sausage roll and chewed it thoughtfully, mentally putting together a plan. It wasn’t going to be easy, but if they timed it right … they’d have to work out the details as soon as they reached the riad, then purchase what they needed and get some sleep. If it worked …

He sighed inwardly. If it failed, they’d be lucky if they just wound up dead.

“Well,” Jan said, holding a collection of papers in his hand. “It seems the starting bid is seven thousand golds!”

An angry rustle ran through the crowd. John winced in sympathy. Lord Tulloch couldn’t have bid seven thousand golds unless he sold everything he had and, even if he did, it was only the starting bid. His eyes swept the chamber, trying to determine who’d placed that bid – if anyone – and who might try to top it. Jan had said only ten bidders would be allowed, but … John was pretty sure someone else would try to put forward a bid anyway, if they thought they could swing it. Someone might even try to screw up the process out of petty spite, offering a bid they couldn’t hope to pay.

“The bidders will assemble tomorrow morning to make the final bids,” Jan said, after reading a list of names. “Until then, you are free to enjoy the fruits of my home or speak to me in my private office. You may even attend the session tomorrow, if you like. It may be educational.”

And you may be encouraged to bid ever higher, John added, silently. Bastard.

The angry muttering didn’t abate as Jan and his girls wheeled the artefact behind the curtain, leaving the perspective bidders behind. John saw fists clenching as some tried to talk and others headed for Jan’s office, ready to make private bids or do whatever it took to keep their foot in the door. Joyce joined them, her face grim as she readied herself to argue on behalf of her imaginary patron. John wondered if she’d try to screw up the bidding to cause trouble for Lord Tulloch, then reminded himself Joyce was too professional. She wouldn’t take the risk.

Scout returned, seemingly unnoticed. “John?”

“We have to wait,” John said. The line of bidders seeking a private audience was growing longer. Joyce might be quite some time. “And then we can go home.”

He grinned as he watched the crowd. It didn’t look like any of them wanted to throw down their cards and go home. Some were planning bids, some were clearly making notes to cause trouble, some were even discussing alliances. Jan might have bitten off more than he could chew, John reflected. The bidders were either big shots or represented people who were. They weren’t going to take their rejection very calmly …

Joyce rejoined them. “We need to go,” she said, curtly. “We’ll take back at the room.”

She said nothing more until they were safely back in the room, behind a privacy ward. “Jan is convinced he’s on the verge of a vast fortune,” she said, shortly. “He rejected my second bid as quickly and as crudely as one might imagine. He didn’t even drop any hints about accepting a sexual bribe. Lord Tulloch just doesn’t have the money to offer him.”

“Charming,” Bard said. “How … sad … for the poor man.”

“Quite.” Joyce looked at John, her tone forbidding any further discussion of that matter. “Is it a plague box?”

John hesitated. “I don’t know,” he admitted, finally. “I don’t know what a plague box really looks like … all I have to go on is stories and most of them were no better than fairy tales and pretty as reliable. But the box doesn’t feel dangerous. There’s no hint of anything designed to ensure it can’t be opened without the proper permissions …”

“If it isn’t a plague box,” Jayne said, “what is it?”

“It’s an artefact of some kind,” John said, flatly. He was sure of that, if nothing else. “But precisely what sort of artefact I don’t know.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Joyce said. “We accepted a commission. We have a job to do. Thoughts?”

Scout leaned forward. “The box itself appears to be stored in a vault behind the auction hall,” she said. “The maid went into the vault and came out again in less than five minutes. There were no visible locks on the vault doo, suggesting they were closed and sealed by magic. The hall itself is carefully guarded …”

“But not that secure, at least not in the open areas,” Ted said. “There are limits to how much they can keep people out without starting a riot.”

“Apparently so,” Joyce agreed. “Ideas?”

“I have one,” John said. “It might work.”

He paused. “It seems we have two problems. First, we have to snatch the box itself and then we have to get it out of the hall, so we can get it out of the town before they realise it’s been stolen. That isn’t going to be easy. I didn’t manage to get a look at the vault, but my guess is that we won’t have time to crack it before we get caught.”

Ted scowled. “You can’t crack the spells?”

“If it’s a proper vault, there will be multiple spells to ensure that no one can enter or leave without the right permission,” John said. He hated to admit he couldn’t do something, but they had to understand his limitations. “Depending on who put it together, there might be a bunch of tricks and traps to catch anyone who doesn’t know precisely how to scry out the defences and open the doors. The more eccentric magicians often come up with tricks that are difficult, if not impossible, to predict. I won’t know how long it will take to break the spells until we get there – and it might be impossible.”

“We could subvert one of the maids,” Joyce said. “Some people will do anything for money.”

“They’ll be bound to his service,” Bard said. “And even if they are not, they might hesitate to take a bribe.”

Jayne scowled. “I thought that was illegal.”

“So is selling a plague box to the highest bidder,” Ted pointed out dryly. “That … and enslaving his servants? How’ll he get a job with a record like that?”

Joyce snorted. “John? What do you have in mind?”

“This,” John said. He spoke rapidly, outlining his vague concept so the others could turn it into a workable plan. There were holes in the idea, but it was their best chance … unless they tried to take the box off the highest bidder. He doubted it. The highest bidder would have a small army of bodyguards and a magician or two covering their departure. “If we can get the supplies we need, it might just work.”

 

[ChrisNuttall]

Chapter Eleven



John felt his heart begin to race as they neared the hall, his backpack feeling hot and heavy against his skin despite the sheer number of obscurification charms he’d cast on it. It was difficult to be sure it would go unnoticed, even though he was certain he’d outsmarted the wards … a task made easier by the sheer number of magicians, magical tools and bodyguards forming up in front of the hall. Jan might have insisted that only ten people would be allowed to bid, but there were at least twice that number of representatives and nearly a hundred bodyguards waiting in line. Jan’s people looked decidedly worried. John didn’t blame them. If two or three of the low bidders had formed an alliance, they could sweep the chamber by sheer numbers and take the box for themselves.



