Bonifacius Vehl wasn't a man who dwelled on much ceremony. He didn't like
it, thus, he rarely tolerated it when he didn't have to. So when he dropped everything on his schedule and headed to Vodacce
with barely any notice, he was a bit upset that he was kept waiting. Granted, it was only for twenty minutes, but Vehl hated
having to wait while Tadicia Corelli's "audience chamber" was prepared.
Vehl looked around at the Corelli residence.
It cost a ridiculous amount of money. Vehl recognized the style; his own winter home in Castille was designed by the same
architect. It felt less like a home, more like a temple. Broad steps everywhere, rooms were sunk beneath the hallways and
seemingly organized with no respect to practicality, great sweeping butresses. All of the walls were black-striated white
marble, the carpets a soft green that reminded Vehl of the artificial coloring used for breath mints. Plants hung from or
stood on every flat plane in the house, and combined with the waterfall directly in the center of the giant foyer, made the
house seem a temple to nature. Vehl preferred his homes to be static and clean, like a tastefully decorated laboratory. Though,
admittedly, he rarely came home for any reason other than to sleep.
When the butler (Vehl suspected he was a butler,
but the man never identified himself beyond his last name: Marchetti) finally came for Vehl, he was nodding off where he stood.
Glad to be ushered in, Vehl followed as quickly as was decorously possible.
The "audience chamber" was even worse than
the foyer. Vehl had heard from a Vodacce friend that the Ruota kept live spiders in their buildings to take care of vermin.
He saw his friend was right. Across the high-vaulted ceiling stretched dozens of protrusions with no other purpose than to
serve as anchors for the large spiders (some as the size of Vehl's face) to weave their webs. Occasionally, one would skitter
across its giant work.
Tadicia Corelli sat at a glass table that looked fit to be outside a café, if it weren't crystal
carved in the shape of the symbol of the Ruota. On the table, in the center, sat a loaf of bread, a knife, a tub of butter,
a bottle of wine in a bucket of ice, and two champagne glasses. This, Vehl was prepared for, though he found it baffling.
Whenever a Raggia agreed to meet with someone regarding their fate, the tradition of the Ruota demanded that she offer buttered
bread and wine to her guest. No one outside of the Ruota knew why, and, Vehl imagined, the Ruota probably didn't know either.
The
woman sitting at the table was formidable, Vehl could tell that with a glance. She sat rigidly, as if a soldier standing at
attention. She looked to be in her late forties, a contemporary of Vehl's. Her eminently tasteful choice of attire for this
meeting fell quite flat when weighted with the significance of the brooch on her collar, a spider sitting amidst a great web.
Most anyone who saw that symbol in Theah knew what it meant right away, and knew to take it very seriously. She looked up
at Vehl as he approached, her left eyebrow arching as he closed in. Vehl could tell in that brief eye contact that he was
dealing with his equal in terms of canniness. A prominent strega of the Ruota and one of the wealthiest men in the world,
eyeing each other as two deulists would. For the first time in months, Vehl was excited, though he didn't show it. For once,
he knew not what would happen, and he was facing someone on a level playing field.
Setting down the black-and-grey
cat she was stroking indolently, Tadicia Corelli rose as Vehl reached the table. "Signore Vehl," she said brusquely, poring
over him.
"Signora Corelli," Vehl replied cooly, with a near-perfect Vodacce accent.
"Buono," Tadicia smiled,
motioning for Vehl to sit as she lowered her self to the same position across from him. "I was hoping that you spoke Vodacce.
My Vendel is not so good."
"Rest easy," Vehl replied. "I trade with your countrymen on a regular basis. They find it
endearing that I can speak your language."
The relieved smile fell off of Tadicia's face like a stone pushed off a
cliff. "Be that as it may, Signore Vehl, we have business to attend to. I come to offer you knowledge, that you may give me
assistance in knowing yourself." She spoke the last sentence as a rote.
Vehl recognized the ceremony. "And I accept
your knowledge, and in so doing assist you."
"You have come to my house, you must stay to eat," Tadicia replied, with
what was clearly decades of recitation behind her. With what looked to be the delicate movements of a machine rather a being
of flesh and blood, Tadicia produced two slices of bread, both held in one hand, and buttered them with the knife in the other,
a feat which someone with no practice could not have done on the first try without seriously scoring the bread. She set one
slice before herself and Vehl, then uncorked the bottle of champagne and filled both glasses, Vehl's first, then hers. Both
took one bite of the bread, one sip of the wine.
Vehl replied with the last part of the ritual: "You are most generous."
This out of the way, Tadicia set her bread down nest to the glass and steepled
her fingers. "I was doing one of my readings this Sunday when I saw my own life-strand tied to your own."
"I see. And
what form of strand was it that tied ours together?" Vehl continued to eat his bread. It was very good, he mused.
"One
of love." At this, Vehl arched an eyebrow. "Not between us, mind you. It is more complicated than that. The third strand in
this bundle is that of my daughter, Donata. She has gone missing. I love her, and this ties the three of us together with
the others."
"Others?"
"Two strands lead to Inismore, but they are moving. Another leads back to Vendel, alongside
your strand. A third runs to Montaigne, but it starts in Gossia."
"Mmmm," Vehl nodded. "So, you and I, your daughter,
and four more people are all involved. Do you have any idea who they are?"
"No," Tadicia replied. "I only know that my daughter is in Inismore, with
the fourth and fifth individuals, who may or may not be related to one another."
"I see. And how will this all concern
me?"
"I want you to retrieve her."
She appeared utterly serious, so Vehl strangled the laugh rising in his throat.
What could Vehl do to find one girl that the Ruota itself couldn't? "Me? Why me?"
"Because you are capable of doing
it, Vehl. That is what ties you to us. Only you can facilitate my daughter's return. I've read the strands, and the entirety
of the Ruota is incapable of acting to return my daughter, from the Centrara to the janitors who clean our buildings."
Vehl
shifted in his chair. He humored the talk of sorcery, since he assumed it was a ritual of the Ruota. But Tadicia Corelli appeared
to be basing this decision solely on what she 'saw in the strands' and the nature of the 'reading' galled her to no end. She
truly did want her daughter back, no amount of poise could cover that, but Vehl's intuition told him there was something else
he wasn't being told.
