The Chimera Coup
(FREE SAMPLE)

Chris Nuttall
New Mythology Press
Coinjock, NC

Copyright © 2022 by AUTHORNAME

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Dedication

DEDICATION
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Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two—HEADING 1
Last Chapter
About the Author
Connect with IMPRINT
Excerpt from Book One of The Balance of Kerr:
Excerpt from Book One of The Milesian Accords:

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Maps 
MAPIMAGES

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Prologue
The sun was barely glimmering above the distant mountains on Mourning Day when John, son of John, made his way to the Seeker Guildhouse and took his place in the line. The two people who’d arrived ahead of him—both young women, hoping for a chance to better themselves through magic—nodded politely, then turned away. 
John didn’t take offense. The town was a very small place. A reputation could be destroyed by a single careless glance, let alone something more intimate. The girls might hope to leave the town far behind, and perhaps never return, but they couldn’t rely on passing the tests. If they had to stay in town…
He took a breath as the day slowly grew brighter, the town coming to life around them. Mourning Day, in which the present day remembered the Cataclysm, was honored right across the known world and was supposed to be a day of rest. However, but the townsfolk couldn’t afford to take more than an hour or two off. John had had to bargain hard with his father, to convince the older man to allow his son to attend the trials. He knew he’d pass. He had to pass. If he failed…
The thought was unbearable. He loved his parents, really he did, but he couldn’t stay in the town for the rest of his days. 
Once, if the older folk were to be believed, a person could cross the entire world in a second. Now, getting to the nearest city was a trial. His world was small and confining, limited to the nameless town and the surrounding fields. 
Magic was his only hope of escape, unless he set out to the Frontier or even the Wildlands. And who knew what would happen if he went west? For everyone who returned rich, or found a place to settle, there were ten who were never heard from again. 
He took a long breath as the line grew longer, nineteen youngsters between eight and fifteen waiting for their chance to face the magicians. No one knew if the magicians had a quota they had to fill, although everyone agreed they sometimes closed the guildhouse without seeing everyone waiting for them. John had risen so early just to make sure he was one of the first few through the doors. 
“Hey, buddy,” a voice said. “Let me get in.”
John looked up. Bruno, a lout two years older than he was, was trying to push his way into the line. John gritted his teeth, then shook his head. Bruno was too dumb to count past ten without taking off his shoes—or his pants—but he was strong enough to beat the crap out of anyone who dared stand up to him. What was he doing in line? Everyone agreed one needed intelligence to be a magician. 
“Let me in,” Bruno said. His dark eyes glinted at John. 
“No,” John said. It might mean a beating—anywhere else, it would—but he was damned if he was giving up his spot to the older boy. “Go to the back of the line.”
Bruno drew back his fists, then stopped and darted backwards as the door rattled and opened with a crash. John turned to stare inside the guildhouse. It was normally closed and locked—the village was too small for a permanent Mage Guild presence—but now he could see a pair of tables inside manned by magicians in fine robes. They looked as gaudily dressed as the distant landlord, the man whose father had preserved order after the Cataclysm.
“There’s a wand on the table,” a magician said. He was dressed as finely as the others, but there was something in his voice that suggested he’d been born a commoner. “When I order you forward, pick up the wand, point it at the red circle on the wall and channel your magic through it. If it works, you’ll have a place amongst us. If it doesn’t, return to your homes. You can try again in a year and enjoy the rest of your day.”
A rustle ran down the line as they called the first girl forward. 
John kept his face under control. The magician had been joking, surely. It was rare for someone to return and try again, the following year. One either had magic or one didn’t. 
The girl groaned, put the wand down and walked away, her dreams shattering around her. John told himself, grimly, that he wouldn’t fail. He couldn’t.
The second girl made her way to the table, picked up the wand and jabbed it at something John couldn’t see. The wand glowed, a beam of light darting from the tip to brush against the wall. The girl dropped the wand as though it was a poisonous snake, the light vanishing the moment she let go. A female magician walked out of a side door, took the girl in hand and led her into the next chamber. 
John burned with envy, even as he was ordered forward himself. She’d made it. Her future was assured and all it had cost her was leaving her friend behind.
His heart started to race as he stopped in front of the table and picked up the wand. It felt warm against his palm, magic crackling under his skin. A wave of excitement shot through him as he raised the wand and pointed it at the red circle, then jabbed it forward. The magic rose, pressed against his skin… and went no further. 
He felt a flicker of panic. The magic was trapped inside him. He could feel it.
“Put the wand down,” the bored-looking magician said. “Good luck with your life.”
John felt his cheeks burn as he jabbed the wand again and again. The magic boiled under his skin, but refused to come into the light. It was there. He knew it was there. 
A strong hand caught hold of his shoulder and swung him about, its owner taking the wand out of John’s hand and pushing him to the door. The magic was still crackling under John’s skin, but—
“Hah,” Bruno jeered. “I knew you’d fail.”
“Be quiet,” the magician ordered. “You could fail too.”
John barely heard him. The magic was growing stronger, boiling under his skin. He was overheating, the power pulsing violently as it tried to find a way out. Bruno’s giggles—he didn’t even have the decency to laugh like an adult—were getting to him, fueling his anger and desperation. He was caught in a storm. The power demanded escape. 
He jabbed a finger at Bruno. The power blazed into the light. He heard someone swear behind him as a mighty wind picked the lout up and threw him right across the street. Bruno screamed, then fell silent as he hit the ground. 
John felt his legs wobble, the world suddenly glowing brighter as he was suddenly aware—very aware—of the magic all around him. He could barely stay on his feet. He was a magician and yet they’d thought he wasn’t.
A magician took his arm, steadying him. “Very well done,” he said. It was the same one who’d dismissed him only a few moments ago. “Come with us. There’s a place for you at the school.”
John nodded, stumbling after the magician into the next room. He felt tired, so tired he could barely keep his eyes open. The girl who’d passed the test looked up and nodded to him, seemingly relieved she wouldn’t be amongst strangers. John sat down and tried to muster his thoughts. He’d passed. He’d barely passed. And if Bruno hadn’t taunted him…
The magicians don’t know everything, he thought, numbly. He was too tired to care about Bruno. They would have let me go, if I hadn’t shown my magic.
The thought haunted him as he drifted off to sleep. They really don’t know everything.
* * * * *

Chapter One—HEADING 
“Your theory seems sound,” Katrina Amador said, as she sat on John’s bed. “But are you sure it is actually practical?” 
John smiled. It was hard to believe, at times, that a girl like Katrina could be interested in him. They came from very different worlds, even though they’d spent the last five years attending the same school. 
The College of Wizards—affectionately known as Greyshade School, after the founder and current headmaster—worked hard to ensure all students were treated equally, but some were more equal than others. 
John might be a natural magician, one who could cast magic without a proper focus, yet he was still only a blacksmith’s son. Katrina was the daughter of a proud merchant aristocrat, one who claimed his bloodline stretched back for thousands of years. And yet, somehow, they’d clicked. 
He studied her, drinking in the sight. They were a study in contrasts. Katrina was tall and willowy, with curly black hair and a pale heart-shaped face; she wore her student robes as though they were a formal gown. John was short and stubby, his skin slightly darker than hers and his robes hanging from him as if they’d been designed for someone of a very different build. He’d always considered the robes impractical and made sure to wear a shirt and trousers under the outer layer, but Katrina had never bothered. It had surprised him, the night they’d made love for the first time. 
“Well?” Katrina smirked at him. “Are you sure it can be made to work?” 
“Yes,” John said. He wasn’t fazed by her question. Magicians were taught to question everything, as part of a long-term project to understand the changes to magic after the Cataclysm. Katrina would have been failing in her duty if she hadn’t asked him to explain himself. “We channel magic through focuses, right?” 
“Most of us do,” Katrina agreed. There weren’t many exceptions, even amongst the older and more well-practiced students. It was just easier to use a focus, particularly one you’d carved yourself. “It certainly makes it easier to cast precise spells.” 
John nodded, although he’d never been sure of how true that actually was. He could cast magic without a focus. In hindsight, he suspected his attempt to use a wand—five years ago—had been doomed from the start. He’d grown used to focuses in the years he’d spent at Greyshade, but he’d never allowed himself to grow dependent on them. 
Katrina was one of the most capable students he’d met, with an intellect that dwarfed his own, yet if she lost her focus she would be nearly helpless. It was one of the reasons he’d helped her forge a ring-focus as well as an elaborate wand. Anyone who wanted to kidnap her would take the wand—unless they were complete idiots—but they might just overlook the ring. And then she’d be able to escape with ease. 
“A focus is really just a channel for magic,” John said. “The magic bubbles through them and out into the world. It doesn’t have to be anything special.” 
“Your spells are less focused”—she smiled at the play on words—“without a focus,” Katrina pointed out. And it’s even easier if it’s a focus you made yourself.”
