“Thank you.” Yanko headed that way, hoping to end his conversation with the mage. If he had been probing Lakeo’s mind, he must have checked on Dak, as well. Even if Dak’s rage might deter the mage from scraping too deeply into his thoughts, Yanko could not count on that. As a Turgonian, Dak would have even less natural ability to resist a telepath, and he wouldn’t likely know when one was sauntering through his mind.
Unfortunately, the mage tagged along, following Yanko to the benches.
“I’m Senshoth Fire Badger,” he said. “Do you mind sharing your name, Honored Warrior Mage?”
“Akaron Sun Dragon.”
“Sun Dragon,” the man breathed. “A truly great family. No wonder you can manipulate the earth in addition to your other talents.”
“Yes,” was all Yanko said. No need to share that his other talents, his non-earth science talents, were on the mediocre side by warrior mage standards. Or any mage standards.
Avoiding the puddles, Yanko sat on a bench carved into a stalagmite. Dak stood beside him, his hands resting on the hilts of his weapons. Even though he had sparred with a sword and a shield when they had practiced in the mines, he had shown up tonight with traditional Nurian weapons, a kyzar and a scimitar. Yanko wouldn’t be surprised if he could fight in the Nurian style as effectively as in his own. But fighting wouldn’t do him any good if the mage read his thoughts.
Senshoth perched on a bench across from Yanko and Dak. He draped his forearms on his knees and gazed over in... Yanko was not sure how to read that expression. Rapture? It couldn’t be.
The guard Senshoth had been talking to earlier returned with a tray of appetizers and beverages. Technically, it was an upturned shield with some broken rice crackers and a chipped pitcher containing an undetermined substance—no separate mugs. The prison must not entertain often.
“If I may presume to ask,” Senshoth said, “however did you claim a Turgonian for a bodyguard?”
Uh. It hadn’t occurred to Yanko to prepare an answer for that question. He blurted out the first thing that came to mind. “He’s a war prize.”
“War?” Senshoth tilted his head. “What war? You’re so young, Honored Warrior Mage.”
Yanko didn’t think he sounded suspicious—yet—but he accepted the pitcher and took a long sip from the side so he had a moment to consider an explanation. The potent beverage nearly burned his tonsils off on the way down. Who put such strong alcohol in a pitcher that big? It was all he could do not to cough and sputter.
“He was a Turgonian spy actually,” Yanko said, surreptitiously wiping the tears from the corners of his eyes. “He had orders to study Stargrind and assassinate the headmaster if possible. He was captured and put up a great fight before he was brought down. I was a senior student at the time and had the luck to be the person instrumental in defeating him.” Yanko resisted the urge to look at Dak, not wanting to see the icy glare that was doubtlessly leveled in his direction. Considering how many times Dak had flattened him into the ground while they had been sparring, the idea of Yanko defeating him was laughable. “The headmaster intended to put him to death, but after he was tortured and revealed all of his information, most of the fight went out of him. I had yet to claim a bodyguard for myself, and I thought it would be an interesting challenge to break him like a sazchen lizard.” This time, he didn’t have to look at Dak to feel the glare drilling its way into the side of his head.
“Fascinating,” Senshoth breathed, apparently believing the ludicrous story. “Because he was such a good fighter?”
“Indeed. I knew if I could handle him, it would be a great boon to have him at my side.”
“You must keep a charm or compel spell of some kind on him.”
Were there such things? Yanko hadn’t read about them. Something out of the mind mage books, perhaps.
“Naturally,” he said. He handed the pitcher across to the mage, not wanting to dull his senses by swallowing any more alcohol, especially since that stuff was potent enough to be used as a fire starter.
“I can’t read him at all,” Senshoth admitted, scrutinizing Dak. “It’s remarkable. You said he was a spy? He must have extensive training. It’s almost as if he’s a mage hunter.”
“Really?” Yanko asked before he caught himself. If he and Dak had been working together since his supposed graduation, he shouldn’t be surprised by anything about him...
