The presentation of a false dichotomy is a sign of rhetorical weakness. Zoya had never expected Sorelia Sedai's philosophy class t have any practical application. This thieftaker might well really believe that there were only two possible outcomes but that wasn't the case even if she hadn't been Aes Sedai. For a moment she considered simply wrapping him in flows of air, at which point she could either leave, or simply slip a knife into him. Unfortunately such simple and straight forward solutions rarely proved to be practical.
"I don't know who you are, but if you think I am going anywhere with a strange man who accosts women in wine shops, confesses to planning to knock them out in alley ways..." her voice was rising with each syllable, so that the conversation was audible to everyone in the wine shop. Some of the soldiers were also beginning to pay attention. Several nearby passers by took a step forward compelled by her tone as much as her words.
"Help!" she screamed at the top of a considerable set of lungs.
"Help this man is trying to take me!" she yelled. This brought soldiers and several passers by running.
"Help!" she screamed one more time, barely able to make herself audible over the clamor which she had instigated. Cries and the clatter of armored men filled the air, several men were reaching for Davian. Zoya embraced Saidar, feeling the one power course through her body. Colors became brighter, scents became shaper. She could smell the leather and oil, the stink of fish, even the tar that coated the running riggings of the ship. She stung several of the oncoming men with blows of the one power, subtle but enough to goad them to violence in the belief that Davian was somehow attacking them. Zoya stepped back through the chaos and ducked under the bar. A moment later she was across the street and down an alley. Emerging from it's mouth she found a number of bearers standing idle, ears cocked for the commotion behind her. She produced a gold piece and climbed onto one of the palanquins.
"Take me to the craftsmen's district," she instructed, and drew the curtains as the men set off through the muddy streets.
Emmaline wasn't entirely sure whether she should be pleased or infuriated by the outcome. On the one hand she had met the Elector count and escaped from the encounter with her reputation more or less intact, perhaps enchanced. On the the other hand she was now stuck with this oafish Middenlander for the foreseeable future. It could have been worse but it still promised to be rather trying time. It would have been better if the count had not added 'and don't let her get into trouble' which was unfortunately open to interpretation. Despite being saddled with an annoying chaperone her acquaintance with the Elector Count did lift her social standing higher. The very fact she had been in a private meeting with him might open doors, and more importantly coffers, that had as yet been barred to her scheming. That thought perked her up considerably.
"I vil reckquire noo chimbers," she said as they stepped out into the hall.
I will require new chambers.
"New... chambers?" Kasimir puzzled out.
"Oui at wvonce, I cannot be espected to ... domir in ze same chimbers ven I am macked for deeth nes pas?"
Yes at once I cannot be expected to sleep in the same chambers when I am marked for death not so?
Kasimir's eyes narrowed as he realized that she was asking for new and larger quarters and that such a request would involve rousing Sigmar alone knew how many servants in the dead of night. That would suit Emmaline's purpose of spreading the word of her meeting with the Count far and wide.
"Onliss av carse you vish to stand... how you say... sentinelle outzide ze door all night?" she concluded, a picture of perfect innocence.
Unless of course you wish to sand how you say sentry outside the door all night.
For a low rent outfit on a low rent planet, security was surprisingly good. It took Jocasta nearly sixty seconds to find an entry point in the network and another twenty to install her subroutine. This she did with the aid of sophisticated haptic implants which let her interface with the data nets directly. The process produced a faint luminescence in her eyes for a few moments which faded as she seemed to come back to herself.
“Done? Did you loop the tape or something?” Markus asked.
“Or something,” Jocasta replied. Looping a feed was a very old trick and most modern security systems were too smart to allow it to happen. Integral time stamps, ambient light sampling and other safeguards would flag it and alert even the most dim witted operator. Modern security systems were too smart for their own good. Literally. Instead of blanking the feeds, Jocasta simply used their excellent recognition algorithms to make sure the cameras did notice her and her new partner, and then simply fed a negative version of that perfectly preserved pattern into the image synthesizer. The camera saw everything, but to anyone viewing the feed, they were completely invisible.
“Ready?” Markus asked, unlimbering his weapon and pointing it at the door in preparation to breach.
“Ready,” Jocasta replied, and stepped past the other mercenary and knocked loudly on the door. Markus swore softly but to his surprise the door swung open. A neat looking man in a flight suit and a optical monovisor stared at her through the portal.
“Can I come in?” Jocasta asked, pushing her way into the building without waiting for a response. The interior had something of the appearance of a train station. A half dozen men sat around drinking energy drinks and eating noodles. They all paused as though caught in tractor beams as Jocasta stepped through the door.