John nodded. It wasn’t easy to shape the magic in his head, rather than channeling it through a focus. Basic spells were easy enough—he’d practiced until his nose bled, mastering the art of channeling without a focus—but more advanced spells were impossible. He wasn’t sure why. In theory, he should have been able to cast any spell he liked. In practice… 
Maybe I’m trying to do too many things at once, he thought, crossly. He’d learnt the importance of keeping his mind on the task while watching his father, but unfocused magic relied upon the caster being able to do two things at the same time. And yet, it should still be possible. 
“If we can use a wand or a ring or something along those lines to cast spells,” he asked rhetorically, “why can’t we use our skin?” 
Katrina made a face. They’d debated the question time and time again. Why couldn’t they use their skin, or their bones, as focuses? 
They had yet to come up with a good answer, although—John had to admit—the thought of accidentally overcharging and exploding their bones was terrifying. He’d exploded more than a few wands himself, back during his primary education. He knew he’d been lucky. A couple of students had lost their hands. 
“It should work,” John said. The debates had gone on and on without any clear answer. “We need to know.” 
“If this goes wrong…” 
Katrina’s voice trailed off, but John understood. Greyshade expected the students to practice their skills outside class, to the point of encouraging them to cast spells on each other, yet there were limits. They were brushing against the rules, to the point they really should speak to their housemaster before taking the experiments any further. 
And yet, he knew what might happen if they shared their theories. The person they told might steal the credit or share the idea to the point they could no longer claim it as theirs. It had happened before and he was sure it would happen again. 
Katrina would be fine, whatever happened. Her family would take care of her, but John’s family had effectively disowned him after he’d accidentally crippled Bruno. They’d had no choice—and they would have lost contact with him pretty quickly, after his magic had been discovered—but it still hurt.
And what would become of him, after he graduated? He wanted to be something more than a guildsman, or a courtly mage, or even a Grey Man. He wanted to do something with his life, something so significant Katrina’s family could hardly object to his suit. If he made a magical breakthrough, they couldn’t turn him down if he asked for her hand. 
And then we could really make something of ourselves, he thought. Katrina wasn’t her father’s heir, but her family would help her set up a spellhouse if they thought she could make a go of it. Who knows how far this could go? 
He reached for the tattoo pen and held it up, then pressed it against his right palm. It hurt, a stabbing pain that made him wince. He’d had worse, but this… he bit his lip to focus as the pain grew, drawing out the rune on his bare skin. Katrina watched, her eyes grim. He’d been tempted to ask her to do the tattoo, or perhaps to secure him first to ensure not a single stroke was out of place, but it was important he did it himself. It would be his focus. 
And she might balk at inflicting pain, he reflected, as he drew the final line. She wouldn’t want to hurt me, even though it needs to be done. 
He smiled at the thought. He’d met a number of well-born girls—from powerful families, even if their family trees were fanciful—and they’d all sneered at the common-born students. 
Katrina wasn’t like that. Her family might be rich, but they’d made their money through trade and knew better than to offend their customers. She’d never talked down to anyone, even the younger students she’d supervised when she’d been their dorm mistress. 
John had to admit it made her a better person than him. He’d done his best, but it had been hard to keep his irritation under control. It was difficult to believe he’d been just as annoying when he’d been twelve. 
His palm itched. He gritted his teeth, watching the rune darken as it settled into his skin. It looked uncomfortably permanent, although he knew it would be simple enough to remove if the experiment failed. 
It felt as if there was something trapped beneath his skin. Or like a toothache, something so unpleasant he was aware of his teeth for the first time in his life, as if they were no longer part of his body. 
He shook his head in annoyance. There was nothing to be gained by wool-gathering. He needed to use the new focus before the tattoo faded away. 
Perhaps I should have risked a more permanent charm, he thought. Tattoos weren’t precisely forbidden, not at the school, but they were often seen as a sign of low breeding. But that would have been an unacceptable risk. 
Katrina cocked her head, her dark eyes worried. “John?” 
“It just itches,” John said. “You’d better get over there.” 
“Be careful.” Katrina made her way to the door. “If you feel uncomfortable, stop.” 
John’s lips twitched. He hadn’t felt so unsure of himself since… he shook his head, banishing his concerns. They had to know, now, if the theory was anything more than a pile of complete and utter nonsense. If it worked… 
He held up his palm, shaping a simple lightglobe spell. It was one of the first spells he’d been taught, one that could be mastered by a very young student and then endlessly modified to suit any situation. The magic boiled under his skin, the rune feeling uncomfortably warm as he channeled the magic through the tattoo and out into the wider world. A ball of light appeared in front of him, burning brightly as it rose into the air. 
Katrina gasped. John looked at his palm. The rune glowed, like the embers of a fire. As he watched, the light dimmed and went out. The lightglobe vanished immediately afterwards. The room seemed to plunge into darkness. 
John blinked away motes of light, then stared at his palm. The rune looked even weirder than before, as if it had been permanently changed by the magic he’d directed through it. He touched it gingerly and felt nothing, save for a very faint warmth that might have been his own body heat. 
Katrina stepped closer. He let her take hold and examine it, turning his hand gently to make sure it was undamaged. She’d always been better with healing magic than he was. 
“Curious,” Katrina said, finally. “No damage at all, beyond the tattoo itself.” 
“Why should there be?” John grinned at the excitement in her voice. Katrina was no coward, but she’d always been more concerned about the risks than he was. “The tattoo is nothing more than a focus, allowing me to channel magic into the spell. It isn’t as if it was overcharged.” 
“True.” Katrina let go of his hand, then leaned forward and kissed him. For a moment, they were lost in each other, then she pulled back. “But will it work for me too?” 
John felt his grin grow wider. “Do you want to try?” 
“You have a talent for casting spells without a focus,” Katrina reminded him, as if he would have forgotten. “I don’t. You might have shaped the magic yourself and then cast the spell through the focus.” 
“Which would probably have destroyed the focus,” John pointed out, choosing not to dwell on the implications of that. “I think I kept the spell and the magic separate.” 
He looked down at his palm, unwilling to admit that she might have a point. Intent was important in magic, particularly when you were only starting your studies. It was quite possible his magic had responded to his desires, rather than his designs. 
They had to try again, with a different person and focus, before they wrote their paper and took it to higher authority. Their supervisor couldn’t steal the credit then. 
“Perhaps,” he conceded, reluctantly. He held out the tattoo pen. “Do you want me to draw it for you?” 
“I’d better do it myself,” Katrina said. She took the pen, eying it warily. “The focus? It has to be mine.” 
John nodded, taking no offense as she pressed the pen against her palm. She was right. He’d only made the offer as a formality. A pang of guilt rushed through him at her wince, her face twisting in pain as she drew out the lines one by one. The rune took shape on her palm… this time, he thought he saw the magic twisting through the lines as she finished her work and put down the pen. It was weird, like a ghostly rune hanging over the real one. 
“Done.” Katrina sounded shaken. “You get to the door.” 
“Be careful,” John said. “I’ll be here.” 
Katrina snorted. John smiled, despite the coiling sensation in his gut, as he reached the door and looked back at her. The room was a clear reminder of the gulf between them, a gulf closed only through magic. 
To him, the small room was a wonder, a place of privacy in a world where everyone wanted to know his business. To her, it was tiny, a place too small even for a little girl. 
Katrina had once told him she had closets in her family mansion bigger than the private rooms, that her bedroom was the size of the primary dorms. John believed her. He’d seen too much of how the rich and powerful lived to think she was exaggerating. 
She held up her hand, palm upwards. “I’m ready.” 
John felt his heart starting to race. This was it. If the tattoo rune worked for Katrina, and it would, they would have made a real breakthrough. Their names would rank with Thande and Lombardi and Greyshade himself. Their achievements would be taught in schoolhouses all across the Free States, inspiring other prospective magicians to carry out experiments of their own, experiments aimed at pushing the limits of knowledge as far as they would go. If… 
Katrina started the spell. John leaned forward, frowning slightly at the way her tattoo rune lit up. It was odd, something he’d never seen on a wand or a ring or any other kind of focus device. 
Perhaps it was related to the light spell. His eyes narrowed as the lightglobe wobbled into existence, a flash of alarm running through him as he realized the spell wasn’t properly focused. The lightglobe wasn’t a perfect sphere of light. It looked like an angry pulsing baleful eye glaring at him. 
Focus, he thought. He didn’t dare speak. Katrina could not be interrupted, not now. If she lost her concentration, who knew what would happen? 
Katrina screamed. Her hand caught fire. 
For an instant, John was rooted to the spot, held frozen by absolute horror. The flames grew and spread, racing up her arm and brushing against her face. 
He saw her skin start to darken, to burn to ash— 
The shock jarred him out of his terror, shoving him forward to cast a series of cancellation charms. The magic billowed wildly, resisting his spells. He grabbed bedding with one hand and summoned water from the air with the other. 
Katrina’s face was frozen in agony as he splashed the water against her, the droplets flashing to steam and vanishing as the stench of burning flesh grew stronger. 
John wrapped the blankets around her, heedless of the risk to himself, in a desperate bid to squash the flames. The blankets grew warm and started to smolder, then burn. It dawned on him, too late, that she was fueling the flames with her magic. The rune was still glowing, the ghostly image visible despite the smoke and fire. 
