The World Awakening Read online

  “Beg pardon, sir?” asked the vendor, in a rather indignant tone.

  “How much for this one?”

  “For you?” The fellow eyed him up and down, taking in the crushed velvet collar and the fine silk shirt. “Six silvers.”

  “Three,” Quinn said.

  “I could do five.”

  “Done.” Quinn tossed out the coins, palmed the bottle, and moved on.

  He didn’t look over his shoulder, though his neck itched with the desire to. The euphoria of his big win at cards had ebbed. He walked faster, weaving against the flow of the crowd and through little gaps as they came up. Every now and then, he held up the bottle as if trying to see what it contained. In truth, he was looking for the mustache. And he found it every time, no matter how fast he walked, no matter how many quick turns he took. In fact, it loomed ever closer. He knows he’s been made.

  He reached the center of the plaza, where the night market’s most opulent wares basked in soft lamplight. The visible presence of armed guards every booth or two offered testament to the wealth on display here. Surely his tail wouldn’t try anything here, not with so many witnesses around.

  Then again, this was Alissia, so . . .

  I’d best be ready.

  He made sure his sword-handle was clear of the cloak. There was an open area about ten feet ahead, with enough room to confront the guy, but keep some space between them. Right before he reached it, a couple of shoppers abruptly gave up on the table in front of them and stalked away, right across his path. He had no choice but to stop. It was either that or bowl right over them. The man muttered something about ridiculous prices as they shuffled out of the way. Quinn waited on the balls of his feet. His tail would be nearly on top of him by now. Finally the way was clear. He took one step. A hand fell heavily on his shoulder. He tried to twist away from it, but the grip tightened.

  “Easy, friend,” said the man. He had a high voice with a slight lisp to it.

  Quinn went for his sword. He got his hand on it, but felt a sharp pressure against his lower back. A knifepoint. He froze.

  “Ah-ah,” the man said. “Wouldn’t want to bloody this fine garment of yours.”

  Quinn sighed and straightened. “What do you want?”

  “For starters, keep your arms down, and your hands where I can see ’em.”

  “And then?”

  “Start walking. Nice and slow.”

  Quinn obeyed, and the man followed on his heels. They marched in lockstep with the flow of the crowd that moved away from the center of the market. The sharp pressure against his back never wavered. Neither did the hand on his shoulder.

  Got to get him talking. “Want to tell me what this is about?”

  The man grunted. “It’s about you doing what I say, and not trying to get cute.”

  Quinn kept walking, but didn’t rush. The more time he had to figure something out, the better. The sword was a no-go. He’d never get it out in time. Whatever this was, probably wouldn’t be worth getting stabbed in the kidney. Especially in a world without antibiotics. The belt buckle zapper wouldn’t help him unless the man moved in front, which didn’t seem likely.

  All that remained was the magic, the real magic. It tantalized him. There was almost limitless power there, but he had little knowledge and even less control. Maybe I should have stayed at the Enclave. That gave him a thought.

  “I should warn you about something,” he said.

  The man made no reply.

  “I’m a magician,” Quinn said. “An Enclave magician.”

  “Are you, now?”

  “Yes. And I think we both know what it means to cross one of us.”

  “Oh, I’m shaking in my boots.”

  So much for the dangerous reputation.

  They skirted around a blacksmith’s booth, and Quinn pondered grabbing for one of the many daggers that lined the front of the table. It was risky, though. The other guy already had a knife, and Logan had informed Quinn definitively that getting into a knife fight with a native would only win him a slower and more painful death. In the end, he didn’t have the stones to make a grab for something, and the moment passed. The next booth held only candles and wax soaps. Less than useless.

  They reached the periphery of the night market, and the crowd began to thin.

  “Where to?” Quinn asked.

  “Keep walking.”