And then we’d have to steal it from them, he thought, as they passed through the security guards and stepped into the hall itself. The guard ran his hand over his belt and pockets, but otherwise let him pass without impediment. John didn’t look particularly threatening compared to the small army of heavily-armed men and magicians. That’s going to make life interesting.



Joyce caught his eye as they slipped into a side corridor. Scout and the others had put together a map of the building, or at least the public areas, but it was impossible to be sure they hadn’t missed something, either in one of the private sectors or a pocket dimension recovered from the ancient city. John knew it was unlikely, yet he dared not rule it out entirely. Jan would be a fool to allow all his security precautions to be as visible as the guards on the gates. The wards he could sense might be concealing other – nastier – wards further into the building.



A line of maids filed past them, escorted by armed guards who kept their hands on their swords as their eyes flickered from side to side. John felt a flicker of sympathy. Their master had created, intentionally or not, a very dangerous situation, one that could easily result in a great many guards injured or dead. In theory, Jan would have to send their pay to their kin; in practice, it was unlikely he’d bother. Hell, there was a very good chance Jan himself would wind up dead. The plague box – if that was what it was – was an order of magnitude more dangerous than anything else he’d dug up and sold. There was a very real risk of someone trying to open it, dooming everyone within the hall …



The walls seemed to close around him as he reached the far side of the riad and looked around. A curtain hung from the ceiling, privacy spells crawling over the cloth with an intensity that surprised him. He had to grit his teeth to withstand the sudden bombardment of mental commands, pounding against his magic. It was about as subtle as grabbing someone’s body and physically thrusting them in the direction you wanted them to go, but … he calmed himself with an effort, ignoring the commands. They weren’t dangerous to anyone without magic.



And the girls are on their way to the rendezvous point, he thought. He didn’t blame Joyce for sending them away – they’d have a chance to escape, if all hell broke loose – but it still felt as if the plan was getting a little too complicated for his peace of mind. They’ll be ready for us when the time comes.



Scout pointed at the far wall. It looked blank to the naked eye, but the more John looked at it the more he could see the concealed door to the vault. Jan had spared no expense. The spells protecting his treasure made it hard to even note the vault’s existence, let alone break through the lock and get into the chamber. John could feel the spells plucking at his thoughts, trying to erase all knowledge of the vault. A person with lesser mental discipline – and no reason to remember – might walk away with a gap in their memory, a gap they’d never know existed. Jan might even be erasing the memories of his servants as they left him …



And he has to be ready to leave himself on a moment’s notice, he recalled, as the hubbub outside grew louder. It was so loud the sound was overwhelming the soundproofing wards and stone walls. He has too many enemies who might try to attack his fortress and steal everything he owns.



Joyce pointed to a hiding place, on the other side of the rear chamber. John leaned against the wall, trying to look innocent although he knew it was pointless. This wasn’t a mission where he could reasonable claim he was looking for the restroom. He muttered a quick spell to conceal their presence, casting it without the tattoo. Hopefully, the defenders would assume no one could use magic without their permission – and a focus – and not notice any warning signs. John kept a wary mental eye on the wards as he waited, bracing himself for the first sign of trouble. If it didn’t work, they’d have to abandon the mission and run.



The hubbub grew louder. John saw small squads of guards hurrying past the chamber and into the hall, readying themselves for trouble. He didn’t envy the men. The guests were supposed to be disarmed, but only an idiot would take that for granted. Even if they were … a mob could overwhelm a squad of armed men if they didn’t have time to draw their swords and get into formation. There were so many people in the chamber that the guards would probably be getting in each other’s way.



“Settle down, settle down,” Jan boomed. “The twelve bidders will now step forward.”



John’s lips twitched. Twelve? It was ten only yesterday.



A pair of young women stepped into view, their faces blank. John felt his heart sink as he saw naked horror in their eyes. Their garments were charmed, making it difficult – if not impossible – for them to resist orders from their masters. The spells were highly illegal … John had been told it was possible for someone to figure out loopholes and break the charms from within, but it was extremely rare. The girls were effectively puppets, their bodies moving at their master’s command. The only upside, he thought, was that they’d have no incentive to report any signs of intruders. It was the only means of defiance open to them.



The girls walked past him and pressed their hands against the vault door. It slid open after a long moment, revealing a darkened chamber bristling with wards. Scout started forward, but John held up a hand to keep her from entering before she could cross the line. The girls jerked forward, their bodies rattling as if they were stumbling into the wind, and faded into the darkness. John glanced at Joyce, readying his magic as he heard the sound of the trolley being pushed towards them. They’d have only a handful of seconds to make the switch before it was too late.



He braced himself as the girls pushed the trolley into the open, the vault door sliding closed behind them. The spells were quite impressive, although there was something about them that bothered him. He put the thought aside as he cast a spell of his own, freezing both girls in a moment of time. It was a stronger spell than he wanted to use, but he doubted he could compel the girls to do anything without breaking the spells that already had them in its clutches. He wanted to break it, to give the poor bitches a chance to free themselves, but he dared not. There was no way to know how they’d react without trying it and if they reacted badly all hell would break loose.



Perhaps literally, John told himself. Who knows?



Bard and Ted guarded the curtain while John worked at fiendish speed, undoing the charms holding the plague box in place and removing it from the trolley. It was surprisingly light – he’d expected something heavier, perhaps something akin to his school trunk – but there was no time to quibble. He pulled the replacement out of his backpack, cast a pair of illusion charms over the trunk and placed it on the trolley, replacing the broken spells a moment later. It wouldn’t fool anyone for long, if they saw it in plain sight, but the spells Jan had used to protect his treasures would make it hard for anyone to get a clear look. Joyce took the plague box and forced it into the backpack, while John altered the spells on the girls. They wouldn’t even know anything had happened, he hoped. He couldn’t resist slightly undermining the compulsion spells. Who knew? Maybe they’d wear off when the two girls were alone with their master …



“Done,” he whispered.



