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Leo met Bryar at the kitchen door before he had a chance to knock. “Very quiet, if you please,” the elderly man said in a near whisper. “The gentlemen have not yet retired.”
“Gentlemen?”
Leo closed the door gently behind him. “Yes, and for the Master, the worst that could happen, or so I believe. Another Mage. They’ve been rivals for years. Possibly their whole lives.”
Uneasiness crept up Bryar’s spine. “Duncan? I’ve heard of him.”
Leo nodded once. “They have just requested brandy. I must hurry.”
Bryar took a seat at the table, thinking it the best place to stay out of Leo’s way as he scuttled about preparing a decanter and glasses. He left carrying the tray, returning empty-handed a short time later. “I dislike this. Brandy makes the Master loquacious. He fails to see the danger of revealing too much. The two of them will boast and brag half the night away.”
Leo busied himself with the kettle, making another tisane, or so Bryar surmised. “You don’t want Duncan to learn of the cell.”
“It’s too late for that. I overheard some of their grandiosity earlier. Gauvain leaves no doubt in Duncan’s mind that he possesses it. Whether he has revealed its location, I can’t say. Duncan is corpulent, and this makes him appear harmless. But he is dangerous, more so than Gauvain. Miss Willow distrusted him.”
“That tells me all I need to know. You found the cell, Leo?”
“I did.” Leo set the tisane on the table, along with a plate of flatbreads and a soft cheese. “I suspect you have eaten little today.”
“You’re right.” He consumed a cracker, then another. “Thanks.”
“I was a soldier once. I’m acquainted with the perils of long marches and poor rations.”
Bryar washed the crackers down with a swallow of tisane. “I want to take the cell tonight. There are men in green belts-”
“The police. We require them to control crime.”
“We’ve been noticed. I can’t risk waiting any longer.”
Leo’s hand froze over his mug. The cautious friendliness fled his voice. “We?”
“I’m here with one other, not a friend of Willow’s.”
“She dislikes him?”
“No. She finds him frustrating. But she saw the merit of his accompanying me.”
“I don’t like this. You didn’t mention another, yesterday.”
“He’s back-up. If all goes well, you’ll never see him.”
The men’s eyes met across the table. Uncertainty tightened the skin around Leo’s. Bryar schooled his face to openness.
Leo twisted in his chair, then rose, seeming to accept Bryar’s statement. He began scraping the Mages’ plates. “I agreed to your scheme because of recent events, which I am helpless to counteract. The change in the Master since Miss Willow left... I believe he became more attached to her than he ever let on. She spoke her mind, which would have been a new experience for him. With her absence, he’s become unlike himself. Unpredictable. A few days ago, he lost his customary control and hurled an instrument at the wall. The apprentices have noticed, too. The girl, Amalie, visits with me. She finds it hard, as generally women are not considered candidates for elevation to Mage. Harder still, with Gauvain in this mood. It’s not healthy, and it may color his decisions.”
“The person who controls the cell controls the world.”
“Aye. And Gauvain intends to be that man. I’m sure of that now.”
“How long a wait before they go to bed?”
“Probably two or three hours yet.”
Bryar didn’t dare nap. “Have you any caff? I have to stay alert.”
“I do, and the finest. The Master buys only the best.”
Leo brewed the caff, and they waited, Leo periodically leaving to serve the men in the dining room.
~~
LEO PROVED HIS WORTH, staying up past midnight, swapping tales. The man’s stories of army life amused Bryar, the more so because he suspected them to be true. “You never told Willow any of this,” he said as the tower settled into a quiet that suggested its inhabitants had retired.
“No. Some stories aren’t for the lasses. Soldier’s creed.”
Bryar hadn’t heard of a soldier’s creed, or for that matter that soldiers actually existed outside of the fanciful tales he spun for entertainment. Something else he didn’t much like about life on this side of the hills.
When the last caff had been drunk, the last story told, and the exact location of the power cell explained, they sat in silence for a while, listening. Bryar longed once again for his enhanced senses, even knowing the energy in Borgonne would destroy them. No, this was a job for an ordinary man, even if it meant, as a last resort, exposing the cell, neutralizing both Gauvain and Duncan’s Auric connections.
Finally, Leo rose to make a final pass through the tower. “As I do every night, nothing suspicious about it,” he assured Bryar. On his return, he said, “All is quiet. It’s time, lad.”
“Thank you for your help.”
“All for the greater good, including the Master’s. Safety go with ye.” The old man turned from him and disappeared into his private quarters. Bryar was on his own.
He unlatched the outer door and set it ajar, then took the one remaining candle in its wrought iron holder and carried it, following Leo’s directions, into Gauvain’s study.
