Fractured Magic: Chapter Five

Gareth's cab rolled to a stop before a squat building off the public square. Though the rain had come and gone quickly, ending before they'd even made it home from the festival, he had to take care climbing out to avoid the mud pooling over the cobblestone. His shoes were new, after all, a gift from Isobel. But behind him, his cab driver didn't give him the same courtesy: she cracked her whip, and when the wheels of her carriage spun, they spat mud and rainwater all up Gareth's trousers.

“Confound it,” Gareth muttered, glaring at the retreating cab before twisting to survey the damage. The white suit had, perhaps, been a mistake. Moira would be furious to see him like this, but that's what she deserved for summoning him at such a late hour, and with such short notice.

Gareth eyed the building in front of him; it reminded him of the small correctional facility on Unity's Island, windowless and bleak. But a helpful valet opened the door for him, gesturing him into a foyer that smelled of leather and cologne. It took him back to his father's study, sitting in a corner and entertaining himself with a book while Moira and his father worked. There was no seaside view here, though, and the furniture was configured into some sort of waiting room, glossy, frosted-paneled doorways leading deeper into the building.

A man stood behind a podium at one end; he took in the state of Gareth's suit with a sour expression. “Are you a member here, sir?” he asked. When Gareth peered over his shoulder, he could make out a hazily lit hall full of dust particles that danced in and out of the evening light. He heard a woman's laugh drift from deeper inside.

It gave him an idea of where he was, at least. “This is a social club,” he guessed.

“Yes, sir. If you're not already a member—”

“My sister asked me to meet her here,” Gareth said. “I imagine she's on the list.”

The host looked doubtful. He opened a leather-bound book. “And your sister's name?”

“Moira Ranulf.”

The host stiffened. He didn't bother to consult his book. “May I see some identification?”

Gareth fished it out, then waited patiently while the host scrutinized it. Finally, he handed it back with an apologetic grimace. “I'm terribly sorry, Mr. Ranulf,” he said. “I didn't know to expect you. Would you, ah, like us to order a change of clothes for you?”

“That's quite alright. I don't expect to stay long.”

“Then please, follow me.”

The host led Gareth down the hallway behind him. Narrow windows on one side overlooked the busy street, but the other was covered with portraits of serious-looking men — some sapien, some alfar, but all, Gareth noticed, human. He stopped short when they passed a jarringly familiar face. It was his own father, sneering down at them over the top of his glasses. Gareth gawked at the word “Founder” beneath the name placard.

“He never told me about this place,” Gareth said to the host, who'd slowed when Gareth did. “What is this?”

“The Metharow Club, founded by your father and several others as a place for humans with Unity connections to gather, unwind, and form social connections. Your sister has been a member since she was first appointed as a Representative. You would be eligible for membership too, sir.”

Gareth frowned. “I see.”

The host led him down a few more hallways, then through a sunlit lounge, empty but for a well-dressed group playing billiards in the corner. As he passed, they shot Gareth and his muddy clothes confused looks that Gareth ignored. Finally, the host ushered Gareth through another door into a private dining room. There, Moira waited.

“Gareth!” she called, waving him over. “Come in, come in.”

Gareth dropped into the seat across from his sister, his place already set for him. Moira looked...normal. The meeting with the Nochdvors had seemed momentous, world-changing, with its talk of war and kidnappings, but Moira looked the same as always. She lounged in her seat, gestured at the host to fill Gareth's glass with wine. Afterward, the host excused himself and left them alone.

“Your note came as a surprise,” Gareth said while his sister drank. “I would've understood if you couldn't make time for me. I know how busy you are.”

Moira gave him a shrewd look. “That's unlike you, Gareth,” she observed. “One of my clerks mentioned you stopped by my island today. That you're not swarming me with questions tells me you already heard what happened.”

“I — Well, I—,” Gareth stammered.

“—Or rumors of it, anyway. So tell me, what have you heard?”

Gareth took a deep breath. Moira didn't seem to know about his eavesdropping. “I've heard a few things,” he said, picking his words carefully. He paused to wet his lips with the wine. It tasted expensive. “That the Prince and Princess of Alfheimr are in town, and that it might have to do with the king.”

