Chapter 18: Just a Couple of Questions

Cecilia let out a low whistle. “So, what I’m seeing here is that mercenary mages live the good life.” She and Mynet stood before an impressive, three story building of brightly painted wood and carved columns. The neighborhood wasn’t bad, but this house was a standout in both quality...and defensiveness. A giant protective spell was engraved on the door and several more were frosted on the rare, glass windows. Cecilia activated Analysis.

[Enchantment: Level 9 – Barrage of Protective Retribution.]

“That spell on the front…” she murmured to Mynet. “I’m not a real mage, but I’m betting it does something really nasty if someone tries to break in, and he isn’t even trying to hide it.”

“Who needs armed guards when you’ve got a giant magical sign saying ‘trespassers will be immolated’?” Mynet replied. He adjusted his cravat and brushed road dust off his tunic. He was making no effort to hide his affiliation with the Viscount, a small pin with the seal of the city was pinned neatly to his brocade vest, and he rubbed his thumb absently over it. “Anyway, let’s make sure that we’re good guests, ask a few questions, and depart as friends.”

“Optimistic,” she said. As he took a step, she placed a hand on his arm. “Let me go first. I’m the muscle, remember?”

He looked up, staring a good few inches above her actual eyes, and nodded. “How could I? Please, go ahead.” His step turned into a gracious gesture forward.

Cecilia rolled her eyes and proceeded up the stairs to the front door. She didn’t touch it directly, didn’t want to see what a knock with bare hands might trigger from the enchantment. Instead, she looked and found a delicate bell sticking out from the frame. She flicked it with one finger, expecting a demure tinkle to match the bell’s appearance.

Instead, something like a church bell tolled on the other side of the door, loud enough even through the wood to make her twitch. More bells sounded, muffled and fading. Her hand twitched. What would happen if she just kept flicking that bell?

A spell would probably go off and blow us both back into the street, she mused, looking again at the aggressively inscribed spells on the front door. Even so, a small gremlin part of her brain wanted to do it. Just to see how far she could get before the inevitable retribution descended.

Before that part could surface too far, the door opened. A woman somewhere around twice Cecilia’s age, severe of features and dressed in clothing so stark and sober it had to be a servant’s uniform, stood on the other side, looking none too pleased at having been called from whatever she was doing. Or maybe she just always looked like that. The way she managed to look down her nose at the visitors, who were both taller than her, was impressive, Cecilia had to admit.

The servant’s eyes lingered on Mynet, who had the more impressive outfit, and focused on the pin on his vest. “May I help you?” she asked, her tone suggesting that the proper answer was no, and an apology for disturbing her would not go unappreciated.

While Mynet didn’t appear to be cowed by the cold reception, his bow was meticulously polite and his voice dropped to a quiet but firm register as Cecilia stepped aside. “Good afternoon. I am Mynet Tirae, of the Viscount’s employ. I seek to consult with Third Circle Mage Janna on a matter of concern to the Court. Is the good mage available now?”

The servant’s stone face barely cracked. “It is customary to schedule an appointment when one wishes to consult with someone of Mage Janna’s standing.”

There was no perceptible change in Mynet’s posture or expression. Still smiling, he replied, “Regrettably, circumstances did not permit the courtesy. Is Mage Janna available now?”

“He is engaged in his studies. He does not like to be disturbed.”

Mynet flicked his eyes towards Cecilia, and then the door. She caught his meaning and was surprised by it. He hadn’t seemed the aggressive sort before, but when he stepped forward, she reached for the door and gently but inexorably pushed it open further for Mynet, and then herself, to slide themselves inside. As the servant sputtered outrage, Mynet said, “We’re fine with waiting until he’s finished. Perhaps you could show us to a parlor?”

The woman measurably weighed her chances to get them to leave, staring a hole in Cecilia’s chest like she thought she might push her back outside with sheer pique. But ‘Jon’s’ obvious physical prowess and Mynet’s unflappable confidence seemed to win the day. Back as straight as ruler and every line of her body radiating genteel offense, she said, “If you don’t mind waiting, then you may follow me. It might be some time.”

The scribe had a charming smile when he wanted and he deployed it now, to zero softening effect. “That’s fine,” he said gently. “Perhaps we might have a cup of tea as we wait?”