He stepped back out of sight and motioned the others to follow suit, then undid the freeze spell. The girls kept walking forward, as if nothing had happened. A magician might sense something odd, and start putting the pieces together, but a person without magic – and perhaps caught in the grip of a spell they hated – would probably overlook the subtle clues something had happened, something they’d missed. He hoped the girls would ignore them, if there was something that broke through the haze covering their minds, but … they kept walking, their bodies oddly stiff as they stepped through the curtain and vanished. John suspected they were trying to be defiant, in the only way open to them. They might be wearing next to nothing, but there was nothing remotely sensual about the way they walked.



Poor girls, he thought, as the team inched their way further into the shadows. And there’s nothing we can do for them.



He scowled – they could tip off the Grey Men, from a safe distance – and then kept his mind’s eye on the wards. They didn’t seem to notice the switch, but that would probably change the moment they took the plague box too far from the vault. John thought the wards weren’t particularly intelligent – or connected to a living mind – yet it was difficult to be sure. He wasn’t even sure Jan wasn’t a magician. It was quite possible he’d set out to conceal his magic to give himself an ace in the hole.



Joyce caught his eye as the bidding started, the bidders shouting over each other as the bids climbed higher and higher. John heard someone shouting obscenities as the price shot too high for him, too high for anyone save a king or a very wealthy lord. He wondered, idly, why Greyshade hadn’t sent someone to place a bid, rather than arrange for the artefact to be stolen, then decided it would put a major dent in the school’s budget. Besides, trying to buy something you had a legitimate right to confiscate would be a sign of weakness.



“Nearly there,” Joyce commented. The bidding was growing higher still, with only two or three bidders remaining in the race. It was possible others were waiting to hear the final price and try to top it, rather than keep driving it ever up, but there was no way to be sure. “There’ll be a winner soon …”



John nodded, feeling sweat prickling down his back. The winner would want to inspect the merchandise and, at that point, all hell would break loose. And then … the bidding seemed to slow, to the point he wondered if the bidders had given up on victory and were trying to spite their opponents by driving the price up to breaking point. What would happen, he wondered, if Gaipajama’s agent put the price up too high even for them? Would the king disown his representative? Or pay anyway … John doubted it. In his experience, powerful men had no qualms about abandoning their subordinates if they became inconvenient. They never seemed to think it might come back to bite them.



The hall seemed to explode with noise as the final bid was made – and won. John sucked in his breath. Four hundred thousand golds … incredible. Even Gaipajama would blanch at the cost. And yet … he heard Jan congratulating the winner, even as a dull undercurrent of anger ran through the air. If someone else was planning to steal the plague box, they’d never have a better chance. They wouldn’t know it had already been stolen.



He braced himself. Any moment now …



The wards heaved and shattered. Someone shouted, an angry ugly sound. Jan started to say something, too late. His voice cut off as all hell broke loose … John grinned, feeling a twinge of dark amusement. The spell he’d woven into the replacement trunk hadn’t just exploded. It had piggybacked on Jan’s aura and used it to dismantle the wards from within, tearing them down. There was no way to know how many magicians had realised the wards were gone – he’d worked a handful of other tricks into the box – but it didn’t matter. They could run now, leaving Jan to explain himself to his angry guests.



Bard and Ted led the way, heading straight up the stairs. John followed, Joyce and Scout bringing up the rear. A handful of guards appeared at the top, their faces grim; Bard and Ted crashed into them before they had any time to react, knocking them out swiftly and brutally before scooping up their weapons and passing them out. John scowled as he looked at his sword – he was no swordsman, but even he knew the importance of cleaning one’s blade – and then kept moving, hoping for the best. How long would it take for Jan to realise what had happened? Unlike his guests, he knew the artefact was real.



Hopefully they’ll tear him to pieces before he has a chance to escape, John thought. If he’d been under the impression he’d been tricked into attending a fake auction for a fake artefact, he’d have wanted to take it out on the auctioneer too. Or his slave girls manage to break his spells and put a knife in his back.



The building shook, violently, as they kept going up. Joyce had reasoned the guards would be trained to seal all the exits, on the entirely reasonable assumption anyone trying to burgle the hall would try to get out as quickly as possible. The wards would keep anyone from going up … but the wards no longer existed and the fighting downstairs would keep the guards from hurrying up to replace them. John hoped – preyed – she was right as they crashed into a large room, crammed with empty beds and cots. The guard barracks? He didn’t know and he didn’t care. Time wasn’t on their side.



Scout’s voice was urgent. “They’re coming after us.”



John looked back. The sound downstairs was growing louder, but … he could hear footsteps running up the stairs behind them. He stepped aside to allow Scout and Joyce to pass, then hurled a pair of tripping spells down the stairs. They were childish tricks, the sort of thing he’d learnt to do at school, but they’d buy a few moments of time. He heard someone swear further down the stairs, someone else cry out in pain … he gritted his teeth and kept going, breathing a sigh of relief as they reached the top floor. The roof was solid, at least to the naked eye, but Bard eyed it and then jabbed his sword into the material. It caved in so rapidly John could have sworn it was done with magic.



Scout flowed to the rooftop, then helped them to clamber up. Joyce didn’t hesitate. She jabbed a finger to the east, ordering them to hop from rooftop to rooftop. The town felt … eerie. John could hear fighting outside the hall, in the cramped streets and alleyways below, but he couldn’t see anything and in fact the air felt remarkably peaceful. It puzzled him as he followed Joyce across the rooftops, taking care to make sure of his footing. The rooftops were confusing. Some parts looked safe yet couldn’t take his weight; other parts looked fragile, but were safe. A handful of street children, hiding on the roofs, scattered as the team rushed past them, their eyes bright with alarm. John heard someone roaring with angry behind them and turned to see a magician, waving his focus frantically as he tried to cast a particularly nasty spell. John tried not to show his contempt as he pointed his finger at the magician and cast a spell of his own. The magician staggered backwards as John’s spell struck him and tumbled to the streets below. The nasty part of John’s mind insisted he’d be fine. He’d land on his head.



Idiot, he thought, darkly. The magician might have gone to school, but he certainly hadn’t taken any duelling classes. He shouldn’t have relied on a spell that took more than a couple of seconds to cast.