  Another thirty paces would put them past the drug tents and out into the night. Then it would probably be down a dark alley, where gods knew what would happen to Quinn. He focused his thoughts on the power deep in his gut. He didn’t have a plan, really, other than trying something with that source. He had the most luck with fire. He didn’t feel very confident about summoning a ball of fire behind them, where he couldn’t see it, but it was the best thing he could think of. He bit his lip and made ready as they marched between two high-walled tents. Screw it. It’s now or never.

  Maybe the guy saw it coming, because he fell a step back. His hand slipped from Quinn’s shoulder.

  Quinn spun out and away from the knifepoint, ready to hurl some kind of magical hell right in his assailant’s face. But the man stood stock-still, one hand in the air palm down, and the other close to his hip, concealing most of a small, kindjal-type dagger. Behind him, the air shimmered slightly, mangling the glow of lamplight from the market. Something was there. What the hell?

  Then he smelled roses, and he knew. Jillaine. Gods bless her, but she had great timing.

  Quinn tugged his right ear in one of their prearranged signals. Stay back. He’d just as soon not let this man know about his backup. Instead he stretched, and smiled. “That’s much better, isn’t it?”

  This brought no reply, but the man glared daggers at him above a snarl of mute fury.

  “Now we can revisit some of my questions,” Quinn said. “I suppose I should free your mouth so you can offer some answers.”

  The man’s mouth fell open beneath his mustache. He worked his jaw once or twice, then demanded, “What did you do to me?”

  “Did I forget to warn you that I was a magician? Ah, no—I didn’t. So, this is only the beginning. Who are you?”

  “No one.”

  “Come on, you can do better than that.”

  The man lurched forward, as if struck from behind. “Ah! All right. Name’s Burro.”

  “Why did you attack me?”

  “I wasn’t going to hurt you.”

  “You had a knife to my back!”

  “Not a real one. Just a pigsticker.”

  They love that word here. “What did you want with me, then?”

  “Money.”

  “Did one of the other players tip you off?” He wouldn’t put it past them, either. No one liked a new guy coming in for a big take.

  “Not sure what you mean,” Burro said.

  “How did you know I had money?”

  “Didn’t know that for sure, but the reward’s a tidy sum.”

  “What reward?”

  Burro tried to move, but remembered he was immobile. “There’s a parchment. Inside of my cloak, on the right.”

  Quinn hesitated, because getting closer to the guy who’d put a knife up to his back didn’t hold much appeal. But his curiosity got the better of him. He took a cautious step forward. “I’ll take the pigsticker.” He grabbed the knife by its hilt and pried it free of the man’s grip. It was a small but nasty-looking dagger with a curved blade, like something you’d buy at a market in the Middle East. He used the tip of the blade to lift Burro’s cloak up away from his chest. Four parchments were sewn to the inside of the hem, each with a sketch of someone’s face. “What is this?”

  Burro looked down. “My assignments, you might say. Folks I’m looking for.”

  He’s a damn bounty hunter. “Interesting line of work.”

  “Puts food on the table.”

  “And people into harm’s way.” Quinn cut off, because he’d spotted the parchment that bore his likeness. It was a surpris
ingly detailed sketch, like a caricature, but more accurate. There was written text on the paper, too, though he couldn’t read it. He gripped the parchment and ripped it free of the stitches. “Where did you get this?”

  “From the boss man.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “He’s the one in charge.”

  Quinn sighed. “What’s his name?”

  “He’s a miller. That’s all I’m going to say.”

  Quinn wasn’t cut out for torture, and there wasn’t time anyway. “Fine. Tell me this. How many of you are there?”

  “In Caralis, about fifteen serious lookers. Maybe twice as many hobbyists you don’t really need to worry about.”

  “Will they all be looking for me?”

  “Probably.”

  Sweet Jesus, how does this keep happening to me?

  Quinn jammed the parchment into his pocket. “I want your word that you won’t follow me, or tell anyone that you saw me here.”

  “In exchange for what?”

  Quinn held the wicked dagger in front of the man’s face. “How about keeping all of your extremities?”

  Burro gave a sharp nod. “No following or talking.”