She spun on her heel and marched them up the stairs to the second floor. The inside was just as wealthy as the exterior; the staircase they ascended was curved, and had several inset alcoves, each one bearing a small object of art. There was a theme, Cecilia noted: a pair of dice cast in silver with tiny chips of emerald for the pips, a gold set of divination sticks, a deck of cards carved from a wood so pale it glowed under the mage lights that illuminated the building, other tools of chance and divination. She would have liked to take a closer look, but the servant’s pace was relentless, and they were swept up the stairs and into a small side room.

Like the rest of the house, it was luxurious for all its small size, with several chairs of carved wood and a curious design. The large cushions each one bore in its eggshell-like seat reminded her of nothing so much as bean bag chairs from back home. Except that she’d never seen bean bag chairs where the bag was made of silk. Aside from the chairs, there was a thick rug, an elegant table, and several paintings on the walls in mildly enchanted frames. Nothing exciting there—the art depicted landscapes that veered from familiar farms and fields to exotic cities in clouds and a sea of deep emerald, studded with glowing crystals, protected by low level preservation enchantments.

The servant closed the door behind them. She was clearly too mannered to slam it, but there was a remarkable finality to the sound, nonetheless. Mynet turned to look back at the door, then at Cecilia. He grinned and asked, in a stage whisper, “What do you think our odds are for getting that tea, do you think?”

“Seventy-five percent,” Cecilia replied. “I bet her pride won’t allow her to give us bad service. But she’ll serve it with resentment.”

Mynet snorted. “You’re probably right.” He didn’t sit. Instead, he roamed around the small room, examining every object. Cecilia didn’t want to sit if he wasn’t, but the room wasn’t big enough for them both to wander, so she took up a loose copy of parade rest and tried to look properly bodyguardish.

Quietly, she said, “You saw the decorations on the stairs?”

His gaze flicked up to her, and Mynet nodded. He made a wordless sound of agreement, and she knew he was remember the same conversation she was, and their mysterious mage’s affection of the ideas of luck and chance. Out loud, she said, “How long do you think it’ll be?”

“Important people hate unexpected visitors. Usually, with this sort of thing, they’ll try to wait us out, first. See if we just get bored and go home. I imagine that either Janna or his servant are currently writing some strongly-worded letters of protest to whatever contacts he has at Court.”

Cecilia hadn’t thought that interviewing the mage might get Mynet in trouble. She shifted uneasily on her feet. “Is that...okay?”

He chuckled, rolling his shoulders in a shrug she suspected looked more careless than it was. “Depends on how it all pans out. Success is a very strong defense against a superior’s disapproval, and the Viscount would very much like this situation resolved. Besides, like I said, we’re just here to ask some questions. Mage Janna isn’t a suspect in anything.”

She gave the door a sidelong look and had no doubt that it was said for the benefit of whatever listeners there might be, whether they were lurkers at doorways or, more likely, some sort of spell. Assuming that listening spells were a thing; after the conversation with Cantor about azoth, she wasn’t sure that they were. The restrictions on exciting azoth from a distance and without line of sight would seem to make an active eavesdropping spell difficult. But scrying from an object present at the scene was clearly a thing, so a mage likely didn’t need to eavesdrop; they could just replay the conversation once their visitors were gone.

There was a knock on the door, and they both turned and stiffened, with Mynet smoothing down his vest to look his most presentable. It was the woman from before, and she gave them both a disappointed look, as if she’d expected them to disappear, before gesturing to something outside. A silver tray floated behind her, bearing a tea set carved from milky stone. It settled itself on the small table with only the tiniest of clinks. Steam rose gently from the pot’s spout, and two flowers, both carved from red and yellow stone, gave the tableau a bright spot of color. The woman inclined her head. “Is there anything else I do to make your wait more pleasant? Or perhaps I could take a message and Mage Janna could contact you at his earliest convenience.”

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

Mynet smiled, warm and friendly. “This will be fine. Thank you for the kind hospitality.”

Cecilia hadn’t invested enough in Perception to actually hear the woman’s teeth grind, but she was sure she saw some suggestive twitching of jaw muscles. The woman left without another word, and closed the door with that same not-slam firmness behind her. Cecilia looked down at the tray. “At the very least, it looks gorgeous.”

They finally sat, and Mynet poured them each a cup of tea. Cecilia hadn’t been much for hot tea back on Earth, but this had all the stereotypical companions for a cup: lumps of sugar in one silver bowl, what looked like fresh milk, and even a few tiny pieces of some unknown fruit. She reached for the latter, but instead of squeezing the juice into her tea, she nibbled on the fruit itself. It was tangy rather than sour, with an aftertaste that reminded her most of licorice.

