The Rogue Retrieval (15 page)

She ladled a healthy portion of the stew into a wooden bowl. “I won't have you leaving on an empty stomach.”

It did smell good . . .

“I could eat,” he said.

 

“When in doubt, bluff.”

—­
A
RT OF
I
LLUSION,
F
EBRUARY 27

CHAPTER 13

THE ENCLAVE

Q
uinn knew he was in over his head.

Moric had escorted him for almost an hour on foot while they made their way to the center of the island. The stone-­lined path led over a grassy hillock, beyond which the land fell away into a wide valley. A blue ribbon of water wound through it, glinting in the sun. Nestled in the middle of that was an island within an island, a settlement unlike any Quinn had seen in Alissia—­or anywhere, for that matter. The buildings were cut from a pale gray stone. Seven crenellated towers encircled the town. Bright, colorful banners—­one for each of Alissia's nations, apparently—­flew at their peaks. Above them towered a single, elegant spire topped with a flag Quinn had never seen before in any of the research materials or briefings: a white hand clutching a golden star, on a field of royal blue.

“This is the Enclave,” Moric said. “The heart of Alissian magic beats here.”

“Unreal,” Quinn said. The number of ­people that must live there. Hundreds upon hundreds of magicians, and the company knew nothing about them. Did Richard Holt? He couldn't help but wonder. The rogue researcher turned Valteroni Prime certainly had been able to contract their ser­vices, something the company briefings on Alissian magic hadn't covered.

“I had the same reaction when I first came here,” Moric said. “That was a long time ago, but I remember it like it was yesterday.”

He led Quinn to a pile of flat stones the size of coffee tables. One of them slid from the top of the pile with a grating noise as they approached and settled softly to the ground. Moric stepped onto it and gestured that Quinn should do the same.

Quinn hesitated. “What's this?”

“Fastest way down into the valley. Come, come, we're wasting time!”

Quinn stepped on reluctantly. “Is this even
safe
?”

“On my word, no one has ever been injured on these in recent memory,” Moric said. He muttered a command; the stone lifted and began to skim down the slope into the vale.

“In recent memory” had the kind of ominous tone that worried Quinn. He was certain he'd fall off, but the stone was as solid as he could have wanted. The effect was still unsettling. They coasted down the slope, gaining speed. The Enclave's towers had seemed impressive from a distance. Now they towered overhead, impossibly tall. The air had a warm stillness to it.

The effort it took to guide their stone down the slope seemed little distraction to Moric. They leveled off and shot across the valley floor. They passed another person heading the other direction, an intense young man in crimson robes. He waved to Moric as they shot past one another.

They neared the river and glided along it toward the city proper. Moric set it down at the base of the nearest of the seven towers. It was a massive thing of stone and mortar, and like most castles, seeing it up close revealed its age. There was ivy growing along the base.

“This way.” Moric stepped unceremoniously from the stone and marched up to a round wooden door at the tower's base.

Quinn followed on his heels. The door opened silently on well-­oiled hinges to receive them, though Quinn saw no one on the other side. Their boots clicked on tile floors. The walls were some kind of polished glass; they glowed with a soft light, like underpowered neon signs. A spiral staircase led up to higher levels within, but Moric bypassed this and took him down a narrow hallway instead. There were doors on either side, and when he came to the fourth of these, Moric pushed it open.

The room was simple. Sleeping cot, mismatched table and chair, a pitcher of water, and a wooden desk. But there were
books
on the desk—­thick volumes bound in leather or pigskin. Quinn's fingers twitched, but he resisted the urge to pick one up and try his glasses.

Moric snapped his fingers, and a fire bloomed in the hearth on the far side of the room. Light poured in from a round window, though the glass was opaque.

“I need to sleep,” Moric said. “Stay in this room until I come for you.”

Quinn frowned. “So I'm, what, a prisoner?”

“Think of it as a cherished visitor.”

“You can't keep me here,” Quinn said.

Moric turned to look at him. “Oh? You don't look like much of a swimmer.”