The room left him slack-jawed. Even in the uncertain candlelight the richness of the cloths and tapestries, the fine, elaborate working of the many ornaments – or whatever they were – filled his senses, making him wish to abandon the task, just for a night, and explore the wonders before him.
Like a boy under an enchantment in one of your stories.
He set the candleholder on the high mantel. Behind Gauvain’s desk, on a separate table, he found what he was looking for. A nondescript boulder, oblong, the size of a serving tray in cross section, was at odds with the rest of the furnishings by its very plainness. With his fingers, he explored the stone and detected the line of the cut around its circumference.
Lift the lid. Remove the cell, and go.
Simple steps, which should take no more than seconds to accomplish.
The two halves fit perfectly together; Bryar couldn’t get so much as a fingernail between them. Considering that, and the probable weight, he shifted the top half to the side, rather than try to lift it. The edges made a grating noise as they moved against each other.
A soft shuffling disturbed the dark quiet of the tower. He froze. When the sound didn’t recur, he told himself to relax, but he broke out into a cold sweat.
The moment he uncovered the cell, Gauvain would know. Could he make it out of the tower without detection?
He had to. There was no other option.
A final shove revealed the interior of the hollow boulder. The light from the candle shattered into a thousand flashes. Purple crystals surrounded the power cell, unlike anything he had ever seen. The sight hypnotized him.
From the vicinity of the door came a gasp, as if from pain. He wheeled.
“Not the only one, I see.” A man entered the room and approached the desk. Considerably taller and heavier than Bryar, he wore a reddish gown that caught the light almost as much as the crystals did.
Duncan.
“Kind of you to locate it for me,” the man growled.
“It’s not yours.” The words fought to emerge from Bryar’s suddenly dry throat. He smelled his own fear, which threatened to drain away his strength. He couldn’t let that happen.
Duncan strode around the desk and reached toward the boulder. Bryar shoved the top of the stone back in place, slamming it into the man’s fingers.
Duncan howled – pain and fury blatant on his face.
Bryar shifted the stone again to give himself leverage, pried up the top, and heaved it away. It landed with a heavy thud and rocked once before settling. The lower half shuddered on its stand, sending the forest of crystals into wild dances of color in the candlelight.
Judging by the way the other man gasped, he had just unmasked the power cell. And leveled the playing field.
Physical, plain and simple, Ezra had said.
Moving with a swiftness that belied his size, Duncan lifted the cell from its crystal bed and started for the door, circling the desk.
Bryar sprang, chopping the larger man’s wrist. The cell shot from Duncan’s grasp; Bryar kicked it farther away before landing a punch under the older man’s eye.
Duncan might be overweight, but he wasn’t weak or unskilled in fighting techniques. He crashed into Bryar, sending them both tumbling onto Gauvain’s desk. Something hard jabbed into Bryar’s back before their struggle pitched them both to the floor. Duncan caught him in a leg lock, pinning him. He bucked and gained enough leverage to shove the man off and roll to a crouch.
He lunged for the cell. Duncan seized him from behind, his arms locked around his chest and squeezing. Diou, but the man was strong. Unable to break the grip, Bryar used a move learned from Joss, sending Duncan flying over his head to sprawl on the floor.
The Mage rolled to his feet, the cell in his hand. Bryar dove for his knees and pulled him to the floor. A small table holding fancy glass implements collapsed on top of them, shattering to shards on the floor.
The two men grappled, sending the cell shooting across the room. Neither was able to get an advantage. Bryar twisted free and staggered to his feet.
The knife in Duncan’s hand appeared from nowhere, glinting in the light. He approached Bryar, feinting with it; Bryar danced aside. Then he grabbed Duncan’s raised arm, and they were locked together, struggling for control of the weapon. The other man’s eyes had become tiny pinpricks reflecting the candlelight.
Bryar felt sweat pouring off him, slickening his hands. With Duncan’s face close to his own, he could see spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth, smell breath soured by rich food and wine.
Duncan was larger and had the advantage of leverage. The blade crept closer.
He had one chance. Desperate, Bryar mustered all his strength and training. But his left hand slipped from the knife an instant before he spun, pulled Duncan off balance, and jerked the weapon down.
Duncan’s face registered shock, then puzzlement. He slumped to the floor. The hilt of the knife protruded from his abdomen.
No. He couldn’t be dead.
Pain, the worst of Bryar’s life, shot from his left hand and into his arm. He screamed as his legs gave way. Then the world went black.