Mynet watched the faces she made with amusement. “I can’t tell if you like it or not,” he said, adding three lumps of sugar and a squeeze of the fruit to his own cup.

“Neither can I,” she admitted. She didn’t add it to her tea, instead setting it aside on the edge of the tray and reaching for the decorative flowers. These were even more beautiful up close than from afar; the petals were so thin that she could see light through them, and so detailed that the small leaves at the base of the flower had even their veins intact. “These must be worth a fortune,” she murmured.

“It’s magecrafted, most likely,” Mynet said. “Doesn’t mean you’re wrong, but it looks like a transmutation rather than something actually carved. The kind of thing mages who serve noble houses spend a lot of their time doing.” One corner of his mouth turned up. “He’s probably reminding us that he has friends in high places.”

“Hey, it’s a beautiful message, even so.” She couldn’t help but lift the flower up, as if she might catch a whiff of some fragrance. The flower was only stone, however, and she put it down, careful not to damage it. Finally, she took a sip of the hot tea.

It was...hot tea. Bitter and green-flavored on her tongue. The sugar would handle some of the bitterness, but it just wasn’t to her taste. Instead, it evoked a flood of wistful longing; Cecilia would kill for a cold bottle of Coke. She put the cup down and noticed that Mynet hadn’t even gotten that far. He was stirring the steaming cup. “You really don’t worry much about heat, do you,” he said, thoughtfully.

Shit. She’d let her guard down enough that she hadn’t even thought about the hot tea being...hot. “Skill,” she said, with a shrug. She even tried to joke, “You don’t get to my size if you have to wait for the food to cool down.”

His laughter was obligatory. He was staring at the cup, swirling the spoon around and around long past the time when any additive should be long dissolved. The spoon clinked against the walls of the cup. Tink, tink, tink, tink. Cecilia wasn’t sure how she hadn’t noticed it before, but now that she had, the sound seemed to grow louder with every passing moment. As did her irritation. She cleared her throat. Mynet didn’t look up. “Hey. Maybe give it a rest before you invent cappuccinos,” she snapped, not even mindful of throwing out the word the translation magic had no equivalent to.

Now, he looked up, bright green eyes narrowed. “Maybe you should be the silent, dumb muscle I hired you to be.”

Her head snapped back at the uncharacteristic response; the shock made her aware of two things: one, the flowers on the tray were very faintly glowing, and two, she could feel a pressure on her mind.

Or, more specifically, on her Mind Shield. Cecilia took a deep breath, pushing back against the irritation, feeling the unnaturalness with the help of the skill. The violation made her skin crawl, and for once the disgust and rejection was her friend. “Mynet,” she said, quietly.

“Did I not make myself clear?”

She shook her head and pointed to the flowers. “There’s a spell. It’s affecting our minds. Or trying to.”

Mynet’s face twisted into a sneer as he looked where she pointed. Then, he froze. He put down the cup and closed his eyes. His breathing changed, becoming deep and slow; she half expected him to go into a yoga pose or something right there. Instead, his face settled into calm. He opened his eyes, reached for one of the flowers.

Cecilia saw his intent and scooped up the other. At the same time, they rose and stomped on the delicate, beautiful stone, shattering it underfoot. Immediately, the pressure eased. Mynet shivered. “I’d say that’s somewhat suspicious,” he murmured. “You must be further along in magical studies than I thought.”

She shook her head again. “Just a skill. Had someone try a mind whammy on me once and I didn’t like it, so I picked up the skill. Now it’s a lot harder.”

He looked up, about to say something. From the sharp expression, she had a terrible feeling it was something like what is your class, anyway?

Before he got the chance, the door opened, and Janna said, in a voice she instantly recognized from the scrying, “Thank you for letting me know. Irritating, but that’s why one always brings a backup.” His hand flickered, throwing two slender needles through the air. One struck Mynet high on his chest. He yanked it free almost as soon as it landed, then staggered, his face going white. The other was aimed for Cecilia’s chest. Or what the mage thought was her chest; it actually struck her on the side of the neck.

And bounced off the stone with a tink of impact.

Mynet fell over with a crash. The mage and Cecilia stared at one another. He was a moderately handsome man, dressed in robes bristling with protective enchantments and an amused smile which had abruptly reversed itself. “And what, pray tell, are you?” he asked.