The whole town seemed to shudder below him as word spread rapidly, the fighting spilling further and further from the hall. John couldn’t tell who was on what side, or what they were fighting for, but it didn’t matter. The longer it took to sort out the confusion, the harder it would be for anyone to organise pursuit. He followed Joyce across the final set of rooftops and then paused on top of a small guardhouse. The guards were alert, but unprepared for Bard and Ted. The two men dropped down in the midst of the guards and tore them to pieces, then headed into the badlands. John and the others followed.



“We did it,” John said. He hadn’t expected the plan to work quite that well. There’d been too many things that could go wrong. “We did it!”



“Bite your tongue,” Joyce said, sharply. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

 

[ChrisNuttall]

Chapter Twelve



The sound behind them seemed to grow louder, despite the distance, as they hurried into the badlands to the rendezvous point. John suspected that was a bad sign. The fighting couldn’t go on forever, even if Jan and his guards really had been torn to pieces. Someone would realise what had happened and come after them … right? There’d been at least one person who’d seen them leave and the street children would betray them, if someone offered a bribe. And then …



He scowled inwardly. There’d been no time to find a way to deter pursuit. Anything they could have done to make life harder for the enemy would have risked setting off alarms far too early … and, in truth, there hadn’t been enough time to do it. The plans they’d considered – poisoning the horses or setting fire to the town – would have been just too unreliable. And yet … he put the thought out of his head as he cleared the sand dune and saw the horses waiting for them. Jayne and Jane looked relieved. They’d clearly been wondering how long they could safely wait before abandoning their teammates and heading out to find safety somewhere else.



“We saw more horsemen to the east,” Jayne said, as the team scrambled onto their horses. “I think they’re raiders or army scouts.”



Joyce grimaced. “So much for the plan to head east,” she said. “We’ll have to take the long way around.”



John braced himself as Scout jumped up beside him, then dug in his spurs and reared the horse around to follow Ted. The sergeant was already cantering west, heading towards the dig and the ruined lands beyond. John sucked in his breath as he saw the signs of ancient buildings – some clearly understandable, others completely mysterious – half-buried in the sand and earth. Tainted magic hung in the air, making him feel as though he was galloping through a poisonous fog. The ruined city was teeming with life, from lone explorers to entire teams of fortune-hunters looking for active artefacts. John wondered, idly, how many of them worked for Jan. The man hadn’t given the impression of someone who did his own dirty work.



He shivered as his eyes glided over a ruined building, one that reminded him of the structures near Skinlord’s library. The tainted magic grew stronger, a grim reminder that anyone who stepped into the building took their lives in their hands. They – or their children – might pay an awful price for their carelessness. He was surprised to note a pair of tents on the far side of the structure, suggesting someone was sleeping on the site. That was dangerous beyond words.



Prisoners, he thought, as he spied a group of chained men digging with their bare hands. That’s what they’re using them for.



He shuddered. Chain gangs weren’t that uncommon to the east – there was no point in wasting money on a jail if you could make criminals do the dirty work no one wanted to be paid to do – but sending them into the wasteland was a long and slow death sentence … if the prisoners were lucky. It would be kinder to hang them from the nearest tree and leave the bodies to rot. And yet … he found his eyes wandering further to the west, picking out hints of other buildings buried beneath the earth. Who knew what else might be found, if one looked for them? The plague box might wind up being the least of it.



“Shit,” Scout muttered.



John glanced back, feeling a twinge of Déjà vu. A handful of horsemen were coming into view, chasing them. It was hardly the first time – he thought they’d been chased at least five times in the last year – but it was likely to be the worst. They were riding into the unknown, into lands unknown to them and yet all too well known to the enemy. Jan had gotten organised faster than John had thought possible, unless he’d expected trouble and had men on standby to give chase. And yet, if he’d expected something to go wrong, why hadn’t he tried harder to secure his hall?



“Ride harder,” Joyce called. “We’ll lose them in the badlands.”



John nodded, digging in his spurs. The horses were fresh, but they’d spent the last two hours in the bright sunlight and that would have taken a toll. Jan’s men would have kept their horses in the stables, under cover … in hindsight, poisoning the horses might not have been such a bad idea after all. Horses were fast – and their horses were faster than most – but there were limits. He doubted his steed could gallop flat-out for more than an hour and, in truth, that would be pushing their luck.



Scout’s grip tightened. “We might have to breakaway.”



“If there’s no other choice,” John said. “The risks …”



He scowled. Surrender wasn’t an option. They’d be lucky if they were just killed on the spot. His eyes drifted to the plague box, wondering if they could use it … he killed that thought before it had a chance to start weaselling any further into his mind. The box was too dangerous, not least because they didn’t have the slightest idea how to use it. For all he knew, it was a suicide device. It wouldn’t be the first thing he’d discovered that was intended to serve as a last resort, taking down the caster as well as the target.



The horse twitched under him as it galloped harder, half-buried buildings blurring into a mass of faint impressions and tainted magic as the team raced through the city and out into the badlands beyond. John glanced back, cursing under his breath as he spotted the enemy still in pursuit. Heading further west was going to be dangerous as hell, from pockets of wild magic and elementals to weirdling tribes … not, he supposed, that they were any less dangerous than the men behind them. Something was going to have to be done, and quickly. He searched his mind for spells, shaping them mentally as he prepared his magic. If he could confuse them long enough for the team to escape …



“They know what’s ahead of us,” Scout said, flatly. “And they’re herding us west.”



John swallowed, tasting sand in his throat. Scout was right. The enemy horsemen could run them down, if they pushed their horses to the limit. Chancy, but probably doable if they thought they could handle the team. It would be their best chance to catch them and recover the box, unless they thought there was something up ahead that would do it for them. John raised his eyes, scanning the horizon. The landscape was shifting, alternatively flat and hilly … an effect, he knew all too well, caused by tainted magic. Anything could be out there, anything at all.