The Raggia sighed. "The Ruota is willing to reward you, Vehl. Anything within our power is yours
if you can do this for us."
That had Vehl's attention. "Why all of this? I know from friends," which is a discreet
man's way of saying corporate espionage, "that you are no meanly placed woman within the Ruota, Signora Corelli. You sit perhaps
a seat or two below the Centrara. Yet, you have been given leave to grant my reward with any of your organization's resources?
For retrieving one girl that the Inish government would be glad to hand over? I'm afraid I'm not understanding all of the
flaming hoops you're jumping through."
Tadicia sighed, looked left and looked right to make certain none of her home's
staff were within earshot, then leaned forward slightly. "I was told to keep this an internal matter, but if it will set your
feet in motion, Vehl, I will tell you. My daughter is to be the next Centrara."
Ah, that would make it terribly important.
Vehl smiled. "Ah. Well, that does make a difference. All I have to do is stop one girl from leaving Inismore, round her up
and deliver her back to you, and anything the Ruota can get will be mine?"
Tadicia's face went from confidance to chiseled
granite as she leaned back. "My daughter is a fully-trained Raggia in addition to being one of our most powerful strega in
the last twenty years. Catching her will be more difficult than you think." Her left hand dipped below the table and came
up with a manila folder. "Here is everything your people need to know."
Vehl took the folder wordlessly and opened
it. Inside was, indeed, everything he could possibly want to know about Donata Corelli. He leafed through a few pages, admiring
the thoroughness. "If only I could get my stock analysts to do this," he joked. "Now, about my payment."
"As I said,
anything we can do, we will."
Vehl nodded. "I understand. For this, I have a simple request. I have been thinking recently,
about myself, and about what I have done, since Vehl Industries was nothing more than a soup cannery on the poor end of Kirk.
I have accomplished much, neh?"
"Indeed," she replied, guardedly.
"I feel the same way. However, I feel empty.
There is no light in my life. I am superfluous. My companies run without me. I could leave the office for weeks at a time
and no one would notice. I barely know my wife and children. I am a man out of place." This time, it was Tadicia who looked
baffled. "My life is too staid," he continued. "I've tried everything to bring some spark back to this parody of an existence
I have, but I still feel trapped. If you are the vaunted masters of Sorté you claim to be, you
can make my life interesting
again, yes?"
Tadicia stared at Vehl for a full minute. "Yes," she answered. "This can be done. You may not like it,
though."
"Anything," Vehl added. "Hate is better than boredom, better by far."
Another stare. "The deal is done,
then? One interesting life in return for my daughter's safe retrieval?"
Vehl blinked. Once. "Done, and done."
<(_-|-_)>
Eliza smiled a courteous smile as she was shown to her table. The waiter
very nearly refused to remove his eyes from her. It was a feeling she was used to. Reminding him that he had other duties,
she sat down gracefully and frowned at the four empty seats around the table. Again, I'm the first one here, she mused. I
swear, I'll die of a heart attack if any of these people were ever on time. Picking up a menu, she perused the choices for
food at this restaurant. It'd been a while since she'd eaten Vodacce, especially at a restaurant IN Vodacce. Veal sounded
good.
"The indefatigable Miss DeLancey," a voice said as its owner hunkered down
at the table across from her. "Punctual, as always."
Eliza smiled. "Good afternoon, Thesaurus." Pretending her correct her very
intentional slip, she added quickly "I mean, Neil."
"The infamous razor wit bloods me again," the Avaloni announced, fingering
his glasses higher on his nose. "How was your flight?"
"Boring. And yours?"
"Filled with Leuritten's Treatise on the Latter Days of the Republic. But
enough about my day, am I truly the second to arrive?"
"Oui."
"Ha!" Neil laughed, slapping his leg. "Then José owes me five pounds. He
was betting he'd get here after you but before me."
"Will you two ever quit?"
"Not a chance, my little chocolate torte. José WILL realize that a strong
back is nothing without a keen mind to direct it." At a keen mind, he tapped his temple with his right index finger.
"You two have been having this feud for almost ten years. Give over. We're
all tired of it."
"Not on your life. A gentleman never admits defeat when victory is within
sight."
"A gentleman also doesn't act like a stubborn ox."
"Thy venom doth sting, but not a measure more," Neil quoted.
Silence reigned for a moment. Then, quite suddenly: "And it's not 'Miss DeLancey,'
either."
"Oh?"
"I got married last spring." Eliza presented her wedding band quite prominently.
For a moment, the scholar was quiet. "Bloody--! You're serious!"
"Deadly," she replied, grinning. "I'm now Mrs. Richard Andrew Wayfare."
"Really," Neil noted. "So, who is this Richard bloke, then? An accountant?
A lawyer?"
"Actually, he's a program director. He works for ABS2."
"Oh, how terribly exciting! What do you two talk about, how he'd chronicle
your life if it were a television miniseries?"
"Yes, actually," she said, suddenly utterly serious. Then her expression
softened. "Oh, don't look so mortified, Neil. Are you still single?"
"Of course I'm still bloody single," he answered with a tinge of acerbicity.
"Do you think there's a woman on Earth who can keep pace with my divine inspiration?"
"I just thought I'd ask," Eliza explained, grinning into a water glass. "Stranger
things have happened."
"And if anyone would know," said a third voice, this one belonging to another
new arrival to the table. A full head shorter than Eliza was the very compact and studious Bridget Wright. "We certainly would.
Good day, Liza, Neil. Ordered any appetizers yet?"
"Phaw, appetizers," Neil snorted. "Pacification for the impatient."
"I see six years hasnt done much for your language," Bridget observed, pulling
up the chair between Eliza and Neil. Unclipping the translucent shaded covers from her glasses, she folded them and placed
them in a pocket. "I hope I haven't broken up one of your legendary sparring matches."
"Not at all," Neil said. Eliza made no verbal reply, merely displayed her
ring.
"Theus preserve us all, the first sign of the Apocalypse is on us! You settled
down, Liza?"
"After a fashion. My husband, Richard, thinks I have a future in acting."
This brought a snort of laughter from the smaller woman. "So I'm going to be appearing on An Artist's Life on ABS2 in the
Fall. I'll be playing Rebecca, an evil film critic whore."