“What is she doing here, we aren’t supposed to order out for company till the job is done,” a gruff looking man with a long braided beard complained. The man at the door look chagrined then his eyes cut sideways to Markus, still partially concealed by the door frame, and widened in shock. Jocasta gave a shrug then drove a beaked fist into the man’s kidney. He staggered into the door jam but Jocasta was already diving for cover, rolling behind a large computer console and popping up with her pistol in hand. She sprayed the group with a rapid crack, crack, crack of high intensity las fire from her little pistol. Ceramic capacitor casing clattered to the ground and shattered as they emptied their entire payloads through the diamond cored barrel. The air shimmered with waste heat and the bite of ozone. One man went down screaming with a shot to his chest, another dropped his rifle with a scream as she took of three fingers of his right hand. Everyone was diving for weapons safe for one man who seemed frozen in shock.
Zoya had been prepared to dismiss the interaction as nothing more than a man intruding on a woman in an effort to flirt. It was a common enough occurrence but the mention of Aes Sedai made her suspicious. It might be nothing of course, opinions of Aes Sedai were rarely high among the common people, but as wound up as she was it set off some alarm bells. The Defenders were most of the way through their sweep of the square now so she need delay only a few more moments.
"Sakura," she responded. It was a common enough name in the Shadow Coast, there had been a half dozen families within a days walk of her home with the name or variations of it. There was no benefit to giving a false name when her true one would raise no questions.
"As for what brings me to Tear, I have a family obligation I have attend to," she responded. This was truthful as well as it was technically an affair of her Sisterhood.
"My sister has recently passed away and I am seeing to her wishes," she amplified. Doubtless an Aes Sedai had died recently, and doubtless anyone would give their eye teeth to recover objects of the Power long lost to the White Tower. Several pieces of a plan were coming together in her head. It had always worked this way for her, a thorny problem could unravel in moments if she just stopped thinking about it.
"I've given you my name Horsewater, shall you give me yours?"
Zoya considered how satisfying it would be to whip the man out of her sight with flows of air. In Tar Valon no man, even a handsome one like this, would impose on a woman like this. Unfortunately teaching him respect was not practical at the moment, and in any event it would merely have been her giving vent to her frustrations, which weren't his fault.
"I was just about to leave," she admitted, unable an uninclined to lie. An idea was forming in her mind and she wanted to tease it out before it became too concrete.
"I shall defer to your no doubt greater experience of Saldaean horse water," she replied with a wry twist of her lip. Across the square a formation of Defenders tramped into the square and began to fan out in what she knew as a random search. She had nothing on her that was incriminating, but she had no desire to be swept up when a few minutes of enduring this mans company would have them pass by. She returned to her seat and took a sip of the sour wine.
"So what brings you to Tear?" she asked, setting the cup down and tenting her fingers.
The sun had passed its zenith by the time they team had regrouped at the turn of the century brownstone which served as the headquarters of the Sunday Group. It was nestled not too far from Chigago’s downtown and blended in with a dozen other white shoe law firms, upscale physicians practices, and various other difficult to define yet clearly lucrative businesses. At least, it blended in if you didn’t know what to look for. A shrewd observer might notice, for instance, that no pigeon would fly directly over the building, or that neighborhood ants always deposited a small piece of whatever food they were gathering on leaves just outside the fence. An observer less prone to fancy, might be able to pick out discrete motion sensors, or the slight shimmer of tempered and bullet resistant glass. People crossed the street to avoid it without conscious intent, and those that did force themselves to approach felt an almost crippling sense of dread as they neared the door. For obvious reasons, The group tended to do business ‘by appointment only’.
The interior of the building was no less a wonder, though this was accomplished more by the judicious application of money rather then less effective forms of magic. Gone were the claustrophobic maze of turn of the century rooms and in its place sprawled open floors lined with offices separated by doors of dark wood. Several were, as always, empty. Nor did Spartan extravagance end with the floor plan, the four stories above ground contained ritual spaces, an impressive library, even a gym.
Eleanor passed her own office and noted that her wards indicated no one had entered. Any reassurance that might have brought her was immediately overwhelmed by the view of Emmaline sitting on one of the comfortable leather chairs, wearing one of her UCLA shits. The witch was either taking advantage of the electrum inlaid casting circle, or using the wi-fi to catch up on Bridgerton. She waved as Eleanor passed but didn’t get up. Eleanor gave the other woman a wry smile which faded as she headed down to the fifth, basement level of the building.
The basement was larger than was usual for the area and contained a shooting gallery, a sealed storage facility and the object of their visit.