John didn’t hesitate. He shaped a cutting charm, aiming it at her wrist. The blackened mess—it was hard to believe it had ever once been a dainty pale hand—fell to the floor, the rune spluttering and vanishing as it hit the ground, but the flames still burned.
He tried to summon more water, only to find he’d drained most of his power. It was hard to concentrate, to shape the spells he needed— 
The door crashed open. A pair of Grey Men raced into the room, followed by a wave of water that drenched Katrina and left her spluttering, a moment before she fainted. The newcomers shoved John aside, then cast a series of stasis spells on Katrina before levitating her into the air and floating her out of the room. 
John turned to follow as the last of the water drained away, only to be caught by a third Grey Man. The masked figure kept a tight grip on him as he marched John down the hall, ignoring the doors popping open and students looking out to see what was going on. There’d be hundreds of rumors rushing through the school by the end of the day, if John was any judge. He was too dazed to care. 
His captor pulled him into a corridor that didn’t appear on any of the floor plans, then shoved him into a small room. “Stay here,” he ordered, shortly. “Wait.” 
John didn’t have the strength to argue, as the door banged closed. Instead, he sagged to the floor. He shuddered, helplessly. Was Katrina dead? Had the flames killed her? 
He tried to tell himself that Katrina was strong, that she’d been alive when she’d been placed into stasis, that anything magic could do could be undone… and yet, he simply didn’t know. He loved her and— 
—And, he realized as guilt crashed down on him, everything that had happened to her had all been his fault.
* * * * *

Chapter Two—HEADING 
The room, John decided as he waited,  was little more than a prison cell. 
He paced from wall to wall, wishing for something—anything—to keep his mind from returning, time and time again, to the memory of his girlfriend catching fire. The room was bare, save for a single bed fixed to the wall and a glowing crystal firmly emplaced in the stone ceiling. 
He’d thought he’d explored the school from top to bottom as a young student, risking all sorts of punishments for poking his nose where it didn’t belong, but he’d never found the cell or the concealed corridor leading to it. Greyshade was huge, beyond the imagination of the youngster he’d been, yet he’d thought he knew it all. How much else had been kept from them? 
The thought taunted him, but he clung to it anyway. It was better than the memory of Katrina catching fire, her entire body blazing with supernatural flames. He wanted to break down the door and run to her, but a quick check revealed the cell was firmly locked and warded. He couldn’t get out without someone opening the door on the other side. 
And it’s all your fault, his thoughts tormented him. She’s dead or dying and its all your fault. 
He kept pacing, trying to understand what had gone wrong. Katrina had tattooed herself perfectly. He’d checked. 
She wouldn’t have messed up the spell, either. Her family might be rich enough to buy an entire city or two, but she wouldn’t have been allowed to pass her exams if she couldn’t demonstrate the required theoretical and practical knowledge to proceed to the next level. 
His stomach twisted. She was dead. He tried to tell himself he didn’t know she was dead, but it was hard to believe she could have survived. Her magic had fueled the fire. 
He swallowed hard, wondering if he could offer his life to save hers. There were old rituals that might allow her to live, at the cost of his life. He’d use them, if he could. The whole disaster had been his fault. If he’d taken his theory to their supervisor… 
Guilt gnawed at his soul. Katrina had been young and vital and brilliant. She’d had a bright future ahead of her, one that might—or might not—have included him. 
The door rattled, then opened. Two Grey Men stood in the doorway, faces hidden behind blank masks. John gritted his teeth. The Grey Men rarely involved themselves in the school, not unless the teachers and prefects had let matters get far out of hand. 
He stood as one beckoned him to his feet, then walked out of the cell. The corridors were empty, somewhat to his relief. There was no one to witness his shame as he was marched to judgment. 
They stopped in front of a stone wall, which opened to reveal the headmaster’s antechamber. John gritted his teeth and stepped through, suddenly very aware of his appearance. He needed a shower and a change of clothes and… he shook his head. 
The last time he’d visited the headmaster’s office, it had been as part of a group of students preparing to move from primary to secondary education. This time, he was alone… unless one counted the Grey Men. He didn’t. The headmaster’s personal attack dogs were very definitely not on his side. 
The door opened. 
“John, Son of John,” a cool voice said. “Come in.” 
John stepped into the inner chamber. Headmaster Greyshade, the last of the old sorcerers and the first of the new, sat behind his desk, fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He was tall and muscular, his bald head seemingly unmarred by a century of practicing magics, some of which, they’d been told, had been lost after the Cataclysm. John hadn’t liked him, the first time he’d laid eyes on the older man. It wasn’t something he could put his finger on, just a vague sense that the headmaster smiled too much. 
He wasn’t smiling now. 
“Katrina,” John said, quickly. “What… how is she?” 
“Alive, but badly scarred,” Greyshade said. “Given time, her hand can be regrown. Given time.” 
His eyes fixed on John. “What were you doing?” 
John hesitated, then started to explain. “I thought we could use tattoos as a focus,” he said, outlining the entire concept piece by piece. “And it worked for me.” 
“I see.” Greyshade’s voice didn’t change. “You are aware, of course, that unauthorized practical experimentation is discouraged for a reason?” 
“Yes, sir,” John said. 
“And you choose not to bring it to your supervisor, or to me,” Greyshade continued. “Why not?” 
John swallowed. “It was my idea, sir,” he said. “I didn’t want someone to steal it before we could publish.” 
Greyshade let out a heavy sigh. “There are… precautions to make it difficult, if not impossible, for your supervisor to steal the credit. I do try to encourage inquisitive minds, as you know, and working out how the laws of magic work in this brave new world is a very high priority. You do know that, don’t you?” 
“Yes, sir,” John said. “I do.” 
He took a breath. Greyshade was living history. He was the one and only sorcerer from the old days to survive the Cataclysm. He was the one who’d worked out how the laws of magic had changed, after the disaster, and how modern magicians could make use of their skills in the new world. 
It had been Greyshade who’d designed and produced the first focus. It had been Greyshade who’d created the first pieces of magitech. It had been Greyshade who’d convinced the Free States, founded on the ruins of the old world, to let him establish a school to both teach new magicians and research newer and better ways to put magic to use for the betterment of all. 
John had never dreamed of matching the headmaster—that would be impossible—but he’d hoped to discover something that would set his reputation in stone. He shook his head. That was gone now. 
“It was my fault, sir,” he said, finally. If he couldn’t do anything else, he could at least take the blame. “I talked my girlfriend into following my lead.” 
“I find it hard to believe you could have forced a daughter of House Amador to do anything,” Greyshade said. “But I shall choose to believe you. For her sake.” 
“Thank you, sir. It was my idea.” 
“Quite.” Greyshade settled back in his chair. “I compliment you on your ingenuity. You may have made a discovery that, with proper experimentation, will lead to all sorts of interesting places. Your name will be entered in the records as the original innovator and so you will be remembered.” 
John didn’t feel reassured. “Yes, sir.” 
“However”—Greyshade’s voice hardened—“that does not absolve you of responsibility for your actions. I cannot offer you absolution. Your experiment came very close to killing another student, and did—I’m afraid—leave permanent scars on her body and soul. If you had discussed the concept with your supervisor, or anyone else, it might have been possible to work out the problems and deal with them before it was too late. As it was, you created a disaster.” 
He leaned forward. “I spoke to Katrina Amador’s family. They have demanded harsh punishment. I’m afraid, under the circumstances, I have no choice but to expel you. You will be allowed to pack what remains of your possessions, then escorted to the gates and marched outside. Should you return, you will be summarily executed.” 
John felt as if he’d been punched in the belly. “Sir, I—” 
Greyshade raised a hand, silencing him. “I have no leeway in this matter. Had it been solely up to me, I would have ordered you thrashed and then placed on permanent academic probation. You have a fine mind and I would hate to see it wasted. However, her family is insistent that nothing short of expulsion will suffice. They want you gone.” 
And they probably also want private revenge, John thought. He was too dazed to care about assassins descending on him. He deserved no less. They’re probably summoning all the assassins they know right now. 
“I’m sorry, sir,” John said. He understood the headmaster’s position. Greyshade was powerful, perhaps the most powerful person in the known world, but he wasn’t all-powerful. He wouldn’t go to bat for a student who’d badly wounded another, not when it meant picking a fight with a far more powerful merchant family. “Can I at least speak to her before I go?” 
“No.” Greyshade’s brows furrowed. “Her family has insisted you have no further contact with her. Under the circumstances, I feel they have a point. Her recovery will be long and difficult and your presence, even for a short time, will only make it harder. I strongly advise you not to try to visit her now. If you want to write her a letter, I will see she gets it.” 
John bowed his head. “Thank you, sir.” 
Greyshade smiled, thinly. “Where will you go, after you pack?” 
“I don’t know.” John tried to think, but he was too dazed to think straight. Where could he go? There was no way he could go back home. He had some money saved from summer work experience, enough to get him across the Free States and… and go where? Where could he go? “I don’t know, sir.” 