"Amazing," Bridget shook her head. "I don't suppose I have to tell you where
I went."
"Back to teaching, if I know you. Working for next to nothing?"
"Ah yes, the glamorous lifestyle of a Montaigne teacher."
"Teaching young people is a noble profession," Neil added.
"I didn't say it wasn't," Bridget countered. "I'm just saying it doesnt pay
well."
A five-pound bill floated down to Neil's plate. "The three of you told me
the wrong restaurant on purpose, didn't you?" asked a voice with a thick Castillian accent. "Six years doesnt fail to make
me the scapegoat yet again, does it?"
"Of course not, José," Neil replied, brightening as he snatched the money
up from his place at the table. "We all drew lots, and you got the short one again."
"Don't pick fights," José Montoya said, settling into his chair adjacent
to Eliza and across from Neil. "I'll bend you in half again."
"Like in Gehzistakistan?" Bridget suggested, stirring her water with a coffee
straw. "How long were you in that crate, Neil?"
"Six hours," the scholar supplied, shifting in his seat. "You and Eliza made
my chiropractor a very happy man."
"No one said you couldn't take men as cargo," Eliza said. "And you were cheaper
as freight, anyway."
"I could have suffocated!"
"Oh, be still. You didn't, and that's what's important."
José swivelled about in his seat to glance at the doors to the restaurant.
"Behold, our fearless leader doth arrive."
Brushing past the server, Rory Cathal closed on his friends table and took
the final remaining chair. "a hearty top o'the morning to everyone! I see I'm last again."
Bridget jumped in first. "You look marvelous, Rory. I thought you'd
be inside of a bottle of rum right now."
"I was, until two days ago," he replied, not letting the implication upset
him at all. He ran a hand over his face, then cracked his knuckles. "But a nice young lady hauled me out and interceded on
my behalf for my reinstatement."
"Named?" Neil all of demanded.
"Amaretta Vignor," Rory replied. "If you must know. A Raggia."
"A Raggia?" Neil exclaimed, perhaps a bit loudly. "Why would a Raggia come
looking for you?"
"Oddly enough, the Raggia wants the Explorers' Society's help finding some
items that they can't find or somesuch. They looked into who the best of the best of the best are, and despite their research,"
he joked, "they decided they wanted us."
"Ah," Eliza nodded. "That's why you called us here, and we could all find
flights to Vodacce that would bring us here in two days, all arriving in the same city. Correct?"
"Yes," Rory nodded. "They want us to accept this Project very badly."
"How badly?" José inquired.
Instead of answering vocally, Rory produced a fan of envelopes from inside
his satchel, one with each of their names on the exterior. He handed each to their corresponding recepients. Each opened theirs,
and all but José paled. "This is a lot of money," Bridget observed.
"I know," Rory nodded. "And apparently, its' pocket change to the Ruota,
because we get twice this if we find what they're looking for. What you're holding in your hands is what we get just for trying."
"I think I'm going to faint," Eliza observed, fanning herself with the envelope.
"You could retire on this."
"Indeed, you could." Rory cleared his throat. "My personal reward is worth
more than this," he said, tapping an imaginary check on the table, "but for the money alone, I'd be willing to march right
down the Abyss' throat and drag Legion out by his horns. So, commander to crew, I'll ask you point blank: are you willing
to go Exploring with me again?"
"Rory, we came to Vodacce for you without a hint of what it was about, but
I assume we all at least guessed," Neil explained, casting glances to the others at the table. "We'd follow you into the Abyss
and drag OR defenstrate Legion if we had to. I don't know if this Amaretta has managed to straighten you out, but you look
like a man who came to this decision with utter lucidity. I'll do it. No question. I hope my sentiment is shared . . . " He
looked to everyone.
Bridget nodded, adding her silent assent to Neil's verbose agreement. Eliza
shook her head. "I don't know, Rory. I can't just run off to go adventuring any more. I have a home now." Unconciously, one
of her hands slipped over her ring. "The money is tempting, don't misunderstand for a second. But I have some people I have
to consult with, first."
Rory turned to José. The big Castillian sighed. "If I do this, Rory, it's
for love of the game. I have all the money I could possibly want now." He waved his check. "This is what I make in a quarter.
My only reason to go on this is whether I want to or not. And risking my life is something I've been doing since I was ten.
I'm not sure I want to try my luck again."
Rory gritted his teeth. Neil sputtered. "Theus almighty! Who are the two
of you and what have you done with Eliza and José? A lot has happened in six years, but still!"
"Grow up, Neil," Eliza retorted. "Exploring was a merry way to live, but
it's no way to make a living. Some of us have lives outside of--"
"What is this about, then?" Neil cut her off. "Are you afraid, Liza?"
Eliza's face darkened. That was a nettle meant to provoke her, and she knew
it. "Do not."
"And why not?"
"Both of you, act your age!" Bridget interrupted, surprising everyone. On
age, she slapped the table for emphasis. "Am I at the table with my friends or my brother's children? Neil and I happen to
be of the opinion that Rory has dropped a splendid offer in our laps, and Eliza and José happen to disagree. All of you, please
forget for one moment that you're yourselves and listen to each other!" She directed a glare at Neil. "I realize your brain
is larger than all of ours put together, but that's no excuse to swell your head to try and fit it in." Her dread gaze swung
to Eliza. "I appreciate that thereve been changes in your life, but you can't make me think for a second youll let I have
a life! stand as an excuse to not do what you love." Finally, it rounded on José. "What I said for Eliza goes double for you."
For a moment, silence reigned. Rory dug through the pockets of his jacket.
He dropped four sets of keys on the center of the table. "I'm at the Viscount Royale downtown. Call whoever you want, do whatever
you need to do. I'll be waiting with the Raggia." Then he rose and left.
<(_-|-_)>
"That was very good, sir," Jack Van Huizen announced, patting the Prime Minister
on the back as he stepped out of the office and away from the herds of cameras. "Didn't even get a whiff of fear out of you."
"Good,"
Prime Minister Benitez smiled, exhaling with relief. "I was sweating bullets up there. It's easy when you're just a candidate,
but now I'm in the hot seat. Everything's different. And I told you to stop calling me 'sir.' You'll make me feel even worse."