Eleanor took a deep breath and then entered the realm of the Necromancer.
The morgue, as always, was overwhelming. It looked like what a particularly sugar high child might draw if asked to envision a morgue. Bright colors covered some walls, others were half painted in murals including a rather impressive combination of Van Gough’s starry night which had been modified to include the silhouette of Count Chocula’s castle. Examination tables lay pilled with odds and ends of ever conceivable type. Brass tubing, balsa wood, duct tape in eye searing neon shades, chemical condensers and flasks, repurposed circuit boards, old laptop computers, a brass astrolabe, all piled in disordered confusion. Several… work benches were the best term, ran along two of the walls. Soldering irons smoked and surgical tools sat on charging racks. The astringent scent of formaldehyde stung the back of Eleanor’s throat.
A sign hung over the door cheerily marked: Life Begins at Dissection.
Jocasta O’Glynn, lay slumped sideways on a couch drinking an off brand energy drink through a crazy straw. She started upright when she saw Eleanor standing in the door. The articulated bones of a human hand scuttled across to close a laptop which looked like it was discord sharing a stream of Bridgerton. The little hand scuttled away and began trying to unobtrusively tiding, gathering up fast food containers and tossing them like three point shots into trash bins. Other such constructions ran wild within the confines of the morgue, moving about on their own tasks. Two other hands appeared to be engaged in a fencing match with knitting needles, while third appeared to be playing a game of solitare. Nor were these creations limited to purely human arrangements. A kind of butterfly made of human finger bones, cellotape and florists wire was flapping its way across the room, attempting to drop marbles onto the fencers. Eleanor repressed a sigh.
“What’s up boss!?” Jocasta asked if she sprang to her feet. She was a small woman, attractive in a manic kind of a way with large green eyes and a shock of almost painfully green hair. She was dressed in cargo shorts and a tank top incongruously paired with unlaced combat boots.
“Oh Shit! She gets a crow! Ele! why does she get a crow! All I want is one mongoose and you are like…”
“I thought I might see if you’d made any progress with the body?” Eleanor asked, a touch acidly. A look of confusion came across Jocasta’s face.
“What body?” she asked quizzically. Eleanor felt her temper rise but caught it as she saw the twinkle in Jocasta’s eye.
“Fine, fine, I’m all done,” Jocasta admitted and lead Eleanor to the one bench not covered with equipment. Jocasta was what was known as a monomagus, a magical talent that expressed itself in on single field but did so with amazing strength. While she could understand the theory she would never be a magical match for Eleanor or Emmaline. In her own area of expertise, necromancy, she was a prodigy. Monomagi also had a tendency to be extremely socially awkward and difficult to deal with, the classic traits of the obsessive. Eleanor had reluctantly agreed that the best way to use Jocasta’s talent was to more or less leave her alone when she wasn’t actively working on a problem. Making severed hands practice sign language was less harmful in the long run then making all men in the Chicago area develop male pattern Mohawks because she was bored.
The body lay on the table, scraped largely clear of black goo. Revealed beneath was a fit looking man of vaguely middle eastern features, comically accentuated where goo still stained the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, like someone had added extra character detail.
“Cause of death, tentatively, stab wound to the chest, incision to anterior portal vein just above the liver,” Jocasta said, pointing to the cut which had been revealed by her cleaning. She punctuated her points with several dramatic stabbing motions. Both sword fighting hands stopped and turned towards her, holding their needles low as if on guard. Jocasta made a quick ‘not now’ gesture.
“No signs of exsanguination at the scene,” Eleanor remarked in a carefully neutral tone.
“All emptied into the peritoneal cavity,” Jocasta explained, pantomiming her stomach blowing up with a mouthed ‘boom’. “Black goo probably sealed it up.”
“Speaking of black goo, any idea what it is?” Eleanor asked, “Alcander seemed to think it might be basilisk bile.” Jocasta snorted.
“Basilisk bile? Keep it in your pants Percy Jackson!” she called with a shake of her head.
“As it happens, its ink, sixteenth century Turkish ink,” Jocasta declared with every appearance of a magician who had just pulled a rabbit out of an obviously empty hat.
“What kind of spell did you use to figure that out?” Eleanor asked, surprised by the specificity.
“Hippity hoppity mass spectroscopy,” Jocasta sing-songed, pointing to an instrument tucked into a corner. “After that I just hopped on the internet and looked it up. You’d be amazed how in the weeds people get about ink. I was DMing this guy who rexpresses tattoo ink from…”
“Jo,” Eleanor broke in gently, “if we can stick to our dead man..”
“Fazel,” Jocasta corrected. Eleanor arched an eyebrow.