Moira hummed. Even on her best days, she looked far more than ten years Gareth's senior, her hair already gray and exhaustion lining her features. “I'm sure there's more you're not saying,” she said. “Gareth…you’re loyal to Unity, aren’t you?”

Gareth tensed again and drank more of the wine. “Of course. Why do you ask?”

Moira ignored the question, instead asking another: “And you've visited Orean before, haven't you?”

“Um,” Gareth said, eloquently. He hated discussing Orean with Moira. While Moira shared Unity's view on all things, Gareth was fond of the little city-state. He imagined this conversation would be even worse now that Moira had a perceived justification for her hatred. Under his sister's intense stare, he conceded, “We visit in the fall sometimes.”

“You know it well, then?”

“Not well, but I know it. Moira, why are you asking me this?”

Before Moira could answer, a pair of servers entered the room carrying more wine and silver trays. Gareth belatedly realized that he’d already drained his glass.

“I know what you like, Gareth, so I took the liberty of ordering for you,” Moira said while a server set a tray before him, lifting the lid to reveal a steaming steak topped with vegetables.

“Thanks,” Gareth said. He itched to get back to their conversation, but settled on a safer topic instead: “Why didn't you or father tell me about this place?”

“Don't be ridiculous, Gareth. I'm sure I've invited you before.”

“You haven't.”

“Hm. It must have slipped my mind. You're here now, so what do you think? You're eligible for membership, you know.”

“Humans only, Moira? It's a bit old-fashioned.”

Moira sighed, letting him know exactly what she thought of that nonsense. “In a world that's constantly changing and evolving, Gareth, it's nice to have something that stays the same.”

Yes, Gareth guessed this place hadn't changed since its founding. He wasn't sure that was a good thing. Everything about this club, this room, reminded him inextricably of his father, and that alone ensured he'd never step foot inside again. “I don't know, I like a bit of change.”

“Well, I don't see why you put up such a fuss about not being invited if you had no intention of joining,” Moira huffed. She watched the servers leave, then said, “But let's not squabble. I have a favor to ask of you.”

“Does it have to do with Orean?” Gareth asked.

“Very clever, Gareth,” Moira said dryly. “Would you like to hear what really happened to the Nochdvors?”

Surprised, Gareth nodded. Of course, he'd heard the gist of it, but he'd love to hear it from Moira — she never told him things when she could just as easily keep them to herself.

“Three days ago, the King of Alfheimr was visiting Illyon when a team of orinians stole him out from under the noses of Illyon's leaders.”

Gareth put on a show of being surprised. “What! That's impossible!” he cried. Since Moira had said it outright, he took the chance to ask the questions that had been gnawing at him all day“ ”Surely, Orean wouldn't risk—“

“And yet, surely they did. The Nochdvors' eyewitness accounts were quite damning. Alfheimr is demanding war, of course,” Moira said, in the same tone she'd used to discuss their dinner plans. “But fortunately, it's not up to them. Malong, Diomis, and I came up with a solution: we're going to send a team of diplomats to Orean to negotiate the King's return, and the young Prince is going to lead it.”

Gareth frowned. “You came up with that?”

“Smart, isn't it? If Orean has nothing to hide, then they will cooperate.”

“And if they don't?”

Moira shrugged. “Then we'll have war. Rheamaren Nochdvor won't be appeased until she either has her father back or has shed enough blood to account for it.”

Gareth tried to reconcile his sister's account with the scared girl he'd seen that morning. “Why are you telling me all of this?” he asked. “What does this have to do with me?”

“We'd like you to be on the team, Gareth.”

This time, Gareth didn't have to pretend to be surprised. His hand slipped, his knife cutting across his plate with a loud screech. He stared dully at his sister. “You're joking.”

“I'm not.”

“I know it took you fifty years to develop a sense of humor, Moira, but you need to work on your delivery.”

“I mean it, Gareth. You should realize what an honor this is.”

Gareth stood so fast his chair hit the ground behind him. “Why me? I'm not a diplomat! I can barely even navigate Unity's conferences, Moira, let alone hostage negotiations!”

“You won't be doing the negotiations, of course. Everyone on the team will bring different experiences,” Moira said. “You may not be the perfect politician, but you have your merits. Your knowledge of Orean and its customs will be invaluable, and that we'd send the brother of a Unity Magistrate on this mission tells Orean we have faith they will behave civilly.”

