Rift in the Races (79 page)

He sat down on the firm bunk and calmed his breathing and his mind. Again closing his eyes, he thought about the spell he wanted to cast, one he’d cast thousands of times before. The essence of it came back to him, albeit slowly at first.

He bent forward and began the cast, willing through the mana all around him a connection between the enchanted mirror and the water in this plastic bucket. He knew immediately that he’d found the mirror, he could feel it even before he looked. At least it was safe. The orcs hadn’t destroyed it when they took her. Perhaps she’d even gotten away.

However, when he opened his eyes, he couldn’t see very well. The light coming through the sides of the bucket made the images in the water hazy and unreadable. Still, something was moving in there, which thrilled him immeasurably. Orli probably had it up and had been waiting for him to contact her since the gods-only-knew how long.

He let the spell go long enough to snatch the blankets off the bunk and wrap them around the outside of the bucket, his left arm barely of any use and making the exercise take longer than it needed to. Finally satisfied that the bucket was adequately dark inside, he recast the spell. Sure enough, it worked.

The image in the bucket gradually came into focus, revealing a vast bedchamber of supreme elegance. A massive four-poster bed sat at the center like some great war tent, only this one all in yellow silks and white lace. Pillowed comforters tumbled from it like satin waterfalls spilling onto the floor, and in the middle of it were two figures in the act of making love.

Altin took it all in at a glance and gasped, falling back in horror, which, of course, broke the spell.

He quickly recast it, prepared to cry out through the audible functions of the mirror at the indignity! Who was it? Who could be doing such a thing?

How could she?

The image slowly began to reform as Altin leaned upon the edge of the bucket so heavily he threatened to collapse his weak arm at the elbow and fall right in. He glared into the water as the scene became clear again.

The man was older, balding, a wreath of reddish hair with streaks of gray. His back, gleaming some in the light of several lamps set around the room, was covered with a mat of curling hair. A pair of slender, pale-fleshed hands clawed at his ribs as he moved.

It was the Earl of Vorvington.

Beneath him was the marchioness.

Altin nearly lost the spell again in his revulsion, but he managed to hold on, relief balancing out horror just enough to prevent unraveling the magic underway.

But why was Orli’s mirror in the marchioness’ bedroom?

He scanned the rest of the scene, so concerned for the whereabouts of his dearest Orli that he didn’t even bother to blush at the sounds and the audacious things the marchioness was calling out.

Seek as he might, push the view as much forward as he might, there was no sign of Orli in the room. She was not under the bed. There were no booted toes visible beneath the floor-length curtains covering the windows, no crouching figure behind a dressing screen. Nothing.

It made no sense. Why would Orli have given the marchioness, of all people, the mirror he had made? The marchioness had made her contempt for Orli plain enough, and there couldn’t possibly have been any need of a peace offering so great as that between them, at least none that Altin could imagine Orli would require. But then, six weeks was an awfully long time; gods knew what might have transpired while he was in that damnable tank.

It occurred to him in increasing portions that he truly had no idea what had transpired of late. He hadn’t even thought to ask. The time since his waking from that fluid-filled machine of Doctor Singh’s had been mostly a blur.

So where was she? Where was Orli? He immediately went back to fearing the worst with the orcs. They were not the sort to keep prisoners for long. Not the sort for the sophistication required to make use of hostages.

But then, they’d never used magic so effectively either, or counter-spells. And there was the issue with the warriors in the polished plate. That was all new too. He took all of that as evidence for there being more than just a chance other things had changed. So, ironically, there was still hope.

He let the spell go and considered his options. He needed to get in contact with someone on Prosperion. His first instinct was to try to find Tytamon telepathically. That thought nearly set him to sobs. It certainly set him back, and several long moments passed as he considered the magnitude of that loss. It was too horrible to think about. He must postpone grief until after he found Orli.

He decided to try Aderbury. He already knew he hadn’t seen her, but where else could he turn? Aderbury would do anything he asked. Aderbury would find her.

Aderbury’s mind was blocked.

Of course it was. He was working furiously on
Citadel
every day, surely being rushed by the Queen given what little Altin could piece together of recent history. Which made him think of her, the Queen. But he immediately rejected the idea. Attempting direct contact with her was probably dangerous. The Palace was surely trapped now that the Orc Wars were on again. Poking one’s mind into that without an invitation might be excruciating at best. So who else? Who might have seen Orli last, or cared enough to make inquiries? Then it came to him.

Pernie!

The child worshiped Orli, Altin was sure of it. He immediately set himself to finding the little girl, gently, for he knew that she’d never spoken to anyone telepathically before.

The child’s mind was there, just as he expected it would be. Wild and bright and open as a prairie.

“Pernie,” he said, softly, carefully imposing the thought on her as if he were placing an infant down to sleep. “Pernie, it’s Altin. Did you know you have telepathy?”

“Yes, I know I do,” she declared with such volume it sent a shudder down Altin’s spine. “They been teaching us that at school. Did you know I can teleport as far as fifty spans and Master Grimswoller says I am a healer too but they don’t know my letters yet. I might be another one also except they can’t tell yet because it’s too soon.”

“You’re in school already?”

“Yes. And I was only afraid the first day, but then I punched Fortie Nomstacker in the throat for teasing me and now everyone is nice to me. I like it here.”

“Pernie, slow down,” said Altin. “And remember what they told you about lowering your inner voice.”

“Oh, that’s right. I’m sorry, Master Altin. Did you kill all the Hostiles yet?”

“No,” he told her. “Pernie, listen to me. I need to know if you have heard anything about Orli. Did she say anything about where she and Tytamon were going?”