“Really. I’ve been trying. I get the sense that he wants to kill me, of course, but that’s not surprising for a Turgonian.”
“No,” Yanko murmured, his mind dwelling on the revelation that Dak had been trained to thwart mental attacks. That wasn’t remotely typical for a Turgonian, not when ninety percent of the nation had convinced themselves that the mental sciences did not exist.
“But beyond that, he’s a blank wall. Much as you are. One expects a mage to be able to shield his thoughts from another mage, but for a Turgonian to do so? So surprising. They’re clearly an inferior race.”
“Clearly.” Yanko wondered if Dak would want to spar with him later, perhaps pummel him into the ground a few times as retaliation for this night’s indignities.
Footsteps came from one of the tunnels, hard-heeled boots ringing on the stone floor. The first guard and a heavyset man missing most of his hair strode into view. Yanko’s instinct was to stand up and bow to the man, but he reminded himself that he was the ranking person in the room, or at least pretending to be it. Whatever political or career status a mundane reached, he could never stand above a mage from an honored family.
The older man didn’t look happy about it, but he smacked his hands together and bowed. “Honored Warrior Mage.” Even as he lowered his head, he glanced at Senshoth and raised his eyebrows. The telepath nodded back.
Yanko let out a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding. They were buying the charade.
“I have read the message from Prince Zirabo,” the commissioner said. “It is unprecedented, but I must say I am not surprised that the one called Arayevo is a notorious criminal.”
Yanko kept his eyebrows from flying up—barely. “Oh?”
“She has been trouble since she arrived here.” The commissioner glanced at Senshoth again, but Yanko couldn’t interpret the silent exchange this time. He wondered if any communication beyond eye contact was happening. “I will have her brought to you, of course. Do you, ah, would the morning be acceptable?”
The morning? Why would they need to keep her another night? Was the man thinking of some way to corroborate Yanko’s story? It was likely he had a communication orb in his office and could talk to a superior in the city. Yanko was banking on him not having direct access to anyone in the Great Chief’s court, but he would hate to be wrong about that.
“I must have the woman tonight,” Yanko said. When both men’s eyebrows twitched, he realized that had not sounded quite right. “I must take her with me tonight,” he amended. “A ship awaits us in the harbor, and I’ve made arrangements to be allowed past the blockade, but it must be soon, before hostilities escalate.” He hoped that sounded plausible. Maybe he should have picked up a newspaper in his nonexistent free time and figured out what exactly the hostilities were at the moment.
The commissioner scratched his jaw, and Senshoth’s brow crinkled. “You’ve made arrangements with the rebels? When you’re on a mission from the Great Chief’s son?”
The rebels? Those had been Nurian warships out there, painted in Nurian navy colors. He had assumed they must have been sent by the central government to stamp out rebel activity down here. Or rather, he hadn’t given much thought to it at all. Idiot.
Despite his whirring thoughts, Yanko smiled and offered a simple, “Yes.” Before they could question him further on politics he knew nothing about, he added, “If you can bring her up promptly, I will be grateful. I’m certain Prince Zirabo would too. I’m not privy to the details, but I believe the stolen item was of great importance to him.”
“It’s not his diplomatic
flute, is it?” Senshoth asked. “Those are so rare and valuable. It would be a tremendous loss, not only to him personally but to the Great Chief, as well.”
Yanko spread his hands. Whatever got them to bring Arayevo out more quickly.
“Yes,” the commissioner said. “I understand. I’ll...” He chewed on his lip and gazed thoughtfully at the tunnels on the far side of the cavern. “I’ll have her brought up shortly.”
Yanko watched him head over to talk to a guard, a little uneasy about his hesitations and his desire to prolong the handoff.
“Pardon me, please,” Senshoth said. “I’ll be right back.” He hustled into the same tunnel the commissioner had exited from.