“What?”
“His name is/was Fazel Ibrahim Al-Jalasi,” Jocasta explained. “Dental records bear it out.” There was a rattling of bone on steel and Eleanor glanced aside to where several molars appeared to be bouncing with excitement in a specimen tray. Eleanor didn’t bother to rebuke the necromancer for not leading with that information.
“The name is familiar,” Eleanor admitted, not quite able to place it.
“FIAJ! The Thief of Bagdad? Come on boss!” Jocasta exploded. “Home boy here was a FIRST round draft pick on any heist team. Cat burglar, safe cracker, procurer of rare antiquities… uhhh ink guy. I’m kind of fan girling,” Jocasta admitted.
“Ah, he recovered all those artifacts from the Iraqi national museum,” Eleanor realized, dredging the datum from her mind with some effort.
“And he stole all those cuneiform tablets from those ISIS guys, and from those Hobby Lobby guys, and…”
“Right, so what is he doing dead in a Chicago alley?” Eleanor asked. Jocasta rolled her eyes.
“Sort of thing someone should pay a group of occult investigators to find out?” Jocasta asked, batting her eyelashes.
“Any Chicago associates? Seeing you apparently have posters of this guy on your wall?” Eleanor asked.
“Well he usually works with a team, and I know he has done some work for Gretchen Colter in the past,” Jocasta admitted. The necromancer extended her hand, and Fazel’s molars bounced up onto her palm and up the arm with every appearance of delight.
“Questions?” Eleanor asked the team.
The team goes down the morgue and discovers why Eleanor drinks. our victim (Fazel) was an international occult antiquities thief. He has a known associate Gretchen Colter in Chicago and he usually works with a team.
"These are our guys," Jocasta declared, making an off hand gesture at the hologram she had projected from a unit on her wristband. Markus strained to see but it was unlikely he could make anything out from his angle. The flyer was buffeting down into the atmosphere and presently changed it course based on the parameters Jocasta was feeding to the computer.
"How are you doing that?" the pilot asked somewhat plaintively.
"Oh relax, when I'm done it will be better than new," Jocasta replied airly. That was true, but the ancient computer systems on this thing probably would have been improved by a constructive fire, much less an expert repurposing its traffic control system to run at 160 percent capacity.
"How do you know?" Markus asked as they dove through a cloud bank and moved from the glow of dayside to the gloom of nightside.
"I've patched into orbital traffic control," she explained.
"Which shouldn't be possible," the pilot objected.
"Possible? With the encryption they are running its a miracle it hasn't been hacked by random electrical noise," Jocasta returned.
"Anyway, there are thirty inbound transports, all routine flyers or originating from our staging area. There are three vessels on the ground. One is a freighter the other is a military cutter, probably a hired gunship but hey ho, and this one. Its heavy shuttle but that is all I can tell you about it. Every other bit of data has been electronically sealed. Nothing on this world has encryption that good, ergo it has to be our guys."
"Pretty good," Markus admitted.
"Plus there is a bunch of encrypted traffic between them and the location we were given for the Sharks, I cant read it, but its consistent with voice and data transfer," she concluded.
"Good enough, now lets take them out and steal their clothes before the transfer takes place," Markus replied. The ground below them burst into view as they broached the clouds. Off to the east, near the Shark's position, maser fire was already crackling skyward at incoming ships that had decided to risk the direct approach.
"The Wolf of Sartorius," Jocasta said, the first words she had uttered since the barrage of invitations, propositions, and proposals.
"Sounds like someone who is really into fashion," she commented with a glib smile, then looked him up and down. "Maybe not so much."
"Well sartorial style aside shall we?" Jocasta asked. Markus nodded and walked out, some of the bounty hunters jeered and cursed him, but most were quickly forming their own alliances. In truth she hadn't been motivated by anything so tactical as securing an alliance when she jumped off the stage to intercept the snatcher, it had just seemed the thing to do. She was new to the mercenary life and the in built sense of cynicism that it engendered had not yet had time to take root.
"Hey, wait up, these aren't my running heels!" she called scurrying after him.
Jocasta's gear was stored in a locker in a side room of the bar. In theory the lockers were secure storage, in practice few mercenaries trusted such guarantees. Jocasta was revealed to be a cynic when she slid a small probe into the locker and disabled a rather powerful neural mine from the inside of the door with a practiced twist of the wrist. Inside was a modified fusion rifle, a change of clothes and a pack full of tools and various odds and ends. It was all she had in the world, having sold the rest of her possessions for passage here.