“I have a suggestion,” Greyshade said, a hint of warmth entering his voice. “You’re a clever young man with a magical talent. You have astonishing potential and I don’t want to see it wasted. I know people who might be interested in hiring you. There will be a certain element of risk involved, and it will mean travelling beyond the Free States, but it may offer you the best chance of either redeeming yourself or building a new life.” 
“The Frontier,” John said. He’d be lying if he claimed he hadn’t considered making his way there, after he graduated. The Free States were too well established, even now, for a complete newcomer to make his mark. “You think there are people who will hire me?” 
“Yes.” Greyshade met his eyes evenly. “I know a group that will. They’ve been looking for a magician and you fit the bill.” 
John blinked. “And they’ll take me?” 
He thought he saw a hint of irritation cross the headmaster’s face, but it was gone before he could be sure. “They will give you a chance,” Greyshade said. His eyes narrowed in warning. “They’re a band of travelling adventurers, which means ‘mercenaries.’ They do all sorts of jobs along the Frontier and the Wildlands beyond. They will give you a chance, once. If you prove yourself, they’ll be loyal to you as long as you are loyal to them. If you don’t, you can probably find other employment along the Frontier.” 
“I…” John forced himself to think. There was nothing left for him in the Free States. He had nowhere to go, even if Katrina’s family didn’t send assassins after him. Katrina herself certainly wouldn’t want anything to do with him, after he’d destroyed her future beyond repair. He’d be lucky if she didn’t curse him on the spot, if they ever met again. “If they’ll take me…” 
“I’ll give you a letter of introduction,” Greyshade said. “And also a travel pass. You’ll take the slider to Lucasville, a ramshackle town on the edge of the Frontier, and meet up with the team there. If they don’t want you, you should be able to find something else to do there until you find your footing.” 
John nodded, slowly. A travel pass would be very helpful. If nothing else, it would keep him from having to spend his own money on the journey. 
A question nagged at his mind. “Sir, why are you helping me?” 
Greyshade shrugged. “Which answer would you like? I could give you several.” 
“The truth,” John said. 
“They’d all be true.” Greyshade smiled, as if he’d thought of a private joke. “Suffice it to say I dislike parents contacting me and throwing their weight around, trying to bully me into forgoing proper procedure and doing what they want. You might well have been expelled anyway, after we carried out a formal inquiry, but they wanted you expelled yesterday. And so I must, yet I can give you at least a chance to make something of yourself. Anyway ...” 
He looked past John. The door opened behind him. “The Grey Men will escort you to your bedroom, then out of the school,” he said. “Do not speak to anyone along the way. Your letters and a couple of other things will be waiting for you in the entrance hall. Once you are gone, do not come back. And don’t try to visit your girlfriend. It might hurt her chances of making a full recovery.” 
“Yes, sir,” John said, reluctantly. He disliked the idea of owing Greyshade anything, particularly if it was a debt he had little hope of repaying, but he had no choice. “And thank you.” 
“If it works out, you can thank me then,” Greyshade said. “Now, go.” 
John turned and walked out. The Grey Men followed him, soundlessly. John felt as if he was caught in a dream as he made his way down the corridors, passing students who stared at him and his escorts as if they were tigers or weirdlings or something—anything—that shouldn’t be anywhere near the school. 
He spotted a number of familiar faces—a couple gloating at his fall, a couple shocked—but didn’t dare speak to them. If he saw his friends… he suspected, now, they wouldn’t be friendly any longer. They probably wouldn’t dare. Katrina’s family wouldn’t hesitate to destroy anyone who showed the slightest hint of sympathy for the boy who’d ruined their daughter’s life. 
I didn’t mean to, he thought. I didn’t! 
Really? His thoughts mocked him. So what? 
Tears prickled in his eyes as he reached his bedroom door and peered inside. The room was a mess. The bed was scorched, ruined; his wardrobe and bookshelves were drenched, water pooling around his feet. 
He felt his heart twist as he eyed the spellbooks—he’d spent much of his allowance on them, over the last few years—and then picked them up, trying to brush the water off. The protective charms on the books, and the clothes, had failed. He guessed his desperate attempts to save Katrina had accidentally cancelled those charms, too. 
The Grey Men watched, soundlessly, as John opened his trunk, then transferred the money and a handful of prized possessions into a knapsack. There was no point in trying to take the trunk. He’d bought it fifth-hand and the charms had been fraying to the point he was mildly surprised someone hadn’t broken into it long ago. The notebooks at the bottom made him hesitate, before he shoved them into the knapsack too. He might not sit his exams, let alone try to gain accreditation, but he could study on his own. No one cared about formal qualifications on the Frontier. They just cared about results. 
He brushed water off the desk, then sat on the soggy chair and tried to work out what he could say to Katrina. She’d hate him, when—if—she recovered. 
He wanted to put his feelings into words and he didn’t know how. He forced himself to write a few lines, trying to convey how sorry he was and promising to write again when he reached safe harbor. He hoped she’d get the letters. Greyshade might be willing to pass them on to her, but Katrina’s family would have other ideas. 
There were all sorts of stories about wealthy families who treated their daughters as chattel, practically locking them up until they could be married off. Katrina was too powerful for that to happen to her—no, she’d been too powerful. Who knew what would happen to her now? Her family, deprived of her talent, might just sell her to the highest bidder. 
If they do, he promised himself, I’ll rescue her. Whatever the cost. 
He took a quick shower, then changed into simple journeyman’s clothes before slinging his knapsack over his shoulder, taking one last look at the room, and then walked out. The corridors were clear, somewhat to his surprise, as he walked down the stairs and into the entrance hall, his escort dogging his heels. 
Greyshade’s secretary—a sour-faced woman who was cordially loathed by everyone else—was waiting holding a folder in one bony hand. She looked John up and down, disdain clearly visible on her face, then passed him the folder and turned away. 
John had no time to inspect the contents. The Grey Men were already motioning to the exits. 
John took a long breath, then turned and walked out of the school.
* * * * *

Chapter Three—HEADING 
It was hard, as John made his way down the long and winding road, not to look back. 
The College of Wizards had been built on top of a building from before the Cataclysm, a blocky structure crafted by magical techniques that no longer existed in any workable form. John had thought, once upon a time, that he’d be the first to rediscover them, that he’d have a chance to use them to build an even bigger name for himself. No longer.
He forced himself to look forward, drinking in the landscape for the final time. The College of Wizards sat in the midst of a vast wasteland, swept by firestorms after the Cataclysm and simply abandoned shortly afterwards. 
The city below the mountain was little more than ruins, infested with monsters and weirdlings. John knew, from grim experience, that anyone who stepped off the road risked being killed and eaten—or worse. He’d left the road once, when he’d been young and foolish, and barely survived. He was damned if he’d do that again. 
The air tasted faintly of burning wood—wet wood—as he made his way along the road towards Kinshasa City. His legs hurt, but he forced himself to keep going. It wouldn’t be long before it rained, or worse, and there was no shelter between the school and the city. Nor had he thought to bring food. 
He wondered, numbly, what he’d do if he missed the slider. There were three every day, heading east and west, but if he missed this one, he’d just have to find a place to sleep somewhere in the city. It shouldn’t be that hard, yet it would drain his funds. He doubted he’d enjoy finding out what would happen if he ran out of money. 
Kinshasa City slowly came into view, a mess of wooden and stone buildings set within a wall lined with defensive positions. Greyshade had picked the school’s location carefully—none of the kings, princes, warrior captains or other empire-builders had been particularly interested in the ashy wasteland—but, naturally, a city had sprung up over the years to house merchants, innkeepers, craftsmen and everyone else hoping to make a quick buck. There were pubs, brothels and everything else a student population might want—and pay for. 
John had been cautioned to be careful, the first time he’d visited. The richer students hadn’t listened and they’d paid the price. 
His lips quirked, bitterly, as he passed through the gates and made his way down to the slider station. The air stank of too many humans in too close of a proximity, although it was better than the ashy stench outside the city. 
John passed a pair of professional beggars and turned away from a prostitute, smiling at him as she sat outside a dark alleyway. He’d been warned about them, too. The brothels were relatively clean and healthy, thanks to the city’s supervision. The independent whores might be carrying all sorts of poxes, including some that couldn’t be easily cured, and now, he couldn’t go to the healers and ask for help. 
Not without paying for it, he thought, as the sliders came into view. 
The guard stopped him as he entered the station. John dug through the folder, found the travel pass and held it out. The guard inspected it, then waved John into the station and pointed at the furthest platform. The slider was already waiting, the clock ticking down the seconds to departure. John tried not to run as he crossed the tracks and hurried to the door. 
Magic sparkled around him as he stepped into the carriage, found a seat and sat down. The sliders were magitech. Proof—if anyone had needed it—that Greyshade’s campaign to put magic to practical use was bearing fruit. 
They travelled along buried rails, moving at speeds no horse could hope to match. It would take at least a week for John to reach Lucasville by stagecoach, but only a few hours on the slider. 