  “I knew you’d see reason.” Quinn went to tuck the dagger into his pocket. That was standard procedure, according to Logan. Disarm the incapacitated foe.

  Burro crinkled his forehead. “Listen, do you have to take the pigsticker?”

  “I was planning to, why?”

  “It’s kind of a family heirloom.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Used to be my granddad’s.”

  He’s got guts, I’ll give him that. Quinn lifted the nearest tent-flap and tossed the knife in, to the satisfying shouts of alarm and tinkling of glass. “It’ll be right there.”

  “Wasn’t exactly what I had in mind,” Burro muttered.

  “But it’ll keep you busy. Goodbye, Burro. See you never.”

  Quinn turned on his heel and walked off, not daring to look at Jillaine again. She caught up with him outside of the market, and their agreed-upon rendezvous point. They set off into the quiet emptiness of the open square. The orange haze of the night market faded, enveloping them in darkness. After the tight press of the crowd, the solitude was a comfort.

  “Well, that was interesting,” she said.

  “Thank you for saving me.” He sighed. “Again.”

  “You don’t sound very grateful.”

  “No, I am.” He caught her hand with his own and held it. Sometimes she’d pull away when he did that, and other times she’d allow it. This time, she let him. Small victories. “I just wish I could rely on magic when it’s important.”

  “You need more practice.”

  “I suppose.” What he probably needed was to return to the Enclave, but Jillaine wouldn’t hear of it. She’d spent most of her life trying to get away. Kept reminding him that he’d promised to show her the world. “Well, at least there’s good news.”

  “Such as?”

  “I won tonight. We’re up about one fifty.”

  “That’s good.”

  “Also, I’m a wanted man.”

  She snorted. “It must be a mistake. Why would anyone put a bounty on you?”

  “I’d rather not start guessing.” In the last few months, he’d orchestrated the removal of Richard Holt’s magical protections, outed himself to Kiara’s sister at the Enclave, and dropped out of contact with CASE Global. That last bit hadn’t been his fault, but the lieutenant probably wouldn’t see it that way.

  “What should we do?”

  “Oh, we’re we all of a sudden?”

  She let go of his hand. “Don’t push your luck.”

  “All right, all right.” Still in the doghouse. At least she was willing to help him. “Well, someone’s looking for me. I say we find out who it is.”

  Chapter 3

  Unchained

  “No sailor can serve two ships.”

  —Valteroni proverb

  The sailors brought Veena Chaudri up on deck as the ship made ready to dock in Valteron City. The bay surface looked like glass, reflecting a sky that seemed almost too blue. She couldn’t see a single cloud, but the faint column of dwindling smoke marred the picture if she looked south. She still didn’t understand what started the fire in the admiral’s keep. That was never part of the plan.

  Yet another thing she’d have to answer for today.

  Captain Mansfield appeared beside her, coughing politely into a gloved hand to announce his presence. “We’ll make port in a matter of minutes.”

  “I appreciate the lift, Captain.”

  “Yes. Well.” He held up a length of rope. “If you’d be so kind.”

  “Right.” She turned and put her arms behind her back.

  The captain looped the rope around them in a figure eight. Thank the gods, it was a new rope of soft hemp, not one of the rough tar-covered lines from the rigging.

  “Is that loose enough for you?” Mansfield asked.

  “Perfectly so.”

  “Will you excuse me?” He jogged up to retake the wheel as the ship neared the docks. The mate shouted for men to reef sails. Mansfield steered them in, and nosed the ship right up against the pilings as it drifted to a stop.

  “Make fast!” the mate shouted.

  Mansfield reappeared beside Veena. “It seems you’re expected.” He nodded to the dock, where a party of fresh-faced guardsmen waited. They wore the livery of the Valteroni Prime, and held their halberds in awkward grips.

  “They look new,” Veena said.

  “Greener than spring seedlings,” Mansfield said. “Every fighting man with an ounce of experience got sent—” he broke off, and glanced at her, and cleared his throat. “Well, no need for you to worry about that.”

