“I would say thank you, but I have to think about my options.”
“What if I said you could keep Snori with you as the official rat catcher? The trains are fond of both of you.”
“Then I would say yes.”
“Excellent, the trains will be pleased.”
Harzl felt a gladness in his soul. He could have the job he liked and keep his little buddy. His father would take care of the gargoyle boy, and it would give him a good excuse to go home during the holidays. Something he hadn’t done in years, because he’d always felt like the odd sibling. Now he had something to look forward to other than the next season ofBritish Bakery.
THE RETURN OF THE MAGE
by Charlaine Harris
“It’s a rescue?” Batanya said. The signal had come through to the mechs very early in the morning. It had been erratic, weak. But it was a rescue signal.
“No one from the Collective has gone to Coturigo in twenty years.” Clovache, Batanya’s Second Officer, had come to fetch Batanya from a meeting. It had been a welcome interruption. Batanya had been balancing her knife on her fingertip to pass the time.
Since Clovache was on duty, her light hair was plaited and tucked appropriately under a net, and her helmet was in her hand. Batanya’s short black hair was smooth on her head and uncovered. Both wore their liquid armor, which was not liquid at all but a thin and stretchy fabric that repelled most blades and bullets. It was fabulously expensive, and each mercenary of the Britlingen Collective spent the first years of service saving for the purchase.
When the two women arrived at the hub of the Collective, a wide lobby with doors to the entrance to the mercenaries’ wing,the Hall of Contracts, and the Sending Halls, they found a short man waiting. He was a mage, from his long hair and long robe. Like Batanya, the mage looked like a native of the surrounding area: dark hair, slight build, brown eyes.
“You’re Vandler?” Clovache said. The mages and the mercenaries did not mix, as a rule. “This is my First, Batanya.” Batanya was in charge of a klader, three teams of ten mercenaries apiece.
The man nodded. “We received the signal thirty minutes ago. Is one of your teams ready to go?”
“Of course.” Since Batanya’s klaven was on duty, one of the three teams was ready to go, around the clock. “And here they are,” Batanya said, as Geit’s team trotted into the Hall. When you were on the active team, you ran, at a pace you’d been taught in training.
Teams had a contract for missions, and even though this was a team planning to investigate a recovery signal for one of its own, the form had to be followed. Batanya filled in the blanks herself, Clovache signed too, and two minutes later the doors to the Hall of Sending swung open. Vandler, the sending mage, went in with Geit and the other nine mercs. Geit blew Clovache a kiss as he mounted the platform.
That was not regulation. Batanya sighed. She was going to have to recommend that one or the other be transferred to another klaven, and Clovache had been her friend and comrade for years.
There were several grubby mechanics in coveralls around the platform, twiddling with the machinery, going about their mysterious business. Vandler had begun chanting a safe distance away. Geit’s team, armed and ready, stood on the platform.
The mages, the mercs, and the mechs. All the parts of the most expensive, efficient, and well-known bodyguard, mercenary, and extraction teams in the known worlds.
The doors closed and from within came a trickle of sound as the team went to their mysterious destination.
There was no telling when they’d return, so Clovache returned to her duty station while Batanya went for a run. The sprawling Britlingen enclave topped a large hill, and going up and down was Batanya’s favorite exercise. She peeled her liquid armor down to her waist for the downhill run. Her modest bra was not going to shock anyone on this mountain. Going down was fun and dangerous, and Batanya concentrated with her formidable focus. All her klaven would laugh themselves sick if she broke a leg.
At the bottom, Batanya ran in place for a count of thirty, then started back up, bouncing from high spot to high spot, short black hair fluttering. It was a cool day but her sweat dried almost as soon as it appeared.
Batanya glanced up to see that Clovache was waiting for her at the archway on the top of the hill. She knew immediately the news was bad. When she reached the archway, she stopped, and had to exercise a lot of restraint so she wouldn’t lean over with her hands on her knees to pant.
“Speak,” Batanya said.
“Klader Leader Batanya,” Clovache said formally.
So the news was very bad. Batanya gave a short nod. “Second Clovache.”
“Geit’s team is dead, almost all of it.”
Clovache was using as much restraint at Batanya. Geit was Clovache’s lover, had been—off and on—for years.
“Who has returned to tell us so?”
“Therryl. Some of the bodies came back with him. Not Geit or Simone.”
A double disaster for Clovache and Batanya, both personal and professional. “What does Therryl say?”