"My
apologies, then, boss," Jack grinned.
Benitez arched an eyebrow. "Well, I like 'boss' better than 'sir,' but not by
much. How were the ratings?"
"Through the roof," Jack explained, fishing for the sheet with the information on his
clipboard. "Of course, that may be because you pre-empted Wednesday Night Football, and you know how people are once they
sit down in front of a television."
"I do, I do. Well, that's two days under the belt. Only 2189 to go."
"That's
the spirit, boss. See you tomorrow morning?"
"Bright and early, Jack." Benitez raised a hand to Jack and Jack did likewise,
the two saluted each other. It was an old joke from the day Jack became an intern under Benitez - Benitez was in a foul mood
that day, and snapped at Jack for not being quick enough. Jack immediately saluted, though he didn't know why. Benitez stared
at him for a moment, then began laughing, thinking Jack was making a joke of his bad temper. Since then, a sign of parting
between them was always a pair of salutes.
Sighing and lugging a heavy tote full of information, Jack slogged his way
through the still very-full parking lot an hour later, trying to remember where he parked his car. Though he could organize
and correlate a schedule down to the seconds it took to do every task on the list, Jack couldn't remember anything if it hadn't
happened less than an hour before hand. Hence, he spent a lot of time hiking through parking lots. For this reason, he made
his car easy to find. Bright, flaming red decals decorated the sides and hood of the Nicolai Motor Company's newest coupe,
the Matador, which was only available in black, gray, and white when Jack practically bought it off the assembly line last
year. Nonetheless, the black-and-orange exterior wasn't hard to find if you were looking.
And Jack did find it, soon
enough. Sighing, he unlocked it and tossed his tote on the passenger's side seat. As he climbed in, he found that the pack
had landed in someone's waiting hands.
"Good evening, Mr. Van Huizen," said a crisp, Avalonian accent. "Are we doing
well?"
Jack blinked at the woman sitting on the passenger's side. She was tall, taller than him, easily, and a very
presence about her. Though attired as any of the billions of other reporters he'd dealt with in his life, he could tell she
was someone different. Someone special. She looked - familiar. "Who're you?" Jack demanded.
"The Grey Queen," she replied.
Waving her hand once, the door slammed shut behind Jack. The locks on all four doors sank down, and his safety belt came to
life and buckled him in. With another gesture, the Matador hummed to life, lights and all, backed out of its parking space,
then left the parking lot at breakneck speed.
"What in the name of-" Jack exclaimed, grabbing the steering wheel and
mashing his foot on the brake, but finding neither willing to yield to his commands.
"Oh, calm down," insisted the
Grey Queen, pulling the two wooden sticks covered with Inish weaves out of her hair, allowing a cascade of brown hair to fall
past her shoulders. "I'm perfectly capable of driving this beast myself, thank you. Now, pay attention. I am loathe to repeat
myself.
"I am the Grey Queen. Yes, the very Grey Queen written about in children's stories. I came a long way to talk
to you Jack, though admittedly I was already halfway here to begin with.
"You are a very special man, Jack, whether
you realize it or not. In fact, one might even go so far as to say that we're family. You can help us, and by us, I mean all
of Theah. All you need to do is agree."
"What?" Jack asked numbly, eyes glued to the road, expecting her to ram the
car into an obstacle at any instant. "You're a fairy?"
"If you're going to butcher my story, at least pronounce it
correctly," the Grey Queen snapped. "Faerie. Of the Fair Folk. Sidhe. Daughter of the Land. Niflheimer. Whatever you want
to call it, at least get it straight. Yes, I am. And you have our blood running in your veins, by our I mean the sidhe."
"Whoa,
whoa, whoa," Jack said, finally turning to look at her. "How do you know this?"
"I know your father, Jack. Not the
man that raised you, I mean your biological father. Well, knew him. Damned if I know where he is now. But listen: you have
potential, Jack. Potential to be one of the greatest sorcerers on the continent. Another Celedoine, another Timothy le Beau.
Another Derwyddon."
"Sorcery doesn't exist," Jack stated. He wasn't sure he believed that so much now that he was careening
down the highway, car apparently steering itself. "It's just-"
"Faerie tales?" the Grey Queen finished. "Well, if it's
all make-believe, then I guess this isn't happening either, is it?"
"I can explain this."
"That sounded like
a dare to me," the Grey Queen grinned. "A car can be made to drive itself with technology, this I know. But can you make it
do this?" She snapped her fingers and whispered a sentence in a language Jack had never heard. The Matador lurched from one
side, then to another, then lifted right off the highway, slowly gaining altitude as though driving up a hill, though there
was none there.
Jack immediately jammed his index finger on the power windows, and when his was down, stuck his head
out the window to see if what he was feeling was real. Sure enough, below him, the ground was rapidly disappearing. "How're
you-"
"Think happy thoughts, Jack," the Grey Queen grinned. She traced a circle in the air with her fingers, and the
car turned a barrel roll on its ascent.
Jack leaned back in his seat, one hand gripping the door and the other transmission
stick. "I don't deal well with heights," he said timidly.
"I thought you mightn't. Your father doesn't, either."
"Who
is my father?"
"Not until you agree."
"What?"
"What did I tell you about repeating myself, Jack? You
can't do anything, and I can't help you, unless you agree. We're not called the Fair Folk just because we're all good-looking
people. We can't do something for demi-mortals without an agreement. Shake my hand, Jack, and swear you want to know who and
what you are, and everything will be made clear."
"And if I don't?"
"Then you're in for a very short, very frightening
car ride when I release the Glamour from this car."
Jack considered. Messy death on the pavement, shaking hands with
a faerie-tale figure. Not too much room for deliberation. "It's a deal," he said, extending a hand.
"Good," the Grey
Queen grinned, clasping his hand firmly and squeezing it. A bright, white light emitted from therein, and then everything
was quiet.
<(_-|-_)>
Graham hated surprises. Especially when they're black-cloaked figures that
jump on the hood of his car when he's trying to drive. Extra-especially when they're black-cloaked figures that jump into
his car. He considered for a moment, keep driving or stop. The man on the hood didn't look much like he cared one way or the
other, as he apparently was clawing his way forward, across the hood, by digging furrows in the metal with his bare hands.