He checked the board—he’d have to sleep on the slider, once the vehicle got underway—then turned his attention to the folder. Greyshade had given him more than he’d expected, something that bothered him more than he cared to admit. The sealed letter was paired with a set of notes on Lucasville, a money draft for the local bank and a handful of other things. John wasn’t sure what to make of it. Greyshade had gone to a lot of trouble just to put a finger in someone’s eye. 
John sighed, inwardly. If there was one thing he’d learnt growing up in a farming town, it was that no one did anything for nothing. It was the unwritten law of the land. If you asked someone for a favor, they had the right to ask for one in return. He’d heard all sorts of stories, some that hadn’t made sense until he’d grown older and realized what was hiding behind the vague terms and phrases his grandparents had used, when they’d been explaining how the world really worked. Greyshade wouldn’t get much—if anything—in return for his assistance, not as far as John could tell, unless he thought he was repaying John for the tattoo-technique. 
He put the thought out of his mind as the slider lurched into life, then glided out of the station and past a row of brick houses. Kinshasa City grew larger with every passing year. He was sure it hadn’t been anything like so big when he’d arrived as a young student. 
Not that it mattered, he thought, as they passed the walls and raced into the countryside. He’d probably never see the city, or the school, ever again. He took a book from his bag and tried to read, but the rocking of the slider slowly put him to sleep. It had been a long day. 
And too much has happened, John thought. My life as I knew it is over. 
The morbid thought was still with him when he jerked awake, hours later. He’d slept poorly, his dreams little more than nightmares. He wanted to go back, to comfort Katrina even though he knew she probably hated him now and that her family was lying in wait, with sharpened knives and charged wands. They’d kill him on the spot… they’d never really liked the idea of her dating a commoner, even if his magical talents were enough to get them to look past his unfortunate birth. It had gnawed at him, only a day or two ago. Katrina’s family wasn’t that old. The family tree that stretched back hundreds of years was made up of whole cloth. And now… he supposed they had a point. Katrina was badly injured and it was all his fault. 
He leaned back and stared out of the window as the landscape slowly changed, first to farmland on the western side of the school’s territory and then to the shifting morass of the wildlands. 
The Frontier was a patchwork of settlements, each one founded on good land that could be turned into fields very quickly. There was no push, not yet, to extend the farmlands as far as they could go, let alone start making use of rougher patches of ground. 
A thrill ran through him as they swept past a boundary stone, marking the edge of the Free States. It was little more than a formality, this far west, but he was still excited. The world had suddenly become a much larger place. 
His heart started to race as he saw more and more signs of the Cataclysm. Ruined towns and cities, forests and lakes burnt to ash or warped into something monstrous and inhuman; a grim reminder, as if he’d needed it, that the world had been pushed to the brink of complete destruction only a few short decades ago. 
Very few people remembered the world before the Cataclysm and John had never been sure what to make of their stories. Greyshade was the only one who seemed even remotely believable because he knew how to adapt the old spells to work in the new world. And even he didn’t know what had caused the disaster. It was possible no one ever would. 
A trolley rattled its way down the slider, pushed by a grim-faced woman with tanned skin and dark eyes. John bought a mug of lukewarm coffee and a ration bar—the price was disturbingly high—and drank it slowly as the slider kept going, making its way across a rickety-looking wooden bridge that spanned a gorge. 
John shivered as he saw the dark water at the bottom, clearly tainted by wild magic. It would be a long time before the bridge was replaced by something a little more solid and until then… he tried not to think what might happen if he fell into the water. He’d be lucky if he just became a weirdling. It was far more likely he’d become a monster who’d be killed as soon as he showed his face. 
The slider slowed, whistle blowing as it plunged into town. John leaned forward and stared out the window, studying Lucasville thoughtfully. It had an odd air of impermanence about it, the handful of stone buildings flanked by hundreds of wooden houses, barracks and shacks that looked as if they were permanently on the verge of collapse. Beyond them, he could see canvas tents that shifted in the wind, hundreds of people making their way in and out of the town. 
He’d heard that thousands of people had headed west, in hopes of finding land and wealth for themselves, but he’d never realized what it meant. Not until now.
“Welcome to Lucasville,” the conductor called. “All change!” 
John stood, swung his knapsack over his shoulder and made his way to the platform. The air was hot and humid, the wind smelling of tainted magic every time it brushed against his nostrils. Everywhere he looked, there were hints of the warped and twisted world only a few miles further west, from strange plants to animals that looked as if they’d been crafted by insane dark wizards. 
He blinked as he spotted a redheaded girl his own age, pretty and athletic and… she had three eyes? A weirdling? He’d heard of them, of course, but he’d never seen one of  the people tainted by wild magic. They and their descendants tended to stay out of the Free States. They were rarely welcome there. 
He pushed the thought out of his mind as he walked onto the street. It was crammed with people and animals, all pushing and shoving as they forced their way up and down; it was lined with bars, craftsman’s shops, a brothel advertising both girls and boys and what looked like a pair of quasi-legal magic shops. John was tempted to cross the road and see if they were hiring, if only to escape his obligations to Greyshade, but he knew it was unlikely to get him anywhere. A semi-legal magic shop would be wary of a magician from the east,  if the owners weren’t con artists. John had been warned about them too. 
The crowd seemed never ending, grinding against him as he looked around. There were no street signs, no handy guardsmen who might point him in the right direction; he had no idea where he could find his destination. Greyshade’s instructions were clear, yet useless. He might have to go to the Rabid Wolf, but… where was the Rabid Wolf? He didn’t even know where to begin. 
He looked to the side and saw the three-eyed girl. It was hard not to shiver at how unnatural she was, even though he knew it wasn’t her fault. She—more likely, her parents—had been warped by magic, the changes so deeply embedded in her cells that they couldn’t be undone. 
He told himself, sharply, he’d have to get used to it. She wouldn’t be the last weirdling he’d encounter, along the edge of the civilized world. There’d be many who’d make her look perfectly pureblood human. 
She looked back at him, eyes narrowing. John found it hard to look her in the face. He wondered, suddenly, what else she had three of, then dismissed the thought before he could ask. He cleared his throat, instead, and leaned forward. She didn’t seem bothered by his presence. 
“Please, can you help me?” he asked. “I need to find the Rabid Wolf.” 
The three-eyed girl studied him, then shrugged. “It’s over there,” she said, in an oddly accented tone. “The pub with the red sign on the top. Good luck.” 
She turned away before John could ask what she meant, vanishing into the crowd with practiced ease. John stared at her back—she looked perfectly human, from the rear—and then reminded himself sharply he had a girlfriend. No, he’d had a girlfriend. 
He pushed his way through the crowd to the far side of the road, then made his way up to the Rabid Wolf. It looked like a dive, like the worst pubs in Kinshasa City—the ones they’d been told to stay well away from, unless they wanted to get beaten up or worse. The handful of people outside, drinking straight from the bottle, looked rough enough to pick a fight with a magician, regardless of the risks. 
John looked up and down the street, trying not to shake his head in dismay. The hell of it was that the Rabid Wolf appeared to be the most decent pub on the street. He was very tempted just to give up and walk away. 
Stout heart, he told himself. You owe it to yourself to at least try. 
He walked forward, past the drinkers, and pushed open the door. The interior was dark and foggy, the air smelling of tobacco and something else, something he couldn’t quite identify. A number of men and women stood at the counter, talking to the bartender; others, their faces hidden under hats or cloaks, sat in cubicles and drank their beer. He heard someone playing a piano and looked into the corner, spotting a topless woman working the keys with one hand and holding a mug of beer in the other. John flushed, helplessly. He wasn’t a virgin. He’d seen naked women before. But this— 
“You’re a long way from home, aren’t you?” 
John jumped, then looked down. A very short man—a dwarf—stared up at him thoughtfully. John felt his head spin. Another weirdling? Or someone who’d been hit with a permanent shrinking spell? The proportions were all wrong. The man was the same size as a child, yet… 
“Yes,” he managed. “I’m looking for Captain Joyce.” 
“Indeed.” The tiny man looked weirdly intimidating, for someone who barely came up to John’s waist. “And does she want to see you?” 
John blinked. She? 
He kept that thought off his face. “I have a letter of introduction,” he said tartly, gritting his teeth. He hadn’t felt so out of place since his first day at school, after he’d come into his magic. There hadn’t been that many commoner students and they’d been dispersed so carefully he’d lost track of the only other person from his town sometime after his first year. “I think she wants to see me.” 
“Good, good,” the man said. He pointed to an armor-clad figure at the bar. “That’s her there, young man. If she wants to see you, she’ll see you.” 
John hesitated, then forced himself to walk to the bar. Captain Joyce turned as he approached, one hand dropping to the sword on her belt. She was a woman, John noted absently. He kicked himself, mentally, for assuming Captain Joyce was a man. It was rare to see female soldiers, unless they were magicians, but it wasn’t impossible. 