His mind raced, searching for options. They dared not veer north or south, not when they’d be run down quickly, and they dared not keep heading into the unknown. Turning to attack the enemy might work, but there was an awful lot of horsemen and probably at least one or two magicians. And if they lost instead … it would be the end. He’d be better off slitting his own throat rather than falling into enemy hands.



And we can’t get around them to head east, he thought. It would be galling, to say the least, to run straight to the Grey Men, but it would be better than the alternative. We can’t even get back to Debone or Ingalls or one of the other neutral towns.



Joyce raised a hand. “We’re going to have to breakaway,” she said, tartly. Her voice sounded thin and worn against the dry air. “Scout?”



“I’m ready,” Scout said.



“I …” John wanted to argue, to say they needed to come up with a better tactic, but he knew Scout would never forgive him. Besides, he couldn’t think of anything better. “When do we jump?”



Joyce looked west, into the badlands. “Steer towards those rocks,” she ordered, finally. “And prepare to cast a masking spell.”



John nodded, clutching his focus. He had no idea if the enemy magician he’d blasted was still alive, but the mere fact he’d used magic inside the enemy wards was proof he could cast spells without a focus. And yet … he shaped a spell, channelling magic through the focus so he could keep it going as long as possible. It might work long enough to give them a chance to escape.



“You know the plan,” Joyce said. “Meet us in the town.”



Scout nodded. “I know.”



John looked at her, feeling like a heel. “Be safe, alright?”



Joyce caught his eye. “As soon as we are behind the rocks, cast the spell.”



The rocks looked up, scarred and pitted by the elements and wild magic. John stuck his focus in the air and cast the spell, directing a stream of magic towards the enemy. Sand flew up from the ground and lashed towards them, moving with terrifying speed. The enemy magicians started to counter it – he could feel their spells – but they’d be blind for a few short seconds. He passed the reins to Scout, then hopped off the horse and braced himself as the others hooked their horses to Scout’s and then joined him. His masking spell shimmed into view as Scout galloped onwards, leaving the rest of them behind. He couldn’t decide if she’d been sent to die or if she was the only one who was likely to escape.



Joyce touched his shoulder. “She’ll be fine.”



John barely heard her as he – and the girls – shrouded the team in a concealment spell. It was very far from perfect, but the enemy knew the team was still on horseback, galloping away as fast as their horses could carry them. They had no reason to question what they were seeing and yet … John heard Jayne whimper as the enemy horses thundered past, their hooves shaking the ground. John told himself Scout’s horses could run faster, now the team had hopped off their mounts, but he feared the worst. She might have to abandon the horses to escape.



Horses can be replaced, he told himself firmly. The beasts were expensive, but Scout was priceless. And she can wait until dark and then come find us.



The enemy troops kept galloping, heading into the distance without looking back. John felt a twinge of sympathy, despite everything. Jan had been offered a large fortune for the plague box, the box now riding on Joyce’s back. If his men came back without the box, who knew how he’d react? John had met bosses who’d be understanding and bosses who had no qualms about murdering their own men, if they failed to carry out their orders. Would Jan even have the money to pay his men? John didn’t know, but he was sure of one thing. Jan was not going to let the whole affair pass. People had fought wars and blood feuds along the edge of civilisation over far smaller sums of money.



He sagged against the rock, taking a moment to gather himself as Bard and Ted checked to make sure there weren’t more enemy troops coming after them. John had no idea how quickly Jan could send reinforcements … given the chaos they’d left in their wake, it was quite possible Jan was already dead and his organisation flailing itself to pieces … no, he told himself, that was dangerously optimistic. They had to assume the worst, not the best. And if the best happened …



“Get your cloaks on,” Joyce ordered, holding out a saddlebag. “It’s time to move.”



John nodded. It was early afternoon and yet, the sun seemed to be rising ever higher in the sky. He scowled as he pulled the cloak over his head, then helped Jayne with hers before they started to walk. The badlands were known for optical illusions and mirages, caused by tainted magic and tricks of the light … the things he’d seen, as alarming as they were, were nothing compared to some of the stories he’d heard. Rocks melting into puddles, people becoming monsters or animals or objects, the skies themselves screaming at passing wagon trains … a year ago, he would have dismissed them all as nonsense. Now, he wasn’t so sure.



Jayne caught his eye. “She’ll be fine, won’t she?”



“She’ll either abandon the horses or simply outrun them,” John said, trying to sound reassuring even though he didn’t feel it. The enemy had been acting oddly, as if they’d been content to let the team wear out their horses rather than try to run them down. Scout might be about to discover just what lurked to the west. “She’ll meet us in town.”



“Deadwood,” Joyce said. “That’s what the town is called.”



John glanced at her. “Is it safe?”



“Of course not,” Joyce said. “But it isn’t under Jan’s control and half of the population would sooner fight a hopeless fight than bend the knee to anyone. There’s no law and order and you can do anything there, as long as you have money and force of arms.”



“Or have anything done to you, if you don’t,” Bard put in. “But they won’t ask questions and that’s a good thing.”



John scowled, inwardly, as the conservation drained away. The ground was flat, but the walk seemed to be growing harder. He kept an eye on the soil, all too aware there might be something unpleasant underneath. The ground was marked with dry rivers and gullies – he looked up, into the cloudless sky, then recalled the rain he’d seen a few days ago. Sudden rainstorms and flash floods would be an ever-present threat, he decided, the water coming and going before anyone had a chance to set up more collectors. He wondered, tiredly, why the landscape wasn’t being prepped for farming, then shook his head. There were few settlers who’d come out this far, not if they wanted to farm. The land up north was supposed to be much better.



And people are often reluctant to settle close to old ruins, John reminded himself. They fear what might lurk within them.



His thoughts started to fade as he concentrated on walking, the minutes and hours blurring together into an omnipresent now. He could barely spare a thought for Jane and Jayne as they walked, even though neither of them had anything like his endurance … and he was the physically weakest member of the team. Or at least he’d been the weakest … Scout was surprisingly strong, given her small size, and Joyce, Bard and Ted practically had muscles on their muscles. The girls … he felt his eyes start to ache, as if he were on the verge of falling asleep. If he was having trouble, Jane and Jayne had to be on the verge of death.