Graham decided to try knocking him off. As soon as his right hand went up, presumably to punch through the windshield, Graham
slammed on the brakes.
The man did fly off, and he took the hood with him, ripping it off by its
hinges as he soared forward. Graham felt three bodies hit the drivers and passenger's seats. Looks like he truly was the only
one ready for what happened. Bits of glass rolled forward.
When he let himself out of the car, Lugh's struggle with one of the assailants
spilled out of the passengers side door. Graham's brother hit the ground first, trying to pry the assailant's hands off of
his neck. Graham ran around the car to help his brother, but forgot about the one on top. His attempt to close was cut short
when he was tackled by the man from the roof of the car.
Graham rolled to his back and just barely managed to get his hands up before
the man tried to flatten Graham's nose across his face with a close-fisted punch. Graham was no weakling, but it was taking
all of his strength from both arms to hold back the assailant's one. When the attackers other arm rose for a telling blow,
Graham prepared for pain.
It never fell. Donata had exited the car and grabbed the man's arm. Stepping
to the side, she twisted it in its socket and shoved him backwards. Unable to counter her leverage, he was forced up and back
into the car, hitting the side with a thud. "Up!" she shouted.
Graham didn't need to be told twice. Finding his feet, he thrust his leg
out in a heavy kick right into the man's gut, throwing him back again. Pressing his advantage, Graham smashed his right fist
into the man's face, followed by his left, and then again, pummeling him without cease until he crumpled.
After a moment, it dawned on Graham his brother was still being attacked.
He found Donata had already gone to help him, seeing that Graham was up and able. She currently had a deathgrip on Lugh's
attacker's head, twisting it in a manner that Graham knew would have to be painful. He failed to give up his grip on Lugh,
though. "The sword!" Donata bellowed, grunting with her obvious attempt to break the assailant's neck. "Get the damned sword!"
Graham nearly slapped himself. He'd forgotten the sword, laying in the trunk
in his trunk. Fetching the keys from the ignition, he fumbled the badly dented rear of his Shieldman open and flung the case
(now without locks) open. Hefting the brilliant blade, he turned to his brother, Donata, and the attacker again. To receive
a kick in the back.
Graham cursed when he realized he'd forgotten about the third attacker, the
one from the hood of the car. Leaning on the sword, he struggled to his feet, then turned to see the man take a swing at his
head with his right fist. Flinging himself backwards, he missed the punch by a scant margin. In a frantic effort, he brought
the heavy sword up and swung clumsily crosswise.
That glancing blow nearly ended the brief battle. It struck the assailant
only slight gash across the chest, but the wound burst into red flame. The attacker backed away, swatting at the fire in a
vain attempt to put it out. It was still swatting when a grinning Graham rose and swung wide again, this time with more control.
The sword thudded into the attackers side, and a geyser of red fire shot forth from the wound, scorching the asphalt of the
road. Graham felt strangely departed from the situation as he whipped the sword up again and bisected the man's skull with
a skill Graham had never learned, causing him to spontaneously combust with the red fire.
Turning without hesitation, Graham strode over to the three others present.
They remained locked in their previous position, but Lugh was obviously gagging, and turning blue. With a casual gesture,
Graham motioned Donata away, and as soon as she was clear, stabbed the throttler through the back, drawing a similar reaction
to when he cleaved the first's skull in twain. Kicking the corpse off his brother, he said to Donata "Make sure he's all right."
Striding around the car, Graham found the final attacker just finding his
feet, at which point he used the flat of the blade to lift it and press its body against his car. Keeping one hand low, on
the blade, and another on the handle, Graham locked the elbow of his higher arm around the attackers head, he slid the blade
about, carving its head off in one circular cut.
He was thrusting the sword into the ground and using it as a brace to lean
on when his mind snapped to. Lugh was struggling his way up to standing again, helped by Donata, but the latter was holding
his eyes. She was staring at him appraisingly. "When did you learn how to fight with a sword?"
Graham stared at the hilt directly before his crouching position. "I never
did."
<(_-|-_)>
Royce stared at the ceiling with religious devotion. He was afraid that if
he looked anywhere else, hed do something stupid. He'd truly had a great time with Jacqueline, but the last thing he expected
was her to sleep in his room. Apparently, in Gossia, you could trust people with that sort of thing. Being a perfect gentleman,
Royce had offered to be the one on the floor, but she wouldn't have any of it. Royce would've still felt like a heel if she
had wanted to sleep on the floor, but as it turned out, she had a sterling solution. She was sleeping in his bed. As was he.
Royce had ratcheted himself to the far wall and refused to move from his
back down position, instead staring at the ceiling while Jacqueline descended peacefully into sleep on the other side, a faint
smile on her face. Meanwhilst, he was busy kneading the sheets in his hands, nervous at accidentally doing something too forward.
Granted, her dismissal of his reticence to sleep beside beside her was pretty forward to begin with, but Royce was still worried
that shed think less of him.
He didn't have much time to argue, either. After they had the discussion,
she'd just elected to collapse on his bed, and refused to rise until she was certain he was comfortable as well. And then
she just didn't.
He turned to look at her. He gnawed his lower lip. She was beautiful beyond
words. Exactly the kind of woman who'd never so much as give him a second glance. She was wild. She was cultured. And it was
taking the greater part of his resolve to not want to do something indecent with her. I am a gentleman, Royce thought. A good
man would not have such thoughts.
<(_-|-_)>
"Styrke!" called Krieg. "Styrke! Fall back! Villskap and I come!" Styrke
looked back from driving his longspear into the Great Wyrm. Krieg and Villskap were indeed on his very heels, axe and sword
ready. He turned his eyes back to the Great Wyrm to see it double about, jaws headed for him, flames kindling therein. Wrenching
his longspear, he fell backwards, sliding down its hide.
Avoiding the huge beast's clawed feet, Styrke retreated, allowing his fellow
jarls to strike the creature. Then he saw Sinne. She lay brokenly some distance from the Great Wyrm, sword dashed from her
hands. Stans stood over her defensively, screaming in his dead-cold voice for Sterk. It was the screaming that shook Styrke
so.
