Mayer Alan Brenner - Spell of Intrigue

In the course of his remarks Gadol had been gesturing freely with both arms. Max was most impressed in the easy mobility exhibited by his left. Gadol must have received better care than The Hand’s medic had usually been in the habit of providing, even though Max had broken that arm quite neatly at the time of their last farewell. Max had suspected at the time that Gadol would have been left with some impairment in his elbow, at least.

Still, Gadol wasn’t actually holding a weapon. Most of the other assorted men-and-women-at-arms spread out across the rafts had that covered for him; they were hefting nocked bows and had their swords at the ready. The one who radiated the greatest air of menace, though, was the man at Gadol’s side. Max had asked him once if he’d had his aura spell-doctored to make him emanate so convincingly. Romm had just grunted at him, which from Romm passed for a substantial conversation, before he’d punched Max in the stomach again. Romm V’Nisa was master of troops and militance expert.

Romm would have been responsible for The Hand’s careful deployment. Max was always happy to make a tactical problem of himself, and Romm was certainly one to appreciate the difficulties. He would much rather have moved his men directly onto the island and combed the ground starting at the shore and proceeding inwards, Max figured, leaving a maneuver reserve with their bows on the rafts at the rear. However, he also figured that Romm wasn’t about to underestimate Max’s personal capability for close-quarters combat again. Giving Max the chance to close with even a half-dozen of his men, especially in the muddle of the tall grass, was not a break Romm would be willing to give. Hence the threat to smoke him out.

Iskendarian’s hideout was being remarkably unhelpful. He had to have equipped the place with the means to detect and manage intrusions in his neighborhood, but Max hadn’t been able to turn up the slightest clue to the scheme of control. It was quite probable that Iskendarian had left the defenses on automatic, but if so, Max had yet to discover what provocation would set them off. Maybe Chas would help him out.

On the other hand, maybe they’d just give up eventually. He’d faked them out before: maybe they’d think he’d done it again. Of course, there were the horses and the boat to consider. Knowing The Hand, too, they’d blast the island before they left just to make sure they’d hadn’t been missing something. Now, though, the men were getting ready with fire arrows. “Maximillian, this is your last chance!” announced Gadol.

“Max?” he heard Jurtan Mont gasp.

“Keep your head down.” Max said. “Don’t worry. I’m on it.”

“You leave us no choice! Fire!”

Arrows arched into the grass, trailing flame and soot. A chorus of hisses arose as many of them plunged straight into the mud and were immediately doused. Others caught up in the few small shrubs on the marginally higher ground, two thocked into trees, and perhaps half a dozen lodged themselves in protruding tangles of grass. Small wisps of smoke rose up here and there around the island, and one of the grass clumps started spouting low flames of its own. Gadol turned to Romm, who was watching the lack of spectacle with arms folded and a sternly disapproving expression. Romm listened, shrugged once, and pointed at the water. His message was clear, Max thought. What did Gadol expect in the middle of a swamp, anyway? Of course everything would be waterlogged.

Max angled the mirror downward. There was the kid, still hugging the ground, clear of the arrows; the closest one was almost five feet away. A clear miss. As Max watched, Mont rolled over and stared up accusingly at him. When are you planning to do something? the kid mouthed.

He thought Mont would rather not learn he had been considering giving himself up. That would give him the best chance of finding out why The Hand had suddenly taken an interest in him again, and was willing to send the whole team into a swamp, of all places, to try to get the drop on him. If The Hand was serious about this they were sure to pop up again, though, so Max would have other chances. Of course, Max tried his best to assume the most steadfastly paranoid attitude possible. It was always safer to assume someone was after you, and for the worst of reasons, too, so it was a shame to dilute such nefarious potential through the application of facts.

A romantic attitude , Max thought, if a less than practical one . Well, if Gadol didn’t go to Chas now, he’d try to think of something … ah. Ah-hah! One raft clockwise of Gadol’s, a tall man with the archaic tonsure of one of the Kreelmon monkish sects was getting up from his seat on a wooden chest, stowing his pipe in a belt-pouch, shrugging back the sleeves on his light robe, and raising his arms. Chas V’Halila, the team sorcerer, was getting ready for action.

Chas liked flash. He also liked his own personal comfort and safety, but what he didn’t always like was groundwork. In the old days he’d been a little too slothful about checking for atmospheric conditions and other potential sources of problems; his spells were direct and to the point. He’d always been one to shoot first and mop up any mess later.

He was too far away and the angle was too weird for Max to see what Chas was launching, but he could guess. A puff of white smoke obscured Chas’ hands as out of them appeared a blurred globe of sun-yellow fire. It soared toward the island, breaking into chunks, each dragging its own bright afterimage trail, and then they started to touch down in a flurry of whoosh and whoomp , getting fires going for real this time. Max felt a swirl of force around him in the sphere. It was too quick to get any kind of fix on; as soon as he noticed it, it was already focusing and collimating and vectoring itself directly toward -

Chas lit up like a fireworks display, his aura fluorescing a swamp-toad green and sparks spraying off his outstretched arms, his skeleton burning electric red behind the pasty shadow of his flesh. His robe went up in soot. Then Chas himself fell over backward like a lock-jointed statue into the murky water. A much larger cloud of steam fizzed up from the surface.

Same old Chas , thought Max. Through his own introductory examination of the swamp, Max had gotten the hint that Iskendarian hadn’t wanted anyone running magic in the vicinity, the hint that Chas had obviously missed. What Max hadn’t been able to determine was the form the backlash would take. Now that -

A small mountain kicked the outside of the hideout sphere. Max separated from his perch at the hatch, hit the bookcase, and fell to the floor, a pile of books cascading onto him and the sliding divan aiming for his chest. Then the room lashed back in the other direction. It wasn’t being kicked, no, but with that amount of motion what about the island?

Max grabbed the ladder as it swung past, boosted himself up to the open hatch, and leaned over the side. Below him, water was rushing in from all sides of the island, its leading edge disappeared behind the billows of steam and smoke boiling off the patches of Chas’ fire as they got drenched and went out. The boat lifted off the shore and floated toward the center. The two horses were looking wildly around as water foamed in their direction, then over their hooves and forelegs. A tree fell over into the wave. The island -

The island was sinking.

The rafts of The Hand were vanishing into the fog. Below him, Max could see Jurtan Mont, now on his feet but reeling from side to side as the island continued to shudder on its way down. “Try to get the horses onto the boat!” Max called to him. Had he heard? But there he was, lurching toward the horses, his arms wide but his voice soothing. And here came the boat.