“So I'm a pawn.”

“Don't be dramatic. We're extending this invitation because we have faith in you.”

“If it's really an invitation, I should be able to refuse.”

Moira pursed her lips. “Didn't you say you were loyal to Unity?”

“But—”

“We all have duties we must perform,” Moira said, not giving Gareth a chance to argue. “I've been doing mine since father died, while you've been off chasing folktales. Now it's your turn. Think of it this way: you'll be a part of the story for once, instead of just reading them in books. I know it'll be difficult leaving Ofelia, but think of the stories you'll get to tell her — you'll prevent a war, rescue a King. You can be just like Egil.”

Gareth stared at his hands, braced on the table. That did tempt him, if just for a moment. He wanted to be someone Ofelia could look up to, and if he had a chance to stop a war and passed on it out of fear, he wouldn't be. But the fear had merit, didn’t it? If this was all true, if Orean really kidnapped a Unity king, would it be such a stretch to think they'd also find use for the brother of a Magistrate?

“And just think how much time you'd have with Prince Nochdvor — that could be useful for your little book, couldn't it?” Moira asked. “I know what you're thinking, but I wouldn't send you if there was any danger. We'll have people to handle the difficult negotiations, and I can promise you the team will have heavy security. You'll even have your own bodyguard. I need you for this, Gareth. The world needs to see how committed Unity is to saving its people.”

Gareth bit his cheek. Was this just about optics? Was it because of Prince Nochdvor's threats? He really would be a pawn — a ploy, a publicity stunt to obfuscate Unity's motives. Gareth was loyal to Unity, yes. He had no other way to be. But that didn't mean he was blind.

“You can think about it,” Moira said when Gareth remained silent. “We still have the rest of the team to appoint, so there's no immediate rush.”

“How gracious of you,” Gareth said. Mechanically, he picked up and righted his chair. “Actually, I think I've lost my appetite.”

Moira sighed. “Gareth—”

“If you want me to think about it, Moira, I need to not be looking at you. I'm going home to my wife and daughter. I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Fine,” Moira said. “Let me have the club ready a carriage.”

Gareth drained the rest of his wine. It was a wine meant for sipping, and it burned his throat as it went down. “No, I think I'll walk. I need to clear my head.”

“Don't be ridiculous. It's getting dark, and it's two miles to your hotel from here. Do you even know the way?” Moira called, even as Gareth backed through the door. The smell of Moira's tobacco, the same as his father's, was too sweet in here and he couldn't bear it a moment longer.

“I'll figure it out,” he said, turning and leaving without another word. The club's long, hazy hallways passed in a blur, and soon Gareth was bursting through the doors and gasping in fresh air. The sun had set while he'd been inside, and Gareth gazed up at the purpling sky.

He left the place on foot, relieved to swap out the grand municipal buildings around him for homes and shops and normal people going about their normal days. He thought he remembered the way from the cab ride over, but as he continued to walk, the homes fell away to dull brick and broken windows, the neat shops to abandoned storefronts. Maybe he just needed to pass through a few unfashionable neighborhoods to reach Main Street. Maybe it was just the way. So he walked on, past wary glances, past grimy children yelling “Sweep! Sweep!”, past boarded windows and a tawdry public house.

After a while, he stopped noticing it, his mind busy circling around Unity, around his sister, around the Nochdvors. But finally, he paused and realized that none of this was familiar. It was when he saw a sign that said “Now Entering Greysdale” that he really began to panic. This was not the way, and now he was sure of it.

A small chimney sweep bumped into him and deposited a layer of soot onto his coat, the dusty ash standing out against the black wool. Gareth frowned at the boy, who cast too pitiable a figure to be angry with. “Do you know the way to Kramer Street?” he asked, handing the boy a coin.

The boy shook his head, then mumbled his thanks and ran off. As Gareth watched him go, he noticed two men huddled near a tavern door, one looking Gareth's way. Perhaps they'd know. He worked his way over to them, but before he could say a word one hurriedly set off, knocking his shoulder into Gareth's in his haste to get away.

“You're gonna wanna check that you still have your purse,” the remaining man suggested.

Gareth glanced over his shoulder to check that the man was speaking to him. There was no one else around. “Me? Why wouldn't I?”