Schuyler gasped when he realized he was staring at a clear, blue sky and
an apartment building over him, not a choked gray one with the Great Wyrm writhing about. "Prophets!" cursed a voice. "Calm
down, Sky! It's me, Gregor!" He turned to look at his friend, who was massaging his neck and holding a hand out in the calm
down gesture. "Can you hear me?"
"Yes," Schuyler replied brokenly, staring now at the grass about himself.
He was sitting some twenty feet distant from where his apartment was before it exploded. It exploded with great force. He
remembered this because he was thrown clear by the blast, as had Alene. Alene! He turned to see her on the concrete of the
sidewalk near the parking lot, unconcious.
"What happened?" Gregor demanded. "Did the apartment explode?"
"Yes." Schuyler looked back at Gregor. He saw not his roommate, but instead
a great warrior, standing even taller than he was now, with thick brown hair falling past his shoulders in waves, adorned
with trophies from his victories, battle axe resting on his back. There was something in Gregor, something begging to be let
free. Schuyler was not totally in control of himself when he rose from his sitting position and walked over to Gregor.
Schuyler was not a large man, but Gregor was, being a natural athlete. On
any other day, Schuyler had not a ghost of a chance of overpowering his friend, but today was different. With little effort,
Schuyler snared his roommates outstretched hand and hauled him over his shoulders in a fireman's carry. Despite Gregors protests
and thrashings, Schuyler bore him with little concern or difficulty.
Up to the building, up the stairs, into the blasted remains of their apartment.
Schuyler set Gregor down beside the detonated recliner, took his right hand and jammed it onto the wall, careful not to touch
it himself. "Say Krieg."
"Sky, I"
"DO IT!" Schuyler bellowed.
Gregor blinked, then said "Krieg."
This time, there was no explosion, but power erupted from the apartment just
the same.
<(_-|-_)>
"Ladies and gentleman," Virgil's melodious voice rang out over the small
assembly. "And pirates of all stripes, may I have your attention please!" When the conversations and card games going on below
him continued without cease, Virgil took out his semi-automatic, flicked off the safety and fired upwards twice, the loud
retorts garnering everyone's attention quickly. "Thank you," he called out over the commons of the Blackhawk's island base
in the Forbidden Sea. "These are the announcements for the day. Obviously, Thursday's raid didn't go as well as planned. You've
no doubt heard varying stories from your comrades, but said failure wasn't a complete loss. While we lost Arturo, our fearless
leader, I have already found his replacement." Confusion crossed the faces of the Hawks, matched by the displeasure of having
their leader fall during what was supposed to be a low-risk, high-profit task. "I give you Captain Baine!"
Erica strode out, still wearing that ridiculously heavy coat Virgil warned
her would be far too warm for the balmy weather of the Forbidden Sea. She moved effortlessly and menacingly, to her credit,
but the reaction from the pirates was still mixed. Most was blatant skepticism. "Arturo faced Captain Baine bravely in mortal
combat, trading her shot for shot and blow for blow, but at the end, Baine was the better, uh, Captain." Virgil berated himself.
While coming up with this speech, he'd told himself he wasnt going to stumble over better man. "Thus, by the laws of piracy,
Baine is our new Captain." He hoped that didn't sound like the most idiotic rationale on the planet.
Whispers were traded back and forth, skepticism remained evident. When one
figure rose from the back, Virgil smiled. Erica remained as motionless as a stone, watching everyone closely, as though a
lion surveying the savannah. The figure approached the pseudo-stage on which Virgil and Erica stood, considered to be the
platform of address since it was halfway constructed of wooden planks some years ago. "What laws o'piracy?" demanded the figure,
one Daniel Leary. The huge Inishman was striding towards the stage, cracking his knuckles. "Pirates ain't got laws, otherwise
we wouldn't be pirates!"
"I beg to differ my hirsute friend," Virgil interjected. "The rules are quite
clear on this matter."
"Do we have these laws written down somewhere, Basto?" he demanded, mounting
the stage. "Because I don't recall any such rules." He drew closer, menacing in intent. Virgil had planned for this, Daniel
wasn't very different from Arturo, a cock-sure bravo who believed that he should lead the Hawks because he had the largest
member. Likely he was trying to intimidate Basto out of his absurd allegation. "Where'd you dig up the tart?" he demanded,
jerking his head in the direction of Erica. "You must--" was all he got to say before Erica made her displeasure known.
Across the space between them in the blink of an eye, Erica snared Daniel's
rising arm and twisted it around in the socket, dragging him in a backwards semi-circle. Tugging his arm down low, she raised
one of her long legs higher up than Basto thought would be possible and kicked Daniel in the back of the head with the force
of a piledriver, knocking him out cold instantly. She watched him fall, then flipped his massive frame over with the toe of
her left boot to make certain he was unconcious, then stepped back a bit, clasping her hands behind her back.
"Captain Baine is a Gossian, and a former member of the Violet Guard," Basto
continued. This brought nods and awestruck faces. "She's the best of the best. Getting used to her way of things may take
some doing, but we've weathered worse."
<(_-|-_)>
"All right," Alec said, dry-scrubbing his face after watching Carolina vault
over the railing and turn into a flock of sea gulls. "Think, Alec, focus, put your head on straight." He looked up and down
the length of the schooner. "Boat. I'm on a boat. I'm on a boat alone. I'm on a boat I dont know how to steer, alone." He
wracked his mind for the most obvious solution. The first thing to leap to his mind was the radio. "Perhaps I could get someone
to talk me into port, just like they do with planes in the cinema!" he said spritely, and dashed down the stairs into the
hold.
The shiny metallic knobs of the radio beckoned from the stern end of the
cabin. Alec ducked into the alcove with the similar equipment and looked for a power switch. There it was. He flicked it.
While the frequency display came to life and displayed pertinent information in bland green digits, no sound emanated. Alec
turned up the volume and got static. Reaching for the tuner, he began to turn it to the right. When the frequency display
failed to change from its current numbers, Westin's brow furrowed. "What in the name--"
"This is a recording," interrupted Carolina's voice as the static cut off.
"I'm proud of you for thinking on your feet, Alec, but you won't always have a radio. I'll give you a hint for your ingenuity,
though: you did right by consulting those wiser than you. Hopefully, I'll see you in port soon. Until then!" And then the
static resumed.