Yanko stood up and met Dak’s eyes, wishing he could ask if the Turgonian thought anything seemed fishy here. But Dak’s face wasn’t easy to read, or rather the thoughts behind it weren’t. Judging solely on his expressions, he seemed to vacillate between grumpy and truly perturbed without much range beyond those feelings. What he was truly thinking about... apparently, not even telepaths could guess. Two men had returned to guard the main entrance, and they were close enough to hear if Yanko tried to speak with Dak, so he did not. He almost wished he had studied the mind sciences when he had been growing up. Communicating with animals had come naturally—nobody had taught him that—but the idea of trying to put images in Dak’s head the way he had done with the hounds in the mountains... It was daunting.
Movement in the closest tunnel caught Yanko’s eyes. He stood on his tiptoes, leaning toward it. Arayevo? No, it was only the mage returning.
Senshoth jogged toward him with a leather-bound book in his arms. “Honored Warrior Mage,” he said. “I would like to give you a gift.”
“Oh?” Yanko must have truly made an impression on the older man.
Senshoth thrust the tome forward. “It’s my life’s work. A historical and instructional manual on compulsion, telepathy, and other mind-related disciplines. I, ah...” He poked at the binding on the book and avoided Yanko’s eyes. “Well, you’re from the Golden City, right? Or you pass through there often? I thought you might, only if you feel it’s worthy, recommend my work to the mages on the Council of Eternal Starlight. I assume you must know them?” Senshoth lifted hopeful eyes.
The Council of Eternal Starlight? The committee of the most influential practitioners of the mental sciences in the Great Land? The most politically connected and distinguished mages from the most honored families?
“Of course,” Yanko squeaked. He thumped his chest, cleared his throat, and repeated himself in a more normal register.
“Wonderful.” Senshoth thrust the book at Yanko. “Please accept my gift.”
Yanko had no idea how to reject it tactfully and thus ended up with the massive tome in his arms. It had to weigh ten pounds. How was he supposed to carry this around on a journey of thousands of miles?
He forced a smile and said, “Thank you.”
Senshoth beamed.
“Here we are,” came the commissioner’s voice from across the cavern.
Almost dropping the book in his eagerness to see Arayevo again after all these months, Yanko spun, a more sincere smile on his face. But it faltered right away. The wild-eyed woman with shaggy brown hair and barbed tattoos encircling her wrists was most certainly not Arayevo.
Chapter 9
Yanko opened and closed his mouth a few times. Was it possible he’d had the wrong Arayevo all along? That this woman simply shared the same name? She did fit what he imagined a smuggler might look like. But no, Shark had described Arayevo as young and spunky. This woman had to be close to Dak’s age and appeared about as spunky as a pothole.
“That’s not Arayevo,” Yanko said, even as the commissioner opened his mouth to say something.
“What? Of course it is.” The commissioner smiled and stepped aside to show off the woman more fully. She glared dully back at him.
“Prince Zirabo showed me a picture of her—of the criminal.”
“He—oh.” The commissioner’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t realize—I thought he’d just given you the message, and, ah.”
Trying to make his voice steely again, Yanko stood as tall as he could and said, “You seek to deceive me?”
“No.” The commissioner flung out a hand while glancing at the ledge outside. He must have heard of the small earthquake.
“I told you it wouldn’t work,” Senshoth said, as if wishing to show that he’d had nothing to do with the scheme.
“Where is Arayevo?” Yanko demanded.
The commissioner dropped his head and rubbed his face. “We’re not sure. Don’t worry—she hasn’t escaped. I mean, she has escaped, but she’s still in the caves somewhere. We can find her. We just need time. Senshoth was using his powers to locate her when you came down, Honored Warrior Mage. I’m sure by morning...”
“You’re searching for the criminal now?” Yanko asked.
“We were.”
“Then I shall help. As I’ve said, it’s imperative that we leave as soon as possible. With my assistance, we can locate her more quickly.” And maybe he could locate the rest of the missing crew at the same time. This could work out better than he had hoped. He kept his visage stern and didn’t let any of his excitement show.