H
e stewed there in the tiny room for hours. He'd have tried the door, but Moric might have done something to it. He'd have read the books, but that would require the glasses. And Moric might have someone watching him, in any case.

To pass the time, he took out his deck of cards and practiced shuffling. He was five cards short, now that he'd left that message for the others to find. Even if they did, they had no idea where he'd been taken, or why. Riffle, cut, riffle, cut. The routine was familiar enough he could almost forget where he was. Or how much trouble he was in.

They had no proof that he'd claimed to be a magician, other than the ridiculous blue sash that he'd worn. He could deny it. But Moric had recognized him, which meant they had a witness. Even if they hadn't, this wasn't the kind of place that had developed a modern justice system.

He could claim it was true. Maybe that was the better way to play this. The magicians were more likely to trust him, more likely to let him snoop around. Less likely to execute him, too, let's not forget that.

He just had no idea how to prove it.

Moric returned a ­couple of hours later. “Good, you stayed,” he said.

“You told me I had to,” Quinn said. He didn't look up from his shuffling. Riffle, bridge, stack.

“I wasn't sure you would.”

“What if I had tried to leave?” Quinn asked.

Moric chuckled. “It would have been unpleasant.”

Quinn looked up and was taken aback by the change in Moric. The man was more than refreshed; he looked about two years younger.

“Wow. That was some nap you took!” Quinn said.

“I admit I was feeling haggard. Too much magic, not enough sleep.”

He made the two sound connected somehow. Quinn filed that away for later. He tucked the deck of cards back into their box. He held it up so that Moric could see it, scissored his hands, and made it disappear into one sleeve.

“Oh, I think you're ready,” Moric said.

“For what?” Quinn asked.

“To learn if you're one of us.”

Q
uinn and Moric sat across from one another in a grove of broad, scraggly trees that overlooked the valley. The trees were in full flower and the perfume nearly overpowering. Quinn kept sneezing, which seemed to ruffle Moric's concentration.

“Hold still, will you?” he groused.

The magician had poked and prodded him with numerous small enchantments. He couldn't get any response like the first time. It didn't disappoint the man; it intrigued him. He was full of ideas.

“A hot and cold treatment might shock some magic out of you,” he said.

“What's that involve?”

“Oh, it's quite simple,” Moric said. “First I set you on fire, then dunk you in a tub of frigid water.”

“I'd really prefer not to be set on fire. Even if you had water to put me out with. Which you don't. I'll pass on the dunking, too, for the same reason.”

Moric put the tip of his finger on the ground, tracing a circle. “Water can be had.” Where his finger touched, a puddle formed in the dirt. It welled up like a small geyser, soaking both of them.

“I
do
find it a bit hard to control,” he admitted. “There are others more talented.”

“How many ­people are on this island?” Quinn asked.

“Oh, about—­” Moric caught himself; he seemed to sense Quinn's eagerness. “Well, let's just say that there are many. More than you'd guess.”

“I knew that much already,” Quinn said.

“Where are you from, if I may ask?”

Quinn had expected this; he'd been silently rehearsing his cover story since the moment they'd arrived. “Wyndham Bridge,” he answered. “North Landor.” The company had placed scrolls in the tiny hamlet's library that would vouch for him.

“I've never heard of it.”

“It's near the coast. Boring place. That's why I left.”

“What do you do for a living? Other than pretend at magic, of course.”

Quinn bit back the excuse; it was time to start playing into this. “I was going to apprentice with my father. Carpentry.”

“What happened?”

“He died. I left,” Quinn said. He put a pained expression on his face. “If it's all right with you, I'd rather not talk about it.”

“Magicians rarely have easy childhoods. Many of us here are content to leave the past in the past.”

“What about you? Where are you from?” Quinn asked.

“I was born in Farbor, in the Pirean tip. My parents worked the nets, like everyone else there.” He held up his hands; the palms were laced with old scars.