They have been living out here for years, he reminded himself. They know how to cope.



The day seemed to wear on. It was hard to believe they were making any progress. There were no roads, no dirt tracks … not even hints of animals passing through the dry lands. John feared they were lost, even though he had faith in Joyce’s ability to navigate the badlands. If he’d been on his own, he would have been lost for sure. And yet … the wind shifted, blowing another haze of tainted magic into his face. He could barely keep himself from gagging.



“There,” Joyce said. Her voice sounded cracked and broken. John was almost relieved. He’d never liked being the first person to call a halt. “You can see it …”



John rubbed his eyes and peered forward. The sky was darkening … it had been darkening for quite some time, he realised dully, but he’d only just become aware of it. They’d been damn lucky they hadn’t been attacked, not in their state. The girls looked dead on their feet and, to be honest, the older men didn’t look much better. He scowled as he stared at the town, the cluster of wooden buildings seemingly on the verge of collapse. Deadwood, Joyce had called it. John could see why. The tents surrounding the buildings looked studier than the wooden houses …



He kept his hand near his focus as they walked down to the town. There weren’t many people visible, almost all men. Hungry eyes followed Jane and Jayne as they walked … John cursed under his breath. This far from the border, men outnumbered women twenty to one. There might be a brothel in the town – up close, Deadwood was larger than he’d thought – but if there wasn’t … he shuddered. It wasn’t uncommon for women to be kidnapped, taken far from their homes and sold to prospective husbands – or brothels. He’d rescued a few of them, over the last year. If the team looked vulnerable … it was quite likely someone would try their luck. And then …



“There’s an inn over there,” Joyce said. “Let me do the talking.”



John nodded, bracing himself. The inn looked better than the last one, but the clientele looked a great deal worse. Joyce didn’t seem worried; Jane and Jayne kept their hands near their focuses, ready to draw them and teach any would-be rapists a lesson. John kicked himself for not teaching them a few simpler protective spells. Katrina and the rest of the female students had been given private lessons, ranging from simple spells to terrify a rapist to charms that would ensure he never had sex with anyone ever again.



Joyce spoke briefly to the innkeeper, then passed him a handful of coins in exchange for a set of keys. “Upstairs,” she said, shortly. “We’ll be back on the road tomorrow.”



Bard caught her eye. “What did you tell him?”



“Diggers, down on our luck,” Joyce said. “Better to be taken for idiots then thieves.”

 

[ChrisNuttall]

Chapter Thirteen



John awoke, feeling like death warmed over.



The bed felt rough and the blanket smelled as if it hadn’t been cleaned for a week. His clothes itched – he hadn’t bothered to undress when he’d stumbled into bed – and sand fell into the sheets as he sat upright. Joyce, Jayne and Jane were lying in the other bed; Ted sat on a chair, his eyes wide open. There was no sign of Bard.



“You look ghastly,” Ted said, shortly. “Did you sleep well?”



“I slept?” John wasn’t sure. If it hadn’t been for the light streaming through the window, he’d have thought he hadn’t slept at all. “Did I really?”



“You snored so loudly I thought you were going to keep everyone else awake,” Ted said, standing. “You take watch for a bit.”



John nodded, standing himself. “Where’s Bard?”



“Gone looking for supplies, and information,” Ted said. “There’s no sign of Scout.”



John gritted his teeth, feeling as if he’d aged years overnight. People aged quickly along the border, but … he shook his head, worry gnawing at his gut. Scout was good – brilliant, even – at sneaking around, yet she’d been in bright sunlight, weakening her talents to the point of near-uselessness. Perhaps she’d slipped off the horses and left them galloping west, while she hid until the hunters charged past and then headed north herself. She knew where they’d gone, didn’t she? She’d have no trouble tracking them down.



He took the seat and rested his hands on his lap, trying to clear his thoughts. It was hard to resist the temptation to close his eyes and go back to sleep, even though he knew Joyce would beat the shit out of him if he fell asleep on watch. They were in unfriendly territory. The locals might not work for Jan and his crew, but they’d happily sell the team out if they were offered a suitable bribe. John had heard all kinds of tales about brave and noble and honourable men along the frontier, men who never broke their word, but real life had a habit of wearing such people down. If, of course, they’d ever really existed …



His heart sank. Scout hadn’t rejoined them. Where was she? If she was on horseback, she should have caught up with them by now. If she’d ditched the horses … he didn’t know. It was impossible to even guess where she was … had she been caught? He didn’t know that either. If Jan had her as his prisoner and demanded the plague box in exchange … what would happen then?



John let out a breath, his eyes wandering across the backpack. The plague box was inside and yet … his eyes narrowed as he realised it’s sheer presence really wasn’t poisoning the air. He’d woven powerful obscurification charms into the backpack, as well as a handful of others intended to keep someone from stealing the bag without the slightest idea of what it held, but … surely, the box should have more of an effect than that. He hadn’t sensed danger when he’d looked at it earlier, before they’d stolen it. Had they been conned themselves?



No, he told himself. It’s an artefact. It has to be.



He sucked in his breath. It was hard, so hard, to resist the temptation to open the box and have a look inside. And yet, if Greyshade was right and it really was a plague box …



His mind churned. The whole affair just didn’t make sense.



We stole the artefact, he told himself. But what did we really steal?



Joyce stirred. “Curiosity killed the cat.”



John tried not to jump as she stood. How long had she been watching him? Joyce was a scarily-competent hunter and tracker, as well as everything else; John had seen her stand motionless for hours, staying so still her prey had eventually concluded she was just part of the scenery and wandered into her trap. She’d been awake for … how long? He wanted to scream at her, to demand to know if she trusted him … to demand to know what had happened to Scout. But in truth he didn’t dare. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.



“It feels wrong,” he said, finally. “Wouldn’t a plague box feel more dangerous?”



“You’d think,” Joyce agreed. “But the more dangerous it looked, the more likely someone would try to destroy it.”