“That would be most appreciated.” Senshoth smiled at Yanko, appearing excited at having his new buddy join the search with him. Yanko didn’t know if he had truly impressed the mage, or if it was only the robe—and his made-up connections with the Council of Eternal Starlight—that had Senshoth so eager to spend time with him. As long as he couldn’t read Dak, Yanko supposed it did not matter.
The commissioner was nodding. “Yes, we’re glad to have your help. She’s been a most trying inmate. Last night, she tricked—oh, never mind.” He mopped his brow. “I won’t regret having you take her away.”
“Show me to the cell where she was kept prisoner,” Yanko said. “I have tracking skills. It makes sense to begin the search there.” And if she had been kept with the other crew members and he could identify them, perhaps he could assist them in escaping.
“Senshoth.” The commissioner pointed to Yanko. “Take care of it, please.”
The telepath bowed and waved for Yanko to follow him. They crossed the cavern, climbed one of the ladders, and headed through a twisting natural tunnel lined with iron sconces. A lamp burned in every third one, leaving the way dim. Dak grunted more than once as he had to maneuver around stalactites, clunking against some of them in the darkness. Yanko tripped over the uneven flooring a couple of times too. He imagined trying for years to break out of a prison cell, finally making it, only to crash into a stalactite and knock himself out on the way to freedom.
“Just ahead,” Senshoth said.
They passed several openings to cells that had been carved out of the limestone. None were the same size, and the vertical bars and doors had clearly been built on the premises and hand-fitted. Wrought iron. Yanko could heat such a substance to melting if he had a few minutes.
Senshoth stopped in front of a large cell with fifteen or twenty people inside. Shark’s crew? They were a mottled, interracial bunch with tattoos, mismatched clothing, and hair in need of cutting. It was hard to tell if they had been interred for a long time or had come in that way.
“She was with them,” Senshoth said. “They’re pirates, the ugly lot of them.”
“We’re simple sailors, Honored Warrior Mage,” one in the back proclaimed. “Wrongfully and unjustly locked up in this dank cell.”
“Sure, Claw,” one of his comrades said. “They’re going to believe you. That one reads minds, remember?”
“Then he should know we transport cargo. We’re not blighted pirates. What does he think? We’re part of Snake Heart’s crew?”
Yanko almost choked at the mention of his mother. Nobody spoke about her in his village, and he wouldn’t have guessed that she was so notorious as to have become a part of the sea lexicon.
“Ille
gal cargo,” Senshoth murmured. “Honored Warrior Mage, do you require anything to begin your search? I’ve been hunting in the back tunnels for her, but she keeps evading me. I’m more of a close-contact interrogation specialist than a tracker.” He shrugged apologetically. “There’s nowhere for her to go back there, but she doesn’t seem ready to give up.”
“A moment of silence is all I need.”
Yanko placed his hands on the iron bars of the locked gate and bowed his head. He concentrated on searching for Arayevo first, afraid that the telepath would smell the burning metal once he started working on the lock. He reached out with his senses, past the last of the cells in this tunnel and into the darkness beyond the last lamp. The passage branched, then branched again, dozens of openings leading farther from the entrance, but as the commissioner had promised, none that rose to the surface. Rats scampered about in the tiny spaces as did a few larger scavengers. Yanko shuddered, thinking of Arayevo crawling around in the tight, damp spaces, hungry and cold as she sought an escape. This couldn’t be the adventure she had longed for when she had left home.
His senses brushed an aura larger and far more familiar than that of the rats. Arayevo. His Arayevo.
He almost threw his head back and whooped in delight at having found her, but he remembered his secondary mission. He eyed the smugglers through his lashes, hoping he was doing the right thing, or at least that the end justified the means.
Aware of Senshoth shifting from foot to foot, less than a meter away, Yanko heated the slender piece of metal securing the gate. Soon melted iron dripped from the gate. He used his body to hide it from Senshoth, and he hoped none of the smugglers were paying much attention. If they saw it and grew excited, the telepath might sense that from them. Yanko enticed a faint breeze down the passage to blow away the smoke and the scent of the burning metal. Then it was done, the bar that held the gate shut now gone.