Alec cursed. Loudly and colorfully. On a hunch, he tapped a blank button
on the right side. The frequency display changed to read DISK EJECT, and a black panel spat out a CD, upon which was written
in marker PUT IN "RADIO." Alec resisted the urge to take out his frustration on the CD. Turning around, he leaned against
the wall of the alcove, and tried to come up with a new plan. Consulting those wiser than me, he pondered. What could that
mean? There's no one else out here.
Fifteen minutes whittled by while Alec sat, mind working furiously. He accomplished
nothing, mind continually working in circles. In frustration, he kicked the far cabinet savagely.
The flimsy wood gave way under the kick of a practiced (and currently enraged)
forward, and the door splintered on its hinges. Westin cursed again, then pulled his foot out, hoping he hadn't gotten a splinter.
Checking his bare foot, he saw it was fine, though slightly pink at the heel, the area of impact. He shifted from his seat
to peer inside the cabinet, assessing the damage. He had kicked quite mightily, and shards now rested in the interior. He
reached inside, fishing out the shards so he could take care of them in case he should need something in the cabinet and might
stab himself on the wood carelessly.
In the midst of the cleaning, his hands brushed metal. He felt around a bit
more. An electric torch! Westin thought, pleased with the small victory of finding something that would be useful. He brought
it out, glancing at it. It was a Luminance, made in Gossia. Good torch, Alec mused, setting down on the floor, then returned
to his task. In order to make his task easier, he opened the cabinet by rising up and pulling it open by the handle.
He was about to hunker down to continue the process when his eyes fell on
the book on the second shelf from the bottom. It was a thick volume entitled OWNERS GUIDE TO THE S14 ZEPHYR RECREATIONAL WATERCRAFT.
Alec sniffed in disbelief. Picking it up, he leafed through the pages until his eyes fell on the lone bookmarked page, held
separate by a leather cord of Inishweaves, to which was attached a small slip of cardstock, on which was written in flowing
script that more than reminded Alec of Carolina: Excellent job, Westin. Now just get home.
The page it was bookmarking was Chapter 3: Your First Time Out.
<(_-|-_)>
"Tulio, look at this," Gitana Zepeda said, whirling about in her computer
chair, printout in hand. "Word from the Dons."
"I thought the dons were supposed to be at some kind of national summit-thing,"
Tulio Zepeda replied, not looking up from the spreadsheet he was hard at work on on his own computer. "One of them take time
out to tell us buena suerta getting the Reiseker plasma shipment?"
"Not the dons, THE Dons. The Penta Primadons. The don's bosses," she replied,
waving the sheet under his nose. "Straight from Numa. Primadon Trilliani's seal is on it."
"You're joking," Tulio said, looking down at the printout. Taking the torn-off
accordion paper from his sister's hands, he scanned the contents. "That's Trilliani's seal. When did he take to this habit?"
"I haven't gotten anything from the very top ever," Gitana replied, propping
her feet up on Tulio's desk. "It looks authentic, and, Theus help us, serious."
"Madre de Theus!" Tulio sputtered, incredulous of the documents contents.
"Primadon Trilliani himself ordered us to gear up for some operation! We're-" but his voice trailed off when he continued
reading. He looked up. "Looks like we're headed to Numa."
"Can't hardly believe it," Gitana added, shaking her head. "Were headed for
the big time, and out from under Papa's thumb!"
A broad grin split Tulio's face. Standing, he pulled his sister up by her
right hand and dragged her in for a chummy hug. "We're going to be famous, little sister!" he observed jubilantly.
"Set me down, you ass!" Gitana snapped through a smile. "Give me that!" She
snatched the printout from him again and made her way out of the computer room, reviewing dates and times. When she reached
the plaza of the hacienda, she barked for the hired help.
A moment later, Domingo Zepeda appeared, looking for the source of the noise.
"Gitana!" he called, entering the plaza with his bizarre limping gait, aided by his cane. "What is cause for rousting the
whole house?"
Seeing her father approach, Gitana smiled her foxs smile and held out the
printout for his edification. "Tulio and I are going to Numa, father. The Primadon himself asked for us by name. He wants
us to undertake some project. Of the greatest magnitude."
Domingo pored over his daughter's papers, eyes moving with the careful scrutiny
of a veteran Artidenot operative of fifty-six years. When he finished, he tossed the stack of paper back to Gitana. "Theus
be praised," he said reverently, picking his cane up and pressing it between folded hands as he turned his eyes skyward. "Numa
has finally noticed us." Lowering his cane, the venal operative turned his eyes back to Gitana. "I needn't tell you how important
this is. Do me proud, Gitana. One day, we Castillians may have a Penta Primadon on Trilliani's council. This may be the first
step."
"I know, Papa. I wont let you down."
<(_-|-_)>
"So, how did you become a kung-fu master?" Lugh asked Donata, as they worked
to sweep the broken glass out of Graham's Shieldman.
Donata smiled. "It was part of my training."
"What training?"
"My training as a Raggia."
"What's a Raggia?"
"Were special agents of the Ruota."
"Ruota?" Lugh repeated, tossing a particularly big chunk of glass over his
shoulder. "Really? They teach you more than good business there?"
"You can learn all sorts of things from the Ruota. I'm a Raggia, so I know
all sorts of things that the Ruota might feel is necessary. One of the choices you can pick as a Raggia going into active
service is to have a bodyguard. I chose not to, so they mandated that I know martial arts, should I ever need to defend myself.
For occasions such as today."
"Well, I'm impressed. I could barely hold those bastards off me and you took'em
for a ride."
"To be truthful, I'm far too rusty. I tried to disable the first one by grabbing
his trapezius nerve, but it was like he didn't feel it. A hit to the back of his head should've knocked him clean out cold,
but he stayed, so I had to use leverage to get him off you."
"Right strange, they were. They didn't feel it?"
"No. And I think thats linked to why Graham's sword set them on fire." She
turned to look at the other Highlander, who was standing some distance away, watching the three assailants burn with an unnaturally
red flame. He was eerie in his motionlessness, staring at the three corpses as if daring them to rise again and give him another
excuse to destroy them. Dimly, the red light reflected off of him, the frenetic dancing of the flame making him seem all the
more stoic.