~~
KIRIL BURST THROUGH the door as the hunched old man rushed into the kitchen. Kiril shoved past him, darted into the main part of the tower, and followed the faint light to the study.
Two men down. As he approached Bryar, he trod on something. When he bent down to see what it was, what he found made him sick. But he had no time for that now. He quickly checked Bryar and was about to bellow for help when Leo appeared in the doorway.
“Thin bindings,” Kiril barked. “For tourniquets.”
The man didn’t hesitate.
As soon as Leo left, Kiril nudged the larger man with his foot and nodded grimly. One less problem.
Bryar had landed on his side. Kiril flipped him onto his back, hooked hands under his shoulders, and dragged him toward the kitchen.
Another man stepped through the door and crossed the room, barely hesitating at the chaotic scene before him. Kiril slowly straightened and watched as the newcomer, dressed completely in black, bent and picked up the power cell.
Gauvain. It had to be.
“You’re not keeping that.” Kiril pitched his voice to be threatening.
Gauvain turned a contemptuous glance toward him. “You are mistaken. Once its shield is restored-”
Rather than argue, Kiril released Bryar and launched forward, ramming a shoulder into Gauvain’s solar plexus. They crashed against the shelving. Gauvain’s head ricocheted against a heavy metal instrument. The cell fell from his slack fingers. Kiril snatched it up and stowed it in a pocket.
Then his good sense fled. He yanked out his own knife from its sheath at his ankle and turned back to Gauvain, who stood leaning against the shelves, as if stunned. “A souvenir,” Kiril growled. He slashed the blade along the side of Gauvain’s face, deep enough to scar him from eyebrow to chin. “That’s for Bryar, asshole,” he muttered.
Gauvain screamed once, then sank to the floor and crouched among the jumble of objects that had fallen from the shelves.
By the time Kiril had dragged Bryar to the kitchen, several lengths of torn rags waited in a pot simmering over the cookfire. “Pressure,” he commanded. “Fast.” With difficulty, he hoisted Bryar’s limp body onto the table.
“You apply the pressure, I will handle the binding.”
The old man tended to the remains of Bryar’s fingers efficiently, twisting wooden skewers inserted in the bandages to tighten the tourniquets, while Kiril held the arm upright, trusting gravity to assist in slowing the flow of blood. Their patient lay motionless on the scrubbed table.
“Name’s Kiril.”
“Leo. Be sure to release the bindings as soon as possible, or the remaining limbs will die.”
“I know,” Kiril replied. “I’m surprised you do.”
Leo shrugged. “Soldier, once.”
“Same here.”
With the bleeding under control, Kiril stretched, hands on his lower back, and studied the other man as he sank into a chair, his eyes closed. “Now what? Can he stay here?”
“No. The Master will be furious.” Leo didn’t look up.
“It’s a bloodbath in there. Your boss needs you. He’s cut up some.”
Leo’s look morphed from exhausted to hostile. “By whose hand?”
Kiril chose not to answer. “He’ll live. But he’s going to hurt like hell, and there’s a lot of blood. Where can I take Bryar?”
Their gazes met and held. “There’s a place,” Leo said at last. “Turn right, then right again, then a few doors further you’ll come to a stable. If anyone’s there, tell them I sent you.” He opened a cabinet and extracted two flasks. He filled the first with water from the simmering pot, the second with a golden liquid that, from its scent, contained alcohol. “You will need these. I’ll bring you some clean rags when I can. Go now. I must see to the Master.”
Go. As if it were that easy. Bryar was average height but heavily built, and a dead weight. He needed... he looked around the kitchen and spotted a board covered in cloth propped against a wall.
“What’s that?”
“I use it to press the Master’s clothing.”
A primitive ironing board. It would do.
“Help me.”
“I really must-”
“Now, damn it,” Kiril hissed.
Between them they moved the board to the table, rolled Bryar onto it, and lifted it down.
Grimly, Kiril remembered his own first journey in this benighted world, the lashed litter on the rough trails. This wouldn’t be any better, and the risk of being seen by the police once they emerged from the alley frankly terrified him, but there was nothing else to do.
Leo stopped at the door. “The cell?”
He patted his pocket.
“Thank the Sustainer for that.” The old man shuffled from the room.
The puncture wound on Kiril’s arm throbbed; he ignored it. He stuffed the flagons into Bryar’s pack and threw it over one shoulder, his own over the other. Then he lifted the head of the board and eased it and its load over the threshold. “Sorry, buddy,” he muttered. “This is going to be bad.” Very slowly, stooping to reduce the angle, unsure how much blood Bryar had lost or even if he stood a chance of surviving, he dragged his cargo through the muck of the alley.