She looked him up and down, her brows furrowing. John braced himself and held out the letter of introduction, watching carefully. Joyce broke the seal without hesitation and quickly read the contents. 
It’s her, John thought, relieved. The seal had been carefully charmed. The only person who could have opened the letter was the intended recipient. Greyshade could have warned me… 
“I see,” Joyce said, finally. She waved a hand at the bartender. “Is our normal room free?” 
“Yes, Captain,” the bartender said. He drew a heavy iron key from his belt and tossed it to her. Joyce snatched it out of the air and held it on her palm. “Will you require drinks?” 
“Not yet.” Joyce stepped away from the bar, motioning for John to follow. She moved with an easy grace that suggested her outfit, as heavy as it looked, was tailored to allow her to move freely. Her body, what little he could see out under the outfit, was strikingly muscular, reminding him of the farmwomen he’d known in his youth. They’d never been afraid to smack misbehaving youths. “We’ll ring if we need you.” 
The bartender nodded. “Have fun.” 
John frowned. He had a feeling the coming discussion was not going to be fun.
* * * * *

Chapter Four—HEADING 
“Don’t say anything until we’re in the room,” Joyce said, as she led John up a flight of dingy stairs. “Keep your mouth firmly closed.” 
John nodded, suspecting it was a test of his ability to follow instructions as well as a simple security precaution. The walls were damp and smelt of something, but they didn’t look particularly solid. It was hard to find a safe place to put his feet, although Joyce seemed to manage well enough. He heard someone moaning as they passed a door, someone else cry out in pain the next. It was hard to believe the occupants hadn’t cast a simple silencing charm. He’d done it, whenever he’d made love. 
He banished that thought and studied Joyce carefully as she walked into a small room with a handful of chairs and little else. She was tall and strong, her face plain and scarred; her blonde hair, cut close to her scalp, was shading to grey. John tried not to flinch as he spotted the tattoo on her bare arm, even though he knew it couldn’t be charmed. Her blue eyes were cold and hard as she motioned him to a chair, then sat and read the letter for a second time. John kept his thoughts to himself. 
He had a sneaking feeling that saying the wrong thing would end badly. Joyce might not have any magic—he couldn’t sense it on her—but that didn’t make her helpless. If Greyshade respected her, the odds were good she was very formidable indeed. 
“An interesting and quite vague story,” Joyce said, when she’d finished. “How did you get kicked out of school?” 
John sighed. Had it really only been yesterday? It felt as if everything had taken place too quickly for him to really understand what had happened to him. 
He shook his head and started to explain, again. The words felt so inadequate to describe what he’d done, to his girlfriend and to himself. His voice shook as he finished. Greyshade had been right. There was no place for him in the Free States any longer. If he couldn’t find employment here, he might as well go further west and see what he found. 
“I see.” Joyce studied him for a long cold minute. “And what have you learnt from the experience?” 
“To be more careful when carrying out experiments,” John said. He was tempted to say he’d learnt not to do experiments at all, but it would be a lie and he was fairly sure she’d sniff it out effortlessly. “It should have worked.” 
“I’m sure it should, but it didn’t,” Joyce said, flatly. “Tell me about yourself, everything you think important. Or useful to me.” 
John hesitated. “My father is a blacksmith. My older brother  was his apprentice. I studied too, learning the trade, but I wanted to be something more. My magic was discovered when I was twelve, whereupon I won a scholarship to Greyshade and spent the next five years studying the theory and practice of magic and—” 
Joyce held up a hand. “Did you specialize in anything in particular?” 
“No, Captain,” John said. “I studied everything I could, from charms to potions and infusing magics, but I never narrowed down to a specific discipline. I was interested in everything. I figured I might eventually specialize in focuses—that was when I had my bright idea—but I never put in the paperwork.” 
Joyce smiled, slightly. “What else did you do, while you were at the school?” 
“I helped in a spellmonger’s shop, then as an alchemist’s brewer,” John said. “I also took part in clearing sections of the old city under the school, and joined various clubs for exploring the tunnels and searching out secrets.” 
He hesitated. “I thought I knew the school intimately,” he admitted. “It wasn’t until yesterday that I realized there were sections I’d never even known existed.” 
“The school has its secrets,” Joyce said, wryly. “Did you ever sneak into forbidden chambers?” 
John frowned. It probably didn’t matter now. “Yeah,” he said. “I spent a lot of time getting into places I shouldn’t.” 
“An old tradition,” Joyce said, in a tone that made him wonder if she’d attended the school too. “And how successful were you?” 
“Good enough.” John didn’t want to brag. “I got into every office, except the headmaster’s.” 
“Very good,” Joyce said. “You know how to pick wards and locks? How to remove curses and drain tainted magic? And other useful spells?” 
“Some of them,” John said. “I’ve never tried draining magic on my own. And healing is something I’ve never been very good at, not when the damage is magic-based. Normal healing is easier because the body wants to heal and—” 
“I am aware of the problem,” Joyce said, frostily. “How much did Greyshade tell you about our little band?” 
“Very little,” John said. “He told me you were adventurers and mercenaries.”— 
“True enough,” Joyce said. “We take on missions for money. Some of them are along the Frontier itself, some are deep into the Wildlands. We operate on a shoestring and take what we need with us. This is not the army—” her lips twisted in distaste  “—and we have no room for fancy-pants officers and sorcerers who think they’re too good to march with us. Are you fit and healthy, physically as well as magically?” 
“Yes, Captain,” John said. “I played football and basketball as well as magical games.” 
“You’ll find that probably won’t be enough,” Joyce said. “Did you ever try route marching?” 
John shook his head. “I never saw the need.” 
“Apparently, that was a mistake,” Joyce said, sardonically. “We do a lot of walking. We walk and walk, and then we walk and walk, and then we walk some more. And once we are on the way, we cannot afford to have someone back out. Is that clear?” 
“Yes, Captain.” 
“Good.” Joyce met his eyes evenly. “First things first, you will be paid a fair share of our profits for each mission. You are expected to make a small contribution to our funds for emergencies, as part of your shares in the company, but otherwise what you do with your money is up to you. Second, while I do invite discussion and suggestions from the team, while we are in the field I am in charge and you are to follow my orders without hesitation or argument. If you have a problem taking orders from a woman, this is your chance to back out.” 
“I have no problem with it,” John assured her. He’d never met a female soldier before, but there’d been female prefects and professors back at school and they’d been no better—or worse—than their male counterparts. “I had female professors at school.” 
“The military is a different kettle of fish and the mercenary world much more so,” Joyce said, curtly. “If you cause minor problems, I will knock some sense into your head the first time and kick you out the second. If you cause serious problems, ones that might compromise the whole mission or get us all killed, I will kill you myself. Is that clear?” 
John swallowed. “Yes, Captain.” 
“We may be look lax, but discipline is strict when we’re on a job,” Joyce told him. “If you turn up drunk or otherwise unprepared for duty, you will regret it. I don’t expect you to like all your teammates, or the people paying us, but I do expect you to work with them whatever your feelings on the matter. If you have any issues, with any of them, I want you to leave them behind.” 
John leaned forward. “What happens if I have moral objections to the job?” 
“If you have them when the job is discussed, you can quit on the spot and we won’t hold it against you,” Joyce assured him. “If you develop them during the mission, you can swallow them. If you try to walk out on us in the middle of a job, you will regret it.” 
She met his eyes. “I won’t lie to you and I expect you not to lie to me. This can be a difficult and dangerous job. You will see horrors here, or in the Wildlands, that you won’t ever see in the Free States themselves. Some of those horrors will be supernatural, people or animals twisted by magic or elementals running rampant after the world turned upside down; some will be human, crimes and atrocities perpetrated by monsters intent on plunging the depths of human depravity as far as they will go. You grew up in a peaceful town and then a school ruled by a sorcerer and protected by dozens more.” 
Her voice hardened again. “There’s no law out here, not really. Lucasville has a handful of guardsmen, but they’re badly outnumbered and outmatched by anyone else. The laws to the east have little meaning here. People come here for all sorts of reasons and one of them, I’m sad to say, is the freedom to do things they couldn’t do back home. The only real law out here is the law of the fist. Our esteemed friend may be right, to send you out here, or he might have sent you to your death. If you want to walk away, you can go now. I won’t stop you.” 
John said nothing for a long moment. His thoughts were churning. It was difficult to think about the future. He was tempted by the thought of travelling into the Wildlands—some of the greatest fortunes in the known world had been found in the west—but, at the same time, he was starting to fear he was poorly-prepared for the journey. Football clearly wasn’t enough to prepare him for the Wildlands. His fingers twitched. He knew enough about magic, or even blacksmithing, to find employment within the town. If he did… 
But the headmaster went to some trouble to arrange this interview, John told himself. Should I not try to make it work? 
He honestly wasn’t sure, but the thought of adventure was enticing. So too was the thought of making a name for himself, beyond the edge of civilized lands. He couldn’t do that if he worked in the town, not even as a magician. He’d be too busy doing basic tasks to think about experiments, let alone carry them out. And besides, Joyce was tough and stern and yet he felt a certain respect for her. Life as part of a band of adventurers would never be boring. 