Pirea. Northeastern part of the continent, sparsely populated. Very little arable land, but the cold, deep coastal waters held some of the best fisheries in the world. The information just popped into Quinn's head out of nowhere. “Son of a bitch,” he said. They'd had these headphones in his room, back at the island facility. He'd had to put them on at night. Kiara called it a memory consolidation program, but it was clearly more than that. What the hell else had they stuck in his head?

Moric was frowning at him. “I'm sorry?”

“Nothing. Sorry,” Quinn said. “So, how did you end up here?”

“I was twelve, working the boats with my family. A storm caught us too far from the harbor. I knew about my abilities by then, but I'd kept them hidden. Didn't practice. I couldn't save anyone else.”

“I'm sorry,” Quinn said. He was surprised at how much he'd meant it. He knew what it was like to lose both parents at once. He knew the darkness it brought.

“It was a long time ago,” Moric said.

A chime sounded then, almost like a doorbell, though Quinn couldn't pinpoint the source. The sound seemed to be coming from everywhere at once.

“What was that?” Quinn asked.

“A summons,” Moric said. He stood. “The council meets today. No doubt they want a report on you.”

“Do you know what you're going to tell them?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

“I'd like to speak on my own behalf,” Quinn said.

“The council is closed to outsiders, I'm afraid.”

“You're not going to make me sit here all day, are you?” Quinn asked.

“I expect you to make your way back to your room. Can I trust you in that?”

“Fine,” Quinn said.

“I'll find you when the meeting ends,” Moric said. He strode out from the copse of trees. Once clear, he jumped and glided down the slope of the vale like a snowboarder. He didn't even bother with a stone this time. Robes flying, shaven head glinting in the sun. He was an odd bird for certain.

Quinn had said he'd go to his room.

I just didn't say I'd go there right away.

He really wanted to go to the docks for a closer look at that sailing ship, but that might look like he was trying to get off the island. So instead he found his way back to the stone-­lined path that led around the vale. The climate was absolutely perfect. About seventy degrees, slight breeze, sunny. It was like southern California.

No wonder the magicians like to keep this island private.

He climbed to the highest point of the slope he was on to get a better vantage point and try to see the full island. A jumble of rocks and boulders littered the high point of the land, so he started free climbing them. Not being careless, but glad to have the chance to do something on his own. He gained the top of the pile, exhilarated . . .

Only to find that the highest rock was already occupied.

A fair-­haired girl sat there, with her back to the vale, looking out across the water.

“Oh. Hello,” Quinn said. He looked past her for a moment and fought a wave of vertigo. Beyond the boulder's edge was empty space; the ground dropped away a few hundred feet to where waves crashed on rocks below.

She turned slowly as if coming out of a trance. Not startled at all, which said she'd heard him climbing. Not a girl, either, but a young woman. Probably not as old as him, but it was harder to tell with Alissians. She had a freckled, youthful look and she was, hands down, the prettiest Alissian he'd seen so far. “Who are you?” she asked.

“My name's Quinn,” he said. “I'm new here.”

She went back to looking out over the water. He waited a minute. “And you are . . .”

“Jillaine.” She brushed a strand of golden hair from her face. Her eyes were violet; Quinn had never seen anything like them.

“Are you a magician?” Quinn asked.

“I'm a chandler.”

A candle-­maker. Often kept bees as well. He hated that he knew that. “So, you make candles?”

“And soap, among other things,” she said.

Quinn locked eyes with her and smiled. “You never answered my question.”

She ignored him and looked back over the water. Her fingers fluttered slightly; Quinn saw the movement and waited. A light, floral aroma wafted to him on the breeze; it smelled faintly of roses. It grew powerful, nearly enough to make him dizzy, then it changed to the smell of warm bread. More scents assaulted his nose: cinnamon, lavender, hemp, vanilla. There was something he could only describe as new rain on stone. Then a strong scent of pollen. It caught him off guard, and he sneezed.

She smiled faintly, but never so much as looked at him. Apparently “Bless you” wasn't a custom here.

“That was
incredible
,” Quinn said, and he meant it. Not just because she was pretty.