Cecilia stepped in front of the fallen Mynet—who was making noises, so at least wasn’t dead yet—and said, “Just the dumb muscle.” Then she grinned and touched her fists together. “Fists of the Forge.” As the crimson and gold flames enveloped her hands, she jumped forward to strike. “Triple strike!”

Caught off-guard by her speed, the mage staggered backwards. Not quite far enough, but her blazing fists bounced three times off of a shield that manifested around his body instead of hitting flesh. His face twisted from arrogance, to shock, and then a cold determination.

He wasn’t Cantor, hadn’t had whatever training her friend had to keep him from using verbal incantation. He spat, “Blood Puppet! Your heart’s blood is mine to command!”

Suddenly, Cecilia was seeing the advantages of getting into a fight with a blood mage in her present condition. She didn’t even feel a tingle of the spell against her body and in the moment of his surprise, she landed a punch over his face.

The shield activated, but just as with Cantor in what seemed ages ago, the impact was blunted but not entirely stopped; Janna flew back and slammed into the wall. Cecilia followed, throwing more punches, feeling the flare of the protective magics with each impact. They were strong, stronger than Cantor’s, but surely every shield had to have its limits. Sparks flew from her hands with each strike, driving him into the wall and keeping him off balance. In every video game she’d ever played, mages were ranged combatants; you wanted to bring one down, you got into their face and brought the pain. And, thinking about Mynet, maybe dead, maybe dying, behind her? Cecilia found she had a lot of pain to bring.

What she wasn’t expecting was to be beaned across the side of the head with a golden box of divination tokens. Cecilia staggered and the mage darted out of her reach, skittering towards the servant woman, who was flinging another piece of art at Cecilia’s skull. Cecilia batted it out of the air.

“No blood? What in the seven lost hells are you?” Janna snarled, then raised his hands. “Azoth Roulette! Let luck favor the prepared mind!” A massive stone fist coalesced in the air before his fingers and shot down the hall.

“Counterstrike!” Cecilia’s own stone fists, considerably smaller, flashed out to meet it. Stone collided with stone in an explosion of dust and shrapnel that peppered the walls and her body. She screamed as she felt the knuckles of her fists crack, but she’d managed to counter much of the strength of the blow. She shook her hands, and as the dust cleared, saw Janna raising his hands again.

This time, she dove back into the room, just in time to avoid a whip of some black, viscous material that did not look like a good time. “Mynet! Are you alive?”

The scribe’s crumpled form gave a feeble heave, and he mumbled something she couldn’t make out; it sounded like he was trying to speak around a mouthful of marbles.

Cecilia said, “Good enough. Let’s blow this joint.” She forced one of her fists to extinguish and scooped him up, throwing him over one shoulder. With her other hand, she grabbed one of the fancy cushions, feeling a dim regret as the silken fabric began to burn. She burst out of the room and flung it towards Janna and the servant. The woman screamed and retreated.

Janna only raised his hand and shouted, “Reversal of Fortune! May you receive what you have delivered!” The flaming cushion looped around and flung itself back at her face.

“Mierda!” She ducked and it sailed over her to land on the carpet. Which began to smoke as the fire crawled from the cushion to the floor. That wasn’t good.

It also wasn’t her problem. Her problem was getting out of here and she only knew for sure of one door. Which the mage was blocking, since the stairs were the only--

Cecilia stopped. The stairs were the only way to get down to the first floor if you were worried about breaking your legs. If your legs weren’t made of, say, enchanted stone, and your physical stats weren’t about twice as good as the average human. Whatever passed for her stomach did horrified flipflops at the thought, but she was already moving, running straight for the mage. His hands came up, his mouth forming something no doubt powerful and nasty.

She wasn’t listening. She was jumping, instead, leaping over the banister with a howl, half terror and half defiance.

Her landing shook the very foundations of the house; unseen things toppled from their perches and shattered on the floor. The floorboards themselves cracked and gave under her weight, and Cecilia staggered, yanking her foot out of the hole it had made. She looked up, briefly, and bared her teeth at the two shocked faces on the staircase. “Hasta la vista, you assholes,” she called out, then charged the door with the shoulder that was Mynet-free, calling out, “Triple Strike,” just as she hit it.

As sturdy as it was, the door was not prepared for the equivalent of three battering rams hitting it from the wrong side. She burst through in a hail of splinters, landed on the porch, and kept running. Runes lit up, passing pedestrians stopped to gape.

Cecilia wasted no time on any of it. She leaped the gate, barely avoiding fiery rays from the house’s protections and made a strategic retreat into the chaos of the city.