Brian Thomsen - Realms of Magic

Next morning when I rose, she was gone. I dressed quickly, donning the white ruffled shirt, red brocade jacket, white hose, and charcoal-gray wool leggings left for me. Just my size. I smiled wryly. She'd had enough chance to check my fit perfectly.

I came down for breakfast and saw Olivia in the hammer-beamed dining hall, presiding royally over a morning feast for her guests. She gave me the same polite nod she gave other late arrivals; either she was a better stoneface than I, or she'd made herself familiar with more guests than just me-men and women, alike.

Breakfast was hot and filling-eggs and fried mushrooms, tortes and jellies, bangers and gravy and biscuits and pie. Still, compared to the feast last night, the food paled. Oh, well. It sure beat the hash slung in the Dock Ward.

I ate too much food and stayed too long staring at those otherwise-occupied green eyes-too much and too long, given that I had a gem to secure. I headed for the vault.

En route, I met my assistant. I'd not known before that instant that I had an assistant.

"Hold up, bloke. Where you think you're off to?" asked the scamp. I could have called him no better; I'd seen enough scamps in my day to know their stripe. Heck, I'd been one myself not so long ago. This scamp had greasy black hair, which he continually finger-combed back from his brown eyes. He sat upon a tall stool, leaning back rak-ishly against the slick wall, and his ruddy, freckled face bore a scowl that revealed less-than-healthy teeth, an idle splinter stabbed between two that were close enough to hold it. And if Olivia had tried to dress this kid in silks instead of knee- and elbow-worn linens, she'd failed.

"I'm Bolton Quaid, new head of security for the Tern."

"Bosh!" replied the lad immediately. "Quaid ain't no dandy. Lady says he's a rogue, like me-knows which way's up."

I kicked the stool out from under him, snagged his collar, and hoisted him high. I'd used a similar technique on alley cats. "Would you say this way is up?"

The kid hung there, poking his fists at the air and snarling. "You ain't getting… grrrrh… past Filson Cry-bot… Mister Dandy-Thief. Like to feel… my shiv…?"

"You mean this?" I asked, holding up my other hand to show him his crude little knife, dwarfed on my meaty fingers. "Or this-" I rolled my fingers to show a white rabbit's foot "-or this-" a slingshot "-or this-" a bent black feather "-or this-" a pair of marbles, and so on. The kid was on the verge of tears, and even I wouldn't reduce a proud street scamp to tears.

"Give 'em back! Give 'em back!"

"All right." I gently lowered the kid to his feet and shoved his stuff at him.

No sooner had he touched ground than his heel stomped my foot. Ahhh! The walls around me swam, went dim, seeming for a moment to blink out from smooth-polished pearl to filthy cave stone. I let out a gasp and took a step back, only to strike my head against something brutally hard. The kid had already snagged his stuff and backed toward the iron door of the vault, his little shiv thrust out before him. I reeled, almost dropped to my haunches, and my head was filled with the keen of a whistle. It was going to take a while to recover from this one.

Especially now. Olivia was there. She'd appeared suddenly, as though magically summoned: only then did I see the whistle drop from Filson's lips to dangle on a chain around his scrawny neck. Already he was babbling to the lady about the intruder (me) who'd tried to strangle him.

Olivia, in typical aplomb, laughed. "Filson, meet your new boss. This is Mr. Bolton Quaid." With that introduction, she gestured to me, and I might have bowed had I not been busy rubbing my head and looking into empty air to see what had hit me.

The ruddy scamp face turned as white as the walls around us, though the color looked less fetching on Filson. "Er… sorry, boss."

I waved off the apology, wishing I could find a lump on the wall at least as large as the one on my head. "Part of the job. I'm glad to know you can handle yourself in a fight."

That brought some color back to those cheeks. "Just trying to do my job."

"Speaking of which," said Olivia, her tone hardening as she turned to me, "you'd best get at least some provisional protection on the Dragon's Pearl. We've had a couple magic lapses this morning."

My brow beetled. "Magic lapses?"

"The storms play havoc with magic," volunteered Filson, clearly wanting to redeem himself. "Spells fail sometimes."

"These lapses aren't caused by any storm," Olivia said, never turning from me. She let the implications sink in before she spoke them. "One of the guests is trying to dispel the magical protections around the pearl."

Now it was my turn to go white. "I'll get on it right away."

"Once you get the pearl secured nonmagically, I want you to hunt down the cause of these… interruptions."

"What shall I do when I find the culprit?"

"Kill him."

Within a few hours, the pearl was secured seven ways to Summertide. I'd locked it in three concentric boxes, chained the outer box to five different spots on the walls, set seventy-three poisoned darts into projectors along the perimeter, lined ceiling and floors with drider web, strung up three hair triggers on the threshold to the chamber, and booby-trapped the vault door so that the slightest disturbance would trigger a circular deadfall. The rock was as safe as I knew how to make it, short of hanging it around my own neck.

The whole time I worked, Filson watched and gabbed. He told me a lot I already knew about Olivia: that she was powerful and ruthless and all-knowing in the Tern. He also hinted in whispers that she used magic to look younger. That didn't surprise me, but I nervously wondered how much younger.

Most interesting of all, though, he spilled his own theory about why the lady kept a gemstone she feared to remove from its vault within a vault. He said the Dragon's Pearl magically powered the whole palace. He said the rock had absorbed Xantrithicus's power and Olivia was now drawing on it. He said the stone couldn't be magically guarded because any spells that kept intruders out would keep the magic in.

Out of the mouths of kids. The Dock Ward had taught me to listen to babbling kids and old fools. A worm too soft and juicy is a worm that hides a hook. Hmm. Where was Olivia's hook, and what fish was she trying to lure, and why? Money, certainly, but she had enough of that. More money, of course, but also… what-power, station… companionship?

No time for such thoughts. I had a would-be jewel thief to catch.

It would not be easy. I doubted Olivia wanted me to rough up her patrons, as I routinely did to the smugglers and black marketeers on the docks. No, this would take subtlety and stealth.

Filson would prove to be a problem.

"Reconnoiter? What's that mean?" he asked suspiciously. "Are you trying to brush me off?"

"Not at all," I responded, pushing him toward the crowded dining hall. "You know the patrons. Watch them. See if any of them look suspicious."

"What're you gonna do?" the boy asked defensively.

"My job," I responded. One more shove did the trick, and the kid was off into the whirling cloud of mink and satin and hoity-toity laughter.

My job, in this case, involved grilling the servants. You listen to kids and old fools and servants. They've been in every crack and cranny, seen everything doing and everybody being done, and because of their station, had been ignored all the while. While Filson was giving diners the eye, I'd be giving cooks the ear.

I watched the double doors to see which swung which way, then made my entry. The kitchen-a long, low-ceilinged gallery-was as decked as any other room. Tables and butcher's blocks lined the marble floor, shiny-scrubbed pots and pans hung from the plaster-bossed ceiling, rolling steam stood above bubbling kettles, and chefs bustled about it all, their white smocks and mushroom hats flitting like scrap paper in wind.