John frowned. Bard had once told him the most dangerous man Bard had ever known had looked completely harmless. John could see the appeal. A man who swaggered around in outfits that revealed his muscles, and perhaps carried a number of weapons, would look so dangerous people would start reacting to him. John knew and loathed a handful of men who acted like that and, when he was too close to them, he started readying killing spells. A man who looked completely harmless would have no trouble lulling people into a false sense of security … a trick, John noted, Bard used to very great effect himself. It was easy to see him as a terrible singer, a man who had nothing beneath a pretty face and cocky attitude … and miss a blademaster so capable he could cut down a small army of guards without raising a sweat …



And yet, people sometimes pick fights with him because he looks harmless, John thought. It might be better to look dangerous enough to convince people not to mess with him, but not so dangerous they start thinking about pre-emptive strikes.



“Perhaps,” he said, finally. “How far out of our way have we gone?”



“At least three days,” Joyce said. “The plan was to head east to Fishertown and make the trade there. That won’t be possible, at least until we know the lie of the land.”



John nodded, shortly, as there was a knock on the door. Bard stepped in, carrying a small bag of biscuits and dried meat. John allowed himself a moment of relief as Bard handed round half the food, leaving the rest for the sleepers. John had no idea how long Jane and Jayne would need to sleep, but they might as well get it while they could. They’d be on the move again soon enough.



“The town is pretty quiet,” Bard said. “Not much to do here really, beyond fence stolen goods and drink oneself to death. Outlaw paradise, but one that doesn’t last very long. I spoke to a couple of people who chatted about teams heading west, to see what they can dig up and bring back here. Jan seems to have rounded up most of the diggers and put them to work in Janstown.”



“No great surprise there,” Joyce commented. “Did you hear anything?”



“Nothing specific,” Bard said, slowly. “Odd, don’t you think?”



John chewed his biscuits and meat thoughtfully. It was odd. Rumours tended to spread at impossible speeds, even if they appeared completely insane. They weren’t that far from Janstown. He’d have expected some kind of rumour to reach Deadwood, although it might have been warped and twisted into something unrecognisable. Jan was hardly going to let the affair rest …



Unless Janstown really was attacked, John thought, coldly. What’s happening back there?



He shook his head, feeling ice in his heart despite the heat. Janstown didn’t matter. Scout mattered. Where was she? He heard Jane and Jayne wake up and turned away to give them what little privacy he could, all the while his head spinning with fears and unanswered questions. Where was Scout? What were they going to do now?



Joyce seemed to read his thoughts. “We’ll stay here for a day or two,” she said. “When Scout joins us, we’ll decide what to do next.”



And how long will you wait for her, John asked himself, before you decide to leave her behind?



He didn’t dare ask. Instead, he waited for Jayne and Jane to finish their breakfast and then gave them an impromptu magic lesson. It would have been easier if they’d had a chance to purchase some of the books, but he could tell them the important details from memory and then help them to channel their power to cast the spells. He’d considered giving them tattoos – and showing them how to channel magic though the tattoo rather than a focus – yet the memory of Katrina’s near-death and Skinlord’s immolation haunted him. He’d give them the option later, when he had a chance …



The window clicked. He turned, one hand dropping to his focus before Scout flowed into the room. He was on his feet before his mind quite realised what he was doing, his arms enfolding her into a hug. Scout kissed his nose, then gently pushed him away. John sensed the urgency in her motion and let her go. Her face was grim.



“We have a problem,” she said. “A big one.”



John felt his blood run cold. “What happened?”



“I stabled the horses on the edge of town, then went to find you,” Scout said. “A team of hunters were passing through, handing out wanted posters with our faces on them … nearly all of our faces. Joyce, Ted, Bard and John are mentioned by name.”



“What?” Joyce looked as astonished as John had ever seen her. “By name?”



“By name,” Scout confirmed. She unfurled a poster and held it out. “I’m noted, but there’s no drawing of me. Hans is mentioned too as still being one of us. Jayne and Jane aren’t mentioned at all. And the reward is pretty high.”



“Yeah,” Bard said. “We could live like kings if we could collect the reward on ourselves and then escape before the hammer comes down.”



John shot him a sharp look. “Don’t you think we’d have problems getting away with it?”



“It’s an old scam,” Bard said. “A masked dude, and everyone knows he’s trustworthy because he’s wearing a mask, captures a criminal and hands him over to the town lawman in exchange for a reward. The money is handed over, then the criminal breaks free of his chains or gets broken out of the cell and runs. We could do it …”



“Not here, not now,” Joyce said. Her lips twitched into a humourless smile. “Jan will not let us collect the bounty until after our heads are parted from our bodies.”



John took the poster and sucked in his breath. The drawing of him was … odd, as if the drawer wasn’t quite up to date. He’d kept his hair short – most male magicians did – but the drawer hadn’t included the scars even though they had noted the outfit he’d been wearing yesterday. And yet, it was dangerously accurate. Joyce and Ted weren’t drawn anything like so well; Bard and Hans were so roughly drawn it was hard to believe anyone would look at them and conclude they were the people on the wanted poster.



“No name,” Bard said, more seriously. “Who’s after us?”



“Everyone, from what I heard,” Scout said. “There are posters from Jan, offering a sizable rewards for our capture. There are bounties placed by a bunch of others, including Gaipajama – my guess is that they’re all bidders. Oh, and pretty much all of them say they’ll only pay if we’re alive. I’m pretty sure you can guess why.”



John looked at the backpack. “They want to know what happened to the box.”



“And they’re putting out a lot of money to find out,” Ted said. His gravelly voice caught and held their attention. “There’s no way we can trust anyone here. The reward from Gaipajama alone would be enough to set our captors up for life.”



“And that means there’ll be people willing to take us from our captors and claim the bounty themselves,” Bard said. “If they really need to keep us alive, it’ll give us some options …”



“They could break our legs without killing us,” Joyce snapped, cutting him off. “Do you think you could walk on a broken leg?”



