Wizardborn (World's First Wizard Book 3) by Aaron Schneider (classic books for 11 year olds .txt) 📗

more subversive and thus far more likely to go wrong as he pressed the fabricated thoughts into another’s mind, where they could change at the subject’s will.

If the Art was a scalpel, it was like attempting to do surgery inside a body belonging to a living and active creature by touch.

“Karl?” Lokkemand said, and Milo’s eyes snapped back to the physical world around him, his will retreating. “Captain Karl Franks?”

The officer stood for staring at nothing, his expression slack.

Had he gone too far? Had he damaged the black coat with his efforts?

Milo’s hands began to sweat as he reached out to Karl again with the Art, but then Karl’s lip curled, and he gave a derisive snort as he turned to glare at Milo.

“So he’s a traitor, then,” Captain Franks said, narrowing his eyes at Milo. “A filthy rat passing along sensitive information to the Slavs.”

“Precisely,” Lokkemand said, hiding his unease. “Nothing gets past you, Karl.”

Karl turned back to Lokkemand, still glaring.

“How do we know they didn’t both work for the Russians in Petrograd?”

Lokkemand leaned in, and Milo didn’t need the Art to sense the fearful revulsion. It was written across the insecure little creature’s face.

“See, that’s the beauty of this,” Captain Lokkemand said in that same low, conspiratorial tone. “If he was, then it sends a nice message that we found him out. He kills the traitor to cover his tracks and is down an agent.”

Karl nodded, his eyes sliding back to Milo.

“And if he wasn’t?”

Lokkemand’s smile became positively predatory.

“Well, then we’ve turned over a spy to the one most likely to find who’s holding the strings. The Russian in Petrograd is better able to track down which Red he was talking to, and when he does, we get the glory for unmasking the scheme.”

Karl was already nodding, his teeth glistening in a greedy grin.

“Well, that sounds like something I could get behind,” he said with a chuckle that was too high and tight to be anything but painful to the throat and ear. “Good work, Captain Lokkemand.”

Lokkemand smiled back, and Milo saw the flash of his white teeth beneath twinkling gray eyes.

“I’m proud to be of assistance to the Reich, and of course, to a fellow officer.”

Milo developed fresh respect for Captain Lokkemand as Captain Franks’ chest swelled with pride. The Nicht-KAT officer had played the Reich cretin’s insecurities like a virtuoso plays a violin. If Milo hadn’t fiddled with Karl’s emotions, it probably would have gone off without a hitch.

This newfound respect for the man’s subversive talents struck a chord in Milo as the soldiers began to herd him onto the train, along with Ambrose’s box. If Captain Lokkemand really was such a maestro of manipulation, was he playing Milo too?

Things were not going according to his plan.

They’d shoved Milo into a small compartment created by metal shelving units bolted and welded to the floor inside a freight car. Along with him was the large box that contained Ambrose. A pair of soldiers, one at each end of the car, stood watch, rifles at their shoulders.

This was an expected complication, but nailing Ambrose’s box shut was not. Milo heard them muttering about the container spilling open and stinking things up, and he wondered if his putrefying magic had perhaps been a bit too effective. For good measure, they’d wrapped chains around the box and bound Milo to the crate with the excess of the chain. Every time he moved, his shackles tugged on the chain, which rattled against the pine box.

More than once, as Milo had tried to surreptitiously reach inside his coat, the chain raised a racket, and he found both his wardens glaring at him. If he’d drawn the unlikely items necessary for the next bit of magic out of his coat, he’d be a sitting duck.

He thought about using the Art to distract or disguise himself, but he was afraid anything that would find purchase in their mind as believable might provoke a response from the rest of those on the train. Illusions while under direct scrutiny were easier to maintain if they shocked the senses, relying on the befuddling effects of fear and anger to gloss over the imperfections of the projection of will.

So Milo had stood there for some time, leaning against the crate, trying to decide what he would do. While wondering what would happen first, Milo heard a rap from within the crate. It was barely audible over the sound of the train, but it was certainly there, so soft Milo could only hear it due to proximity.

Ambrose was up.

They’d been traveling longer than Milo had thought.

He’d fashioned an elixir for Ambrose to render him in a death-like sleep, and by the time it was done, Milo was supposed to have liberated himself and given the all-clear sign for Ambrose to emerge. Travel to Petrograd took seven to eight hours by train, so the plan was to escape inside enemy territory somewhere inside the six-hour mark. They needed to see Roland’s operation, but as scouts, not as captives. The Reich was only providing the necessary means to get them close enough without worrying about Hiisi or Russian patrols.

Ambrose began knocking again in a slow rhythm, and Milo winced as one of the soldiers glared at him between the shelves. The man shook his head angrily, his mouth pulling into a tight line as he shook his head and patted his rifle.

Milo bobbed his head apologetically and averted his eyes as his will reached out to Ambrose’s.

Stop knocking, Milo thought, and to his relief, the sound ceased.

Ambrose couldn’t respond to him, but he could at least hear him.

I’m still bound, stand by, he sent as he felt a wave of frustration and anger ripple from Ambrose. It seemed he was quite ready to be done with his time in the box.

Milo’s mind raced as he stole glances at his guards and then at the box. He needed something that would draw them in but not get one of them