Mayer Alan Brenner - Spell of Fate

Shaa lifted his head for another update. In the midst of the billowing smoke, he could see the grandstand platform collapsing in twisted sections onto the main roadbed. Part of the far edge was still in place up above, the charges on those pylons perhaps having failed to detonate. A vast shrieking clang of metal and the cry of victims made pandemonium around the major part of the wreck, though - and now a chunk of the main-deck and the adjoining southside railing were separating out and tumbling free toward the water.

A banner of flaming letters was rising from the smoke, its message something about liberation and self-determination and free rights that seemed somewhat irrelevant in the present context. Not that too many in the immediate vicinity were spending the time to take it in - the part of the crowd that could stand had begun to surge away from the center toward the banks off the bridge, pressing with increasing force against the equally packed mass on the approaches and the shore. Making their way upstream, though, in a purposeful charge toward the main mess, were a group of armed men, whether police or troops or Imperial guards was impossible to tell. The detachment that had surrounded the observation deck had disintegrated into a rabble of individuals still pulling themselves dazedly out of the wreckage or trapped in its midst. Some of them did seem to be orienting themselves and reorganizing, though. “We’d better get out of the way!” Leen was yelling.

She clearly was yelling, yet Shaa’s hearing at the moment was also clearly unequal to the task of comprehension since meaning was lost behind a vast ringing. It was like old times. Also like old times was the usual leading question - “Where’s Max?” Shaa said, yelling himself. Max hadn’t been under the platform when it had started to drop, but he had been squarely in the path of one burst of fiery debris.

Then Shaa felt a hand on his collar yanking him to his feet. He swung on the person behind him, his hand going to the sword he was still wearing out of habit in his belt, even though the workout of actually employing it was beyond him at present, but felt another hand grab his arm and yank it behind his back out of the way. The point of someone else’s sword hung before his face. Manacles clanged behind him. “Get them off this bridge!” someone else was hollering.

“What is the meaning of this?” Shaa asked reasonably. “The priority at the moment would seem to be disaster relief, not apprehending bystanders -”

“Shut up, scum!” the man with the sword in his face said, and then he whacked him over the side of the head with the flat of his blade for good measure. Next to Shaa, Leen was similarly being dragged aside. If it was a case of mistaken identity it would all be straightened out in due time, unless this was some sort of quarantine or witchhunt. But what if it wasn’t a mistake?

Where was Max?

It wasn’t the blast; that much he could have ridden with. No, it was obviously more sheer bad luck. Although it could have been worse. If it had been a twenty-pound chunk of flying pylon that had walloped Max in the back, instead of probably only half as much, the thing might very well have overwhelmed his personal protection field and continued straight though his spine to exit through his chest. As it was, the projectile had merely knocked the wind and momentary consciousness out of him while smashing him to the roadbed.

And leaving a good-sized indentation in my back, too, Max thought dazedly. He twisted, letting the piece of bridge roll off his shoulders, and pushed himself to his hands and knees. For some reason none of those trademark flips that would send him in one graceful motion to his toe-tips seemed quite accessible at the moment. Max shook his head. He should be trying to help rescue survivors, he should be -

Wait a minute. That explosion had been no accident. Someone had planned this ... those terrorists, that must be it. What if they had a followup attack planned? He should be preparing ...

No, that wasn’t it. Something was nagging at his mind, something remaining perversely just out of his grasp. On the ground in front of him, Max noticed someone’s full head of hair lying free of their body, with their hat just beyond - some poor soul obviously scalped by another fragment of flying debris. Where was the victim? - oh. He really was dazed. The hair was the wig from his own disguise, and the hat the same, and now he noted that the putty and greasepaint he’d applied to his face had been scraped clean by his encounter with the cobblestones.

There was certainly a lot of shouting going on around him, even above the shrieks of trapped victims and the roar of the fires and the bashing as the bridge seemed to be pulling apart behind him. Where was Shaa - and Leen! And Phlinn Arol had been atop the grandstand, the Emperor too, and who knew how many others. None of the voices sounded like anyone he knew. Except possibly one, louder than the rest, bellowing “There he is’” of all things.

Something was waving in front of his face. The point of a sword? Max looked up. He was surrounded by a solid ring of soldiers. They were all pointing swords at him. Then the two men in front of him parted and let a new person stride importantly out. Now Max recognized him; it was the same person who’d been shouting. “Maximillian V’Dirapal,” said Gadol V’Nora, leader of the Hand, “you are under arrest.”

“Arrest?” Max said groggily. “On what the hell kind of trumped-up charge is it this time?”

Gadol’s thin smile grew somewhat wider. “That should be obvious. You should scarcely have begun consorting with terrorists, much less advancing to be their leader.”

Hands were relieving Max of his sword, others were dragging him to his feet, and now his arms were being lashed behind his back. Through the circle enclosing him he could now see down the confused bridge toward the shore, could see Shaa and Leen being hustled toward the open door of a waiting carriage by a similar detachment of forces. He thought Leen might have cast him a direct glance over her shoulder; regardless, though, it was finally time to go into action. Max waggled his fingers to limber up and subvocalized a triggerword –

BLAM! The blow to his head threw him to the side. He would have gone back to the ground if it hadn’t been for the hands holding him upright and the swords poking him in the back. Still, someone had obviously had an arm free to bash him with a mace. His own hands were feeling cramped, confined. Gooey? Another figure stepped into view. “None of that, Max,” said Chas V’Halila, the sorcerer. “You want me to cast your mouth in plaster, too?”

Max glared at him, feeling the gooey material encasing his fingers harden into stone. Gadol was saying something about getting off the bridge, but a flicker of bright motion from off to the left caught Max’s eye. Beyond the bridge, heading down the river toward them at a hefty clip, was - what? What the hell was that?

This made no sense, no sense at all. Leen might have not known Max very well, or for very long, and she might indeed have her own solid grievances with him, and he might unquestionably be involved in more than his share of unlikely escapades, but being publicly associated with terrorists - being publicly associated with anyone - was clearly the direct opposite of his style. Subterfuge in the shadows was his mode of operation, intrigue behind the scene.

On its face it made no sense, but that only meant the surface was not the appropriate level at which to look. What else had -

Oh! That broadsheet campaign! Suddenly it did make sense - Max’s enemy had resorted to a program of character assassination to link him in the public mind with the terrorists and their depredations. That implied that this enemy was associated with the terrorists in some way, if they weren’t actually the same. Max had served as cover for the terrorists and their goals, and Max was now being taken off the playing board as an active factor.