Bard made a show of considering it. “Well, if we were desperate …”



“No,” Joyce said, shortly. “Just … no.”



John studied the poster thoughtfully. “Who sent this particular poster?”



“I don’t know,” Scout said. “There’s no name. Just an address in an eastern town.”



“Odd,” John mused. The drawing of him was damn near perfect. Had someone caught a glimpse of him and put two and two together? Or … Katrina’s family? It was possible, he supposed, that they’d sent someone to the auction. He hadn’t recognised any of the other bidders, but that was meaningless. Her father had had more servants than he’d had hot dinners. “How do they know me?”



Joyce looked disturbed. “Good question,”



“And how do they know Hans?” Ted’s voice shook the room. “He’s dead!”



“They might know us,” Bard said, after a moment. “They recognise two of us and think the rest are here – including Hans, if they never heard about his death. It isn’t as if we told the world.”



“Possible,” Joyce agreed. “That might explain why there’s no mention of Jayne and Jane. What now?”



“The innkeeper is no longer trustworthy,” Ted said. “I don’t care how much you paid him. That reward” – he waved a hand at the poster – “is going to have him betraying us faster than Baron Peterson betrayed Lord James. That bastard didn’t get away with it. The innkeeper will.”



“No one will ever trust him again,” Bard said.



“So what?” Ted took the poster and held it up. “There are five thousand very good reasons, right here and right now, for him not to give a shit about trust! He can betray us, collect the reward, and fuck off east. A quick change of name, a quick purchase of another inn or perhaps some land … no one will ever know he betrayed us for money. We can’t stay here.”



“The horses are stabled on the edge of town,” Scout said. “If we get them now …”



“We get chased down, again,” Ted said. “What happened to you?”



“Kept going west, then changed course and vanished when their horses started to flag,” Scout said, simply. “They may think I kept heading west until the sun came down.”



John doubted it. The maps – the old maps – made it clear there were nearly three thousand miles between the east coast settlements and the ocean on the far side of the tainted lands. It was unlikely there were many rogue settlements further west than Janstown and even if there were, they’d be dominated by weirdlings rather than pureblood humans. No, Jan’s men would likely deduce Scout hadn’t kept going straight on, but headed east or west the moment she thought she was clear. And then … what?



“No,” Ted agreed. “They’ll expect you to have changed course and gone … where?”



“It doesn’t matter,” Joyce said, briskly. “Right now, we have to be elsewhere.”



She cleared her throat. “Ted, change your looks a bit and take Jayne and Jane to buy camping supplies,” she continued. “Scout, shadow him from a distance. If someone recognises him, either intervene or come back here to tell me what happened. John, you and Bard can help me pack up here. We’ll leave as soon as the others return.”



Bard frowned. “Perhaps it would be wiser to really head west. If they sent posters here, they’ll have sent them everywhere. By the time we reach the next town, everyone within a hundred miles will be watching for us. Heading west might be safer.”



“And then they’d be no hope of getting paid,” Joyce said, curtly. “And then …?”



“And then what?” Bard’s voice hardened. “There’s at least ten different people offering shitloads of money for our capture. Do you think this is going to simply … go away?”



John tensed. He’d never heard Bard talk to Joyce – or anyone – like that before. Never. He’d had the impression they were very close … lovers, even, although it was hard to be sure. They certainly trusted each other completely …



“No,” Joyce said. She didn’t try to sugar-coat the bad news. “But if we get our hands on the money, we will be able to change our names and establish new identities, as well as making sure the box stays out of unfriendly hands. Our patron can give us everything we need to cut all ties with the past; new faces, new documents, new everything …”



“Or …” John frowned as a thought stuck him. “Scout, do any of the posters mention the box?”



“No,” Scout said. “Nothing about it, not even a single word.”



“Odd,” John said. There was something about the whole affair that still didn’t make sense. “We’re not important. The box is important. And yet, they don’t ask about the box, just us.”



“If everyone knew what the box was, or at least what we think it is, they’d try to seize the box instead of us,” Joyce pointed out. “Wouldn’t they?”



“I don’t know,” Joyce said. “Wouldn’t they demand our luggage too?”



“Bounty hunters would normally steal it for themselves,” Ted said. His lips twisted in disgust. “Bastards take everything their prey carries and fuck them if they’re innocent. If the goods are stolen, fuck the bastards who lost them too.”



“Yeah,” Bard agreed. “But given what the box is … it’s a little odd.”



“Yeah,” John echoed. Odd wasn’t the word. A plague box could be – would be – utterly lethal if someone opened it without having the slightest idea what they were doing. If nothing else, surely there should be a clear warning … don’t open the box if you want to live. And yet, even a vague warning would convince bounty hunters the box was worth far more than it seemed. “It makes no sense.”



“Right now, it isn’t an immediate problem,” Joyce said. She let out a long breath. “We have to get out of here before it’s too late.”



“Got it,” Bard said. “I’ll go tie up the innkeeper.”



Joyce snorted. “That might actually be a good idea.”

 

[Bear Ribs]

It's fanart Friday. Have some.

Gotta say it wasn't easy figuring out what John looked like. I had to go back and read the previous book just to learn his focus was a tattoo on his hand, at first I thought his focus was a wand or something. I didn't even get that he had short hair until chapter 13.

 

[ChrisNuttall]

It's fanart Friday. Have some.

Gotta say it wasn't easy figuring out what John looked like. I had to go back and read the previous book just to learn his focus was a tattoo on his hand, at first I thought his focus was a wand or something. I didn't even get that he had short hair until chapter 13.

That's cool. Can I post it on my FB? If so, what attribution?

Chris

 

[Bear Ribs]

I don't mind you posting it as you wish but wait a bit please, I'm working on getting a signature for my stuff instead of just posting the lineart like I usually do so I'll throw down a slightly updated version.

 

[ChrisNuttall]

I don't mind you posting it as you wish but wait a bit please, I'm working on getting a signature for my stuff instead of just posting the lineart like I usually do so I'll throw down a slightly updated version.

Cool. Drop me a PM when you're done. This thread is meant to be gone.