“Master Tytamon got ate by orcs,” Pernie sent without transmitting any sense of grief. It was just a fact in her world, as true as a sunburn or a wet rain. “Kettle said him and Miss Orli was looking for something you lost and he got ate. Miss Orli got ate too I’m pretty sure.” This came with the slightest sense of satisfaction.

Altin judged that Pernie was pleased with herself for having a telepathic conversation in this way, and he had to fight back the urge to surge thoughts at her conveying his certainty that Orli was not dead. He kept his calm and tried again. “Pernie, who told you that?”

“Kettle.”

“Kettle told you Orli was eaten by orcs?”

“No, but she probably was. And Fortie Nomstacker said he wished I got ate by orcs too. But he is nice to me now even though I got in trouble for what I did. Master Grimswoller says it’s in the papers too, so it must be true.”

Altin started to ask her again, but she sent then a sense of fear, an emotive thing more than the actual words, the essence indicating that the very same Master Grimswoller, clearly the new and singular source of fear in Pernie’s world, was approaching. And with that she cut off the spell. He tried to get her back, but apparently they’d already taught her how to block her mind.

Which left Altin with nothing. Or very little. He knew exactly what Tytamon and Orli had been looking for. It didn’t take him long to deduce that, but he refused to believe Orli was dead. He would know if she was. He would feel it. He just knew that somehow, he would sense her absence, even if she had no magic of her own.

His course was obvious. He had to get back to Prosperion himself. He could not wait around randomly hoping to catch Aderbury with his mind available, and clearly Pernie was going to be no help at all. Not even a homing lizard would serve his purpose, even if he had had access to one, which he did not, because his problem was too complicated to explain in a tiny note. Which meant he had to get home. And he needed one of the other teleporters to do it for him.

Except he didn’t know who the magicians were that had been sent out here with the fleet, so he couldn’t contact them directly either. Which meant he’d have to ask the Earth people for help in reaching them and, worse, probably for permission. He hated doing that. It wasn’t something he’d had to do much of these last few years. He’d have to pick whom he spoke to strategically.

“Doctor Singh,” he said when the doctor’s face appeared on the com a moment later. “I need to get home. It’s unbelievably important.”

Doctor Singh’s expression was kind, though his eyes seemed sad. He knew what was on Altin’s mind, could read it in his face. Orli’s fate was on his mind too; it was obvious to them both. “I know you want to get back,” he said. “But you have to wait. You need your arm, and that’s going to be awhile. I already told you that.”

“I don’t need my arm if the others send me back.”

“Altin, even if they do, you can’t just start using that arm when you get home to Prosperion. You have to let your muscles grow back. You have to retrain them, relearn how to use it properly. There’s a lot of therapy involved.”

“Doctor Singh, you have done me a great service with your miraculous work. You’ve done magic no healer has ever done. But I assure you, Doctor Leopold can put the muscle back and restore functionality. Growth spells are all about speeding these things along. Frankly, between the two of you, I am rapidly becoming the most advanced bit of medical research in the galaxy. But, before that can happen, I have to get back.”

“Captain Asad has other plans for you.”

“Captain Asad’s plans for me require the use of my arm. I should think I have no better ally in this particular cause than him. If he wants my help, he should insist I be sent home immediately.”

Doctor Singh started to say something but stopped, pressing his lips outward for a moment and nodding. “You have a point.”

“My point would be better made if you were to carry the message to him. He seems to hold me in considerable disregard.”

“He may be coming around on that.”

“Well, just in case, could you get him to approve it, please?”

“I’ll do what I can, Altin,” the doctor agreed, “on one condition.”

“Which is?”

“You need to rest.”

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll rest. Just get me home. I need to go right away. Orli needs my help.”

Doctor Singh clearly held back what he was going to say next and instead nodded his assent. Altin watched him reach forward and turn off the feed.

With begrudging compliance, Altin fell back into the bunk and stared up at the ceiling doing his best impression of rest. His arm trembled where it lay, like some semi-dead thing in the seizures of a wasting disease. And it hurt.

He tried to focus on the mirror and what he’d seen, Vorvington and the marchioness, tried to fathom what that could possibly portend, but the pain and the weariness took him more quickly than he might have thought.

He wasn’t going to find Orli today.

Chapter 63

I
lbei gripped the power switch on the side of the communications array and prepared to turn it on. He leaned away from it, his arm stretched out and reaching to the switch from the farthest distance he could muster. He cringed, one eye closed in the beginnings of a wince, the other eye nearly closed, and the rest of his face already well on the way. He was fairly sure the machine was going to explode or spray him with sparks or do something horrible, and he’d already made Aderbury swear an oath on his honor that there would be no disciplinary or financial penalties for any damage that might be incurred when he turned it on and everything went wrong.

Aderbury watched from behind him, standing just outside the closet and its anti-magic field, peering around from behind the protective barricade of the heavy wooden door. He saw Ilbei hesitate and encouraged him to go on. “It will be fine,” he promised.

“Ya got no way a’ knowin’ that,” said Ilbei, looking back at the transmuter through the sustained narrowness of his pending grimace.

“True, but there is only one way to find out.”

Ilbei growled and looked back at the machine. The muscles on his forearms shaped themselves visibly as his fingers tightened. “Ya realize they got a great big fireball bottled up in that thing, right?” He pointed to the generator sitting in the far end of the room.

“Yes,” said Aderbury impatiently. “I’m sure you’ve hooked it all up correctly. Just go, already.”

Ilbei growled again. “Fine. But ya need ta get in here and close that door so as some stray bit a’ magic don’t get in here and ruin it somehow.”