"They're combustible when touched by steel? What kind of sense does that
make?"
"None. Unless Graham's sword is a holy weapon and those men's bodies were
possessed by demons."
"Now, hold on a minute. I'll admit I've seen some odd things in my time,
but I'm not about to take the leap of faith that requires me to believe that Graham's sword is kissed by the Prophets and
he just slayed three zombies."
"You mean apart from St. Simeon's Lantern?"
"Okay, now I'm lost. How did we go from demons to lanterns?"
"The red flame of St. Simeon, called St. Simeon's Lantern. Simeon was the
first man to report it, back before even the First Prophet. When he performed exorcisms on demons, their departure from the
mortal realm was always accompanied by a gout of red flame, proportional in size to the rank of demon or demons banished.
Flames like the ones that licked at Graham's sword. No one can even begin to guess why it happens, but since then, its been
called St. Simeon's Lantern, and is widely held to be a good sign, as it signifies the departure of a demon."
"Okay. Where did you learn that?"
"From my cousin, Amaretta. She has an unhealthy obsession with the Church.
I commented once that something we'd burned during a Chemistry class burned red. She mentioned the story I just told you."
"I see. Got any nifty stories about why Graham's staring at three dead men
burning like he just shouldered the world?"
"If I may hazard a guess, I think if he wielded it against the Fair Folk,
the fire would be blue. That's a sanctified MacEarchen blade or I'm the Heirophant."
"A MacEarchen blade." Lughs tone was flat. "A real MacEarchen blade. Those're
just--"
"Faerie tales?" Donata replied. "Is it so hard to believe that your brother
is the scion of the MacEarchen line? He did just wield a bastard sword with more than passing competency, for someone who's
never hefted one in his life."
"And the dead don't often pounce on your auto when you're cruising down the
highway," Lugh finished, running a hand over his face. "Doesn't mean I don't have the right to be terrified."
"Indeed not," Donata replied, patting him on the back. "It's not every day
you meet a sorceress, three zombies, and find a MacEarchen sword."
Lugh backed away. "A sorceress?"
"I told you I was a strega. Did you think I was lying?"
"Well, I didn think you were actually going to waggle your fingers and turn
me into a frog'r anything similar, but I always thought--"
"That the rumors that Sorté magic in the Ruota was all rubbish spread to
make us sound mysterious? Think again. It's as real as the nose on your face."
"So, you can predict the future?"
"I can make an educated guess. As can you, but mine is much more educated."
"Oh. What d'ye see in our futures?"
"A long car ride, and some conflict. With your parents, I think. Some authority
figure that holds sway over you, but not me."
"I'd say you're right."
"I can see other things, too."
"Like what?"
"Your brother's Virtue. To tell the truth, I've been trying to look away,
but it's like a sign from Theus. I just can't."
"Really? He has a virtue? Is it anal-retentive?" After seeing the look she
trained on him, Lugh immediately said "Sorry, stupid question."
"You have no idea. But his Virtue is Courage."
"Graham, courageous? I can see that. Graham'd stare the Primadon in the face
and tell him to sod off if he knew he was right."
"It's nascent right now, but if it shines this brightly when muted, I don't
want to be on the same continent when he's put to the test."
They both stared at Graham for a moment. "What about me?" Lugh asked. "Do
I have one?"
Donata motioned him to stand over to his left. Turning so that her back was
to Graham, she opened herself to her Sorté-given senses and trained her eyes so the space above Lugh's head. It was so weak
as to seem translucent, especially in the radiance of Grahams Virtue, but she could make out the card after squinting. And
her eyes widened. "Yes. Yes, you do."
"And? What is it?"
She smiled. "The most perfect complement to your brother's. Resourcefulness."
<(_-|-_)>
"Who is she?" Abdullah asked, peering down on Catrice from high on one of
the balconies of the al-Faqidir Mosque in Kardobbia. "The infidel captain."
"Her name is Captain Catrice Corinne Arrent-Lopez, previously Captain Catrice
Corinne Lopez, previously Captain Catrice Corinne Arrent," droned Kabdar. "She is a Captain in the Montaigne Navy, in the
Foreign Legion's division, obviously. She is a naturalized Castillian, but born Montaigne. She was married once, to Lieutenant
Juan Lopez, of Castille's Navy, but he was killed a year ago at the naval base near Altamira. Her psych profile is fairly
clean, with the exception of having antidepressants proscribed for the eight months following her husband's death."
"So she truly loved him?"
"One can assume, Father."
Pause. "Go on."
"She is here as part of the UWPs relief efforts. She is a capable manager
and is competent with small-unit tactics. The Navy was afraid to put her in any high-stress situations, thus why she is here,
helping us move the rocks that the Right Hand overturned when they left. She had reconstructive surgery on her knee when she
was ten years old, a nasty spill off of a bicycle right into an oncoming Shieldman."
"Could you possibly disorganize this data any more, Kabdar?"
"Father?"
"Nothing, continue."
"She is doing well with the locals, going so far as to learn Crescent. She's
still rusty, but getting better. She was stationed here, at Tuyameed, more accurately, though only for a week. Reconstruction
of this mosque and two others are now moving almost twice as fast as they were before. She's studied Crescent architecture
to make it go faster."
"From the flat land of river and thorn
Will come a woman on warship borne
She will return sight to three blind eyes
Ruined by the right hand's rise
Herald will be her title beaten on drums
Know thee then the Fourth Prophet comes."
Abdullah spoke the words so quietly only he could hear, but the recitation
of them still shifted the mood in the mosque's ruins.
"Father?" asked Kabdar. "Were you praying?"
"After a fashion, Kabdar. You have been most helpful. May the Prophet keep
you and your faith close."
The Kardobbian officer bowed at the waist, replying with "There is no god
but Theus and he has but one Prophet."
<(_-|-_)>
Lopez received a beating such as he had never received in his life. He was
used to punishment, being a officer for the Castillian navy, but he felt less beaten than mauled by this experience. What
was worse, he did not so much feel the beating as become aware that it rolled over him as a wave crashes on a shore.
"He moves," a gravelly voice announced grimly.
 |