"No peeking," she admonished, and stripped off her dress. Markus heard the ripping sound of contact adhesive and then a small but powerful pistol with a cut away holster was draped over his shoulder. A moment later the sound of a zip closure informed him that she was done. The transformation was impressive. The cocktail dress had been replaced by a white skin tight jumpsuit with cheerful green piping at the seams. It managed to leave almost as little to the imagination as the dress had done. A belt clung to her waist draped with extra fusion cores for the rifle that had now been slung over her shoulder.
"Thanks," she said, plucking the pistol from his hand and strapping it to her belt.
"Now what was your plan to deal with these White Sharks. I'm not so sure that tits wouldn't have done the job, but im hardly the expert."
Gulls squawked in raucous irritation as the squad of Defenders of the Stone tramped up the gang plank, ignoring the protestations of the Tarboner captain. With brusque efficiency half of the squad herded the small crew onto the forecastle and began to search them at sword point. The remaining soldiers disappeared below deck, doubtless to begin an equally thorough search.
Zoya Sakura watched, chagrined, from the porch of a wine shop. The captain of the Golden Pike was wringing his cap together in his hands and calling out curses and lamentations. He didn’t have what these soldiers were looking for but it was a rare captain indeed who could face the port authorities with a completely clean conscience. Hopefully it wouldn’t occur to him to disclose too much about the woman who had tried to book passage on his ship to Mayene. When the soldiers were done with their search, they tramped back ashore and the Golden Pike cast off. Two black clad soldiers remained aboard with the river pilot, when they reached Gordan at the mouth of the Erinin they would take ship back to the city, making it all but impossible for anyone to slip aboard one of the vessels. Only once the ship reached the outer harbor did the Defenders move on to the next vessel to be cleared. No ship had been allowed to leave the harbor without inspection for two days. No wagon or rider had been permitted to pass the gates without submitting to a similar search. The High Lords had given no reason for these measures, but rumors abounded, ranging from great treasures being stolen, to noble daughters attempting to elope with low born suitors. The most extreme versions of this tale even suggested the suitor was an Illianer.
The real reason for the High Lords’ agitation was more esoteric and much more damaging. Signs had been discovered of an intruder in the Stone. Initially assassins might have been suspected but once roused, Tariens could be damnabley efficient. They had discovered that a break in had occurred at the Great Holding, the vast fortified repository in which High Lords had, for hundreds of years, hoarded every item of Power they could find. Angreal and Ter’angreal in numbers that existed no where in the world save the Great Vault beneath the White Tower, all piled and collecting dust. Once the Holding had been indentified the Tariens had quickly realized that dozens of objects, described and recorded in dusty records ledgers were missing. Such an intrusion, so deep into the Stone and so close to Callandor was unthinkable and their determination to reverse it was bone deep and iron strong.
“Will there be anything more m’lady?” the wine shop attendant asked unctuously. Zoya sighed. She was no kind of a lady, but it was an easy mistake to make. She was short but full figured, giving the impression of a somewhat squashed hourglass, with dark brown hair and the olive skin of the Shadow Coast. Her accent was less definable, an amalgam of many lands that made most people shrug and speculate: Andor? Zoya’s most striking features were her eyes, they were large and spaced so as to give her a perpetually curious look, as if constantly fascinated by everything she beheld. This impression was not misleading and those who knew her quickly discovered that she just could not leave well enough alone. No onlooker could have guessed that for all her grace and beauty, she had been born in a hovel in an unnamed village, the daughter of a simple crabber.
That she was an Aes Sedai of the White Tower was a more likely guess, and a considerably bigger problem.
Not that Zoya exhibited the classic signs, the Great Serpent ring she won only a few years ago was hidden away in her rooms and she was too new to the sisterhood to have yet developed the ageless look for which they were famous. That was fortunate, for Aes Sedai were not welcome in Tear at the best of times, and this was far from the best of times. For all these precautions, a woman alone was suspicious in this land. Not for the first time she wished she had a warder who might pose as husband or servant, but she was a solitary woman, secretive and contained even in her own mind. To open herself up to another person was not something she had yet found the time for in her few years in the Shawl.
“No, thank you,” Zoya responded, producing a silver half crown and passing it to the man. Even at the somewhat inflated marketplace of Tear, it was twice what the drink was worth. The wine stood, barely touched, in the clay cup it had been served in. Zoya found the drink too sour. As a child she could not afford it, and since going to Tar Valon had found neither time nor inclination to develop a palette. Perhaps she should have forced herself to finish it for the sake of appearances but she could always plead a tender belly. The Light knew she felt a certain queasiness, she wasn’t getting out of Tear by ship, and that meant she needed a new plan.
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