The man coughed, clearly covering a laugh. “That fellow didn't accidentally slam into you,” he said, holding up a hand and wriggling his finger. “Light fingers.”

Gareth checked the inner pocket of his coat and breathed a sigh of relief at finding his pocketbook intact. He inched closer to his new acquaintance. “Thank you, I should've seen the trick for what it was. I was wondering —” He paused, here, to cough. The smells of bread and booze drifting out of the tavern only barely covered the stench of rot, smoke, and feces that permeated Greysdale. “Could you help me? I'm afraid I'm lost.”

The man raised an eyebrow. “Are you, now?”

“I'm trying to get to Kramer Street?”

The man thought for a moment, then pointed down the street. “Go down that way and at your first chance, turn left. It'll look like an alley, but don't let that stop you. The other end opens up onto Main Street.”

“Wonderful, thank you!”

Gareth followed the man's instructions, hesitating when he reached the mouth of the alley described. It was exactly the sort of place common sense told him to avoid: dark, with large objects obscuring the view to the other end. When he looked up, though, he could see the spires of a church he knew to be on Main Street. So he held a handkerchief to his face to block the smell, so foul it brought tears to his eyes, then plowed into the alley.

He'd only made it about a third of the way through when a heavy hand landed on his shoulder, making him jump and hiss like a feral cat. He bit his own tongue to keep from shouting, but it was only the man from before, the one who'd given him directions.

“Sorry to scare you,” the man said, hiding another smile. “You dropped this, I think.” He held out Gareth's cigarette case. When Gareth reached to take it, the man only pulled it closer to himself. “You should be careful walking around this place at night, sir. With your clothes and your fancy way of speaking, you’re asking to get robbed.”

“Oh,” Gareth said, uncertain.

He wanted to give the man the benefit of the doubt, but it was impossible not to hear the threat in his words. In the end, he decided to run. He could replace the cigarette case, but the same could not be said of his life. When he turned, though, he found another man behind him, this one carrying a knife that glittered in the moonlight. It was the other man from before, Gareth realized, the one that had bumped into him.

He'd been played. He glanced toward the mouth of the alley, but he knew no one would see them. It had been so dark from the street, the street itself too empty.

Gareth had always imagined that being well-educated and reasonably clever, he'd be quick-thinking in emergencies. He always hated books where the hero froze at a crucial moment. But he hadn't understood the paralyzing effects of fear, the way powerlessness chilled your bones and whistled through your blood with every beat of your heart. He understood it now, as the stranger's knife danced along the back of his neck.

“Call for help and Tag will slit your throat faster than you can piss yourself,” said the man with Gareth's cigarette case.

Before Gareth could feel a fresh wave of fear at that, Tag wrenched Gareth's arms behind his back while the other slammed his knee into Gareth's groin. Gareth grunted, the air leaving his lungs in a staccato burst, and he fell to the ground, barely registering the pain of his knees hitting the hard dirt.

“Take my money, just leave me be,” Gareth gasped when his breath finally returned to him. He wondered, briefly, what his father would think of him begging. This was not how Ranulfs behaved, even to save their lives. Before the thought could go further, his assailant slammed his fist into Gareth's face. Gareth flew back at the blow, his head hitting alley brick. Lights burst before his eyes.

No one would see him, no one would hear him, so with shaking hands, Gareth threw his pocketbook at his assailant's feet. The man rifled through it, pulled out Gareth's Unity identification, and held the laminated papers to the light. “What's this?”

“Looks like junk,” Tag suggested.

“What's it say?” the other asked Gareth. He sneered when he saw Gareth trying to inch his way down the alley. “Tag, stop him.”

He studied the papers some more while Tag grabbed Gareth by the collar. “That's Unity's seal, right there. I bet we can get a good price for whatever this is. Search him, see if he's hiding anything else.”

It was now or never.

“HELP!” Gareth shouted.

He thought he saw a shadow hesitate at the mouth of the alley, but he knew it was wishful thinking. No one could see them. He looked back at Tag in time to see a fist speeding toward his face. It came so fast he couldn’t even wince: he collapsed against the wall, pain radiating as his head hit the brick, and then everything faded to black.

Next up, we meet one of my favorite characters.

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