  The sailors lowered a ramp to the dock and secured it.

  “I suppose that’s my cue,” Veena said.

  “Let me help you.” The captain took her elbow, and helped her climb the ramp.

  “What’s the name of your ship, Captain? I nearly forgot to ask.”

  “We’re the Prime Directive.”

  “A fitting name.” She hid her smile behind her hand as they reached the dock. “Thank you for plucking me from the water.”

  “Good luck to you.”

  She stepped onto the dock and appreciated the firmness of it. Dry land at last. The guards awaited her in silence. They hadn’t brought a sedan chair this time. Good. She addressed the closest one, a fair-haired young man whose uniform looked two sizes too big. “Shall we?”

  They escorted her off the docks and into Valteron City without a single word. Now and then, one of the guards cast a furtive glance at her. Not a one of them could have been older than twenty-five. Halfway across the great city square, the one in front fumbled his halberd and they all had to stop while he picked it up.

  Veena bit her lip and kept her eyes down. Just a meek prisoner, nothing more.

  They marched her up the long marble staircase to the front gate. Sailed past the guards at the top, and beneath the portcullis behind them. Within minutes, she stood in the wide throne room with the tall windows where she’d met Richard the first time.

  And there he was, standing at the very same window. Looking out of it like his mind was a thousand leagues away. At last.

  She’d have run and thrown her arms around him right then, but the other man in the room gave her pause. He looked of an age with Richard, but taller and completely bald. He appeared to be staring at the floor, but his eyes burned with a strange intensity.

  Her escort guards must have sensed it, too. They left her standing in the entrance and hurried out, pulling the heavy doors shut behind them.

  “Richard?”

  He turned at the sound of her voice. His face lit up like a burst of sunlight. “Veena!” He strode over to her, arms spread wide. He took her by the shoulders—a slight disappointment, that—and squared her to him. Then his brow furrowed. “Why are your wrists bound?”
r />   “Hmm? Oh, I’d forgotten.” She felt suddenly flustered, under the weight of his close attention. She turned so he could see them. “Would you?”

  He untied the bindings, his long fingers making deft work of the knot. “I didn’t tell them to do this.”

  “It was my idea. I thought it best I look like a prisoner, in case anyone’s watching.”

  “Clever. Very clever.” Richard got the rope free and spun her around. “Now, what happened out there?”

  She began to answer, but paused, because he hadn’t even mentioned the other man. “Richard.” She nodded in his direction.

  “What?”

  “I believe the young lady is wondering who I am, and what I’m doing here,” said the man behind him. His voice was deep, but strangely soothing.

  Richard put a chagrined hand to his forehead. “Where are my manners? Veena, this is Moric, one of my oldest friends.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” she said.

  He gave a gracious nod. “Equally so.”

  Richard leaned in. “He’s from the Enclave.”

  Veena gasped softly.

  Moric pointed at her, and looked to Richard. “See, this is the proper reaction.” He smiled at Veena. “It’s nice to be appreciated for a change.”

  “Yes, yes, you’re very impressive,” Richard told him. “Would you give us a moment?”

  “I’ll be outside. Take as long as you need.” Moric stalked to the door, which flew open at the crook of his finger. It slammed behind him.

  Veena stared. “I wasn’t sure I believed you.”

  Richard waved a dismissive hand. “Ignore him. He’s just showing off. So, what happened out there?”

  She grimaced. “I suppose the plan got away from me a little.”

  “The fire in the admiral’s keep was a bit of a surprise.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “Truthfully? No, he is not. He was burned very badly, trying to save some of his household servants from the blaze.”

  “I feel terrible about that,” Veena said. “I still don’t understand how or why it was set.”

  Richard put his hand on her shoulder, a comforting gesture. “It’s not your fault. I’m sure that was Kiara’s decision.”

  “I still think it was a mistake to let them have the backpack.”