“I’ll stay, at least for one job,” he said, finally. “Is that suitable?” 
Joyce looked at him for a long moment. “I meant what I said. If you back out, in the middle of a job, you will regret it.” 
“I understand,” John said. “ Where do I sign?” 
“You give me your word,” Joyce said. “Out here, your word is your bond. You break it, no one—and I mean no one—will ever trust you again. Your reputation will follow you wherever you go.” 
She stuck out a hand. “If you want to join us, just shake. If you want to back out, the door is over there. No hard feelings.” 
John took her hand—her skin felt hard, covered with calluses—and shook it firmly. Joyce squeezed just tightly enough to make it clear she wasn’t a pushover, without trying to squash his bones to powder. John was mildly impressed. He was used to strong women, from farm girls as strong as any boy to sorceresses who could blast through his wards as if they were nothing, but Joyce was something else. 
He studied her face thoughtfully as she let go of his hand. He couldn’t sense any magic on her, save for a pair of protective charms that might have come from Greyshade himself, but she was clearly formidable. He didn’t dare ask about her past. He had a feeling she’d refuse to answer until she knew him a little better. 
His stomach rumbled, reminding him he hadn’t eaten a proper meal in hours. How long had it been? He’d had a ration bar on the slider and that was about it. 
Joyce stood. “Welcome to the gang,” she said, walking to the wall and ringing a bell. “I’ll order something for you to eat, then summon the rest of the band. You’ll wait here until they arrive, so I can introduce you properly.” 
“Thank you,” John said. “How many of us are there?” 
“Counting you, six,” Joyce said. “Our last magician was wounded during our last job and retired when we returned home. That said, bear in mind they won’t respect or trust you until you prove yourself. Don’t try to speed things up because that never works.” 
“So it’s just like school,” John said. 
Joyce snorted. “Worse. An outcast can still find a place at a school. They have a room and food, even if no one talks to them. Here, you are dependent on the rest of the team and vice versa. If they don’t respect you, they won’t put their lives on the line for you. Or follow you.” 
There was a knock at the door. Joyce opened it, revealing a young girl wearing a very low-cut dress and carrying a tray of food. John tried not to stare as she carried the tray to the table and put it down, bending slightly to expose the curve of her breasts. It was a strange outfit, one that drew the eye. He looked away, slightly, as a wave of guilt washed over him. He shouldn’t be looking, not now. Not after… 
The girl dropped a crude curtsey, as if she wasn’t quite sure what she was doing, then withdrew as silently as she’d come. Joyce closed the door and twisted the key in the lock, something that made no sense until John realized she’d made it impossible to peer through the keyhole. Her face was carefully blank, when she turned back to John. It took him a moment to work out she was trying not to laugh. 
“I see she caught your eye,” Joyce said. “Two words of advice. First, she’s had a lot of men since she came of age. Second, her father is a prominent information broker, as well as an innkeeper, and she’s one of his best sources. Don’t fall into the trap of believing someone who looks like that is too dumb to listen to you, when your guard is down. She’ll take you for all she can get.” 
John stared at her. “How… how can people live like this?” 
Joyce shrugged. “She’s better off than a lot of others,” she pointed out snidely. “The girls at the whorehouses? They’re basically slaves. The ones who come out to marry prosperous farmers and discover, too late, that the farms are barren where they exist at all? They’re lucky if they find any sort of stability out here. It can be a good life, but it’s also a hard one. And it’s easy to start compromising your morals as time goes on.” 
She waved a hand at the tray. “Eat up,” she said. “And quickly.” 
John eyed the tray warily, unsure what it actually was. It looked like a bowl of brown stew, the sort of meal his mother would have made to ensure they used every last bit of the animal they’d slaughtered for the week, but he had no idea what had actually died to make the stew. A pig? He didn’t want to know, so he took the spoon and started to eat. It wasn’t as flavorful as his mother’s, but it was edible. The taste lingered after he finished the bowl. The glass of beer, by contrast, was alarmingly thin. 
“Don’t drink too much here,” Joyce advised. She’d been leaning against the wall, watching him. “And when you’re on a job, don’t drink at all.” 
“I know the risks,” John said, as he sipped the beer. “I spent too many weekends in Kinshasa City.” 
“The risks are different here,” Joyce said. “You could get mugged and robbed, or simply raped and murdered, if you get drunk without someone watching your back. Better not to touch the drink at all. Water might be bland, but it won’t get you drunk.” 
John put down the glass. “How much do I owe you for the meal?” 
“Nothing.” Joyce turned back to the door. “The landlord and I have an arrangement. We get a couple of rooms to ourselves, whenever we’re in town, and in exchange we protect him from all manner of bad. Last month, we gave a pair of protection racketeers the fright of their lives, just to convince them they might be better off leaving town. Cheeky bastards were dumb, too. The landlords couldn’t have met their demands even if he’d wanted to.” 
She opened the door, then glanced at him. “There’s a bathroom through there,” she said, nodding at a door set in the far wall. “Go shit, shave, do whatever else you have to do to freshen up. I’ll introduce you to the gang, then we can get you outfitted while we decide which prospective job we’ll be doing. Hopefully, you’ll get on with them.” 
“I’ll try,” John said. “I feel like a fish out of water.” 
Joyce chuckled. “I felt that way too. I got over it. You will too, if you survive.” 
John wondered, again, where she actually came from. She clearly knew Greyshade… the sister of a magician, someone without magic who might still be quite familiar with it? Or… or what? He would bet his remaining coins she was no more native to the Frontier than himself. 
“If,” he echoed.
* * * * *

Chapter Five—HEADING 
It was clear, John decided as he freshened up, that he’d been spoilt by five years at the College of Wizards. Indoor plumbing had been a pipe dream, back in his hometown, but the college had had hot and cold running water on demand and the staff had insisted the students shower at least once a day and bathe once a week. Here, so far from civilization, there was nothing more than a chamberpot, a bucket of cold water—he used a spell to heat it—and a towel stained with things he didn’t want to think about. He forced himself to wash carefully, then dried himself gingerly. He’d just have to get used to it. 
There was no mirror—he guessed they were expensive luxuries, so far from the civilized lands—so he looked down at himself before turning and walking out of the washroom. The meeting room was still empty, but he could hear people coming up the stairs. 
An odd prickle ran down his back, as if he were being watched, as he sat down. He cast a detection spell, to check if someone was spying on him, yet it found nothing. Perhaps it was just his imagination. It was unlikely anyone, even Katrina’s powerful family, could scry him directly. He’d been careful to ensure none of his blood was collected by enemy hands. 
Although we did have a physical relationship, he reminded himself. She might be able to find me, if her family convinced her to try. 
The door opened. Joyce entered, leading a group of three men. John stood. He had no idea of the etiquette, when it came to meeting his prospective allies, but he knew he needed to show respect to Joyce. Katrina and her peers had always made it clear they had to be shown the proper respect or else, to the point their common-born classmates had feared as well as resented and envied them. And if someone had found himself on their bad side… 
“This is John, our new magician,” Joyce said, once the door was closed. “John, these are your new best friends.” 
John nodded, eyes flickering from person to person as Joyce made introductions. They were an odd group. Bard—John’s lips twitched when Joyce explained Bard really was a bard—was the most flamboyant man John had ever seen, his blond hair grown out until it rested on his shoulders and his clothes a nightmarish mix of clashing colors that would make him stand out a mile. He carried a lyre mounted on his back, as well as a pair of drumsticks and a nasty-looking dagger on his belt. 
John found himself disliking Bard on sight, although he wasn’t sure why. The man’s smile was just a little too wide. 
“A pleasure,” Bard said. He pumped John’s hand firmly. There was nothing wrong with his grip. Nor did he seem to want to test John’s strength by squeezing hard. “I shall now sing a song of welcome.” 
“No, you won’t,” Joyce said, quickly. “We’re not trying to scare him off.” 
Bard laughed. “Come downstairs this evening and hear me,” he said. “I’ll bring tears to their eyes.” 
“And tomatoes to their hands,” Joyce teased. “Perhaps you could ask them to throw bread too. It would save on the bills.” 
She nodded to the next men. “Sergeant Ted and Corporal Len, both late of His Most Glorious Majesty King Alfred XVII’s army,” she said. “They’ll be helping to get you up to speed before we set off on our next job.” 
John swallowed. Sergeant Ted was a short stocky man, wearing a simple brown tunic designed to show off his muscles. His dark face bore nearly a dozen scars, which could have been healed through magic if he’d wished. He carried no visible weapons, but John suspected he didn’t need them. 
Corporal Len was strikingly tall and thin, and his outfit hung loosely on his gangly frame. He wore a sword at his belt and carried a bow and a quiver of arrows slung over his shoulder. His face was as dark as his comrade’s, but utterly unscarred. His tiny goatee gave him a rakish appearance John distrusted on sight. He’d met too many magicians who’d aped the same look. Somehow, they never had any trouble getting girls into bed. 
“A pleasure,” Ted grunted. He looked John up and down, his expression suggesting he’d seen more impressive specimens in flophouses or begging on the streets. “I trust you know how to handle yourself in combat?” 
“I know a few things,” John said, warily. “And I’m quick to learn.” 
“Poor bastard,” Len said. His voice was profoundly aristocratic, although it was edged enough John suspected it was an affection. “I’ll be sure to write nice things to your relatives.” 
“And I will compose a song to mark your heroic struggles to become a great fighter,” Bard put in. The man was still smiling widely. “It will go down in the record books.” 
“Of course it will,” Joyce said, mischievously. “Right under the heading of how not to do it.” 
Bard reached for his instrument. “I don’t wish to play the lyre, but I’ve sung right across the Free States and…” 
“I knew there was a reason you were kicked out,” Ted teased. His expression changed as Bard drew the lyre, becoming a parody of fear. “Mercy! Mercy!” 
John looked from one to the other, unsure what was going on. They were comfortable together and he felt like a fifth wheel. A thought struck him. Hadn’t Joyce said there were six of them, counting him? Where was the fifth? He looked at Joyce and saw her smiling, very slightly, as she looked back at him. She seemed to be waiting for him to ask. 
“You said there were five people on the team, six counting me,” John said. “Where’s the sixth?” 
“Behind you,” a new voice said. 
John jumped, then spun around, magic darting around his fingertips. He’d spent five years in a school where hexing one’s fellows was considered good practice. He knew better than to be unaware of what was behind him. And yet, someone had sneaked up without being noticed… 
Bard was distracting enough for the entire team, but John should still have been aware of someone behind him. He quelled the magic a second later. Joyce wouldn’t be pleased if he zapped a teammate, not without reasonable provocation. The last thing he needed was to be kicked out before he’d found his footing. 
He blinked as he saw the fifth and final teammate. She was the darkest person he’d ever seen. Her skin was so dark it was almost living shadow, her eyes invisible against the color of her skin. He thought she was the same age as himself, perhaps a little bit older, but it was impossible to be sure. Her clothes were as dark as her skin, designed to conceal as much as possible from prying eyes. His heart skipped a beat as he realized he was looking at a second weirdling. And this one had been given a rare gift by the wild magic that had swept over the land. 
Joyce cleared her throat. “John, this is Scout. She’s our recon expert.” 
I thought I was being watched, John remembered. He reached out, gingerly, with his second sight. Scout didn’t seem to have any magical presence at all, even though wild magic had left its mark on her bloodline. If he couldn’t see her, he wouldn’t have thought she was there at all. Did she do something to give me a fair chance? 
“Pleased to meet you,” he said, finally. 
He held out a hand. Scout stared at it blankly. John hesitated, then withdrew his hand, telling himself—firmly—not to be offended. Scout had grown up beyond the edge of civilized lands and he wondered, suddenly, how she’d come to join the band. It was impressive. He’d thought his spells would protect him, but she could have cut his throat before he even knew she was there. 
“Scout rarely speaks, but she is one of us,” Joyce said. John had no trouble picking up the underlying message. If he had a problem working with a weirdling, he’d better get over it or else. “You’ll find Bard does most of the talking around here.” 
John grinned. “Bard the bard?” 
Bard’s smile grew even wider. “And John Son of John is so imaginative.” 
“That was my father’s name,” John said. “And his grandfather’s and his great-grandfather’s… or so we are told. The records from before then are a little patchy.” 
Joyce nodded. “The kings may call themselves kings of ancient lineages,” she said, a hint of bitterness in her tone, “but most of them are really nothing more than lucky warlords.” 
“Or the sons of warlords,” Ted said. “The first king I served was a hard man to love, but not to follow. His son was a fool who wouldn’t have risen at all, if his father hadn’t been a warlord-turned-king. I knew he was going to lose his kingdom well before it actually fell to infighting and invasion.” 
John leaned forward. “Why didn’t he listen?” 
“Some people, they don’t listen unless you get them by the ears and smack them in the nose,” Ted said. “And telling the prince the truth would get you hung, drawn, and quartered.” 
“That won’t happen here,” Joyce said, quietly. “I will never penalize anyone for telling the truth.” 
Bard grinned. “I’ve had worse bosses,” he said, clapping Joyce on the shoulder. “Shall we go down to drink, now we’ve had the meet and greet?” 
“Not yet,” Joyce said. She glanced at the clock. “Bard, go to the store and arrange an appointment for John to get his kit tomorrow morning. Ted, you go with him. Make sure he doesn’t get cheated. Or fucked.” 
“Yes, boss,” Ted said. “Should I be accompanying Bard? Or John?” 
Joyce smiled, showing her teeth. “Use your own best judgment.” 
“I’ll accompany both of them,” Ted said. “Len, you coming?” 
“Of course,” Len said. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” 
“And don’t offer to pay with a song again,” Joyce said, looking at Bard. “Please.” 
Bard pretended to sulk. “As my lady pleases.” 
Joyce snorted. “I’ve arranged for John to have a room at the inn, beside ours. You can pick him up tomorrow morning.” 
“Of course.” Ted looked at John. “We’ll be leaving at eight. You’d better be ready or you’ll be dragged down the stairs by your hair.” 
“He means it too,” Len said. “He doesn’t show mercy.” 
“I don’t pay him to show mercy,” Joyce said. “Bard, after you make the appointment, come back here. Ted, Len… don’t do anything I wouldn’t do and don’t do half the things I would either.” 
Ted saluted. “Yes, boss.” 
Joyce waved at the door. Bard, Ted and Len hurried out, laughing and joking as they headed down the stairs. Scout moved to the door and stood there, waiting. John found it hard to even see her in the dim light. His eyes just seemed to pass over her. It was a remarkable talent, he decided. He’d heard all sorts of stories about weirdlings, but most had struck him as absurdly exaggerated. Scout, on the other hand, was very real. 
“So, you’ve met the team,” Joyce said. “What do you think?” 
“I don’t understand,” John admitted. Ted and Len made sense, as did Scout, but Bard ... what was he doing on the team? “Why Bard?” 
Joyce grinned. “Stick around long enough and maybe you’ll find out,” she said. “Right now, suffice it to say that Bard is a very good fixer and scrounger and a few other things, even though his singing leaves something to be desired.” 
“He has his uses,” Scout agreed. 
“Quite.” Joyce smiled at the younger girl. “It’s getting late. Scout will take you to your room. I suggest you stay there until the following morning, then grab something to eat before Ted finds you. He will give you a very hard time if you’re not ready to go at eight.” 
“I’ll be ready,” John said, hiding his apprehension as best as he could. He’d known a couple of magicians who’d served in the military. They’d been tough and determined and completely intolerant of excuses, even good ones. Very few students had messed with them and none had done it twice. “I… um, what do I owe you for the room?” 
“Nothing,” Joyce said. “It’ll be coming out of your share of the profits for our next job.” 
She nodded to the door. “Scout, take him to his room. I have work to do.” 
Scout glided through the door, then waited for John to follow. John forced himself to walk after her, even though the experience was oddly disconcerting. Scout seemed to blend into her surroundings like a chameleon, his eyes passing over her as if she was wrapped in a hundred obscurification or concealment spells. Even knowing she was there, it was difficult to lay eyes on her. She was very much the perfect scout—or assassin. 
She said nothing as she led him up a flight of narrow—and rickety—stairs. John walked after her, eyes studying her back. It was impossible to pick out any real details. He thought she was slightly shorter than he was, but otherwise there was nothing reliable. He couldn’t determine the shape of her body, anything she might be concealing under her outfit, or anything about her. He told himself he shouldn’t be staring, that he certainly shouldn’t even think of looking at her, but… 
He cleared his throat as they reached the top of the stairs and halted outside a flimsy wooden door. “How did you come to work for Captain Joyce?” 
Scout looked at him—it was hard to be sure, given how his eyes still slid over her—but said nothing as she pushed open the door and motioned for him to enter. Her expression was impossible to see, let alone read. 
John sighed inwardly as he stepped past her and into the room, somehow unsurprised to hear her close the door behind him. It dawned on him, a moment later, that she might have followed him into the room. He turned, eyes searching the space between him and the door. There was nothing there and yet… he shivered, suddenly, as he turned back to the bed. It was going to be hard to convince himself he was truly alone. 
He shook his head as he looked down at the bed. It was ghastly. He’d had to learn to make his own bed when he’d gone to school and the housemaster would have caned him on the spot if he’d done such a terrible job. The sheets were unclean as well as untidy, the chamberpot stank and the bucket of water in the corner was only half-full. His lips twisted as he recalled the fuss the aristocratic students had made, when they’d been told they had to do their own beds. They’d acted like it was the end of the world, as if being ordered to change the sheets and straighten the covers was the same as cutting their own throats or surrendering their family names. And if they’d seen the bed in front of him… 
I’ll just have to make myself useful to Joyce and her team, he thought. He wasn’t sure what to make of any of them, but he didn’t have a choice. There’s nowhere else to go.
* * * * *
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