Sorcerybound (World's First Wizard Book 2) by Aaron Schneider (best color ereader .TXT) 📗

am, damnation and all,” the scalp hunter said at last, absently raising a hand to stroke the forelocks dangling from his arms. “But you yellow-bellied, back-shootin’, pixie-lovin’ sons o—”

The curtain suddenly drew back, and the many faces of Bakbak-Devi loomed over them.

“IT IS TIME, COME.”

“Thank goodness,” Percy groaned, and he and Ezekiel made to follow.

Milo and Ambrose caught a brief glimpse of a wide green space where plumes of smoke rose from braziers to cast everything in a soporific haze. Wavering like heat mirages, they saw strange and elegant creatures reclined upon couches and divans before a small but ornate pavilion.

Then the curtain fell.

“Maybe the marquis could help us with transportation,” Milo said as they stood straining and failing to hear what was happening within. “Riding the wind like Rihyani does could put us back there quicker than driving, though I’d hate to leave the car.”

“One favor at a time,” Ambrose replied, casting a look over one shoulder then the other. “We’re not even sure this marquis will help us.”

Milo turned from staring at the curtain to meet Ambrose’s gaze.

“I don’t think Rihyani would send us here if we couldn’t expect help.”

He hadn’t meant to sound so hot and scolding, but the words came out sizzling, and Ambrose raised one eyebrow and gave a significant pause before responding.

“I think Rihyani was desperate, like we all were,” the big man said slowly. “She pointed us at our best shot, but that doesn’t mean things are going to go smooth. I mean, she did say it would take some convincing. I think it would be better to go in assuming we’re going to have to earn our miracle, rather than expecting it.”

Milo bit back the irritated retort he felt surging up from his gut, taking time to nod. Even if Ambrose was wrong, it wouldn’t hurt them to proceed with caution. Rushing things had more potential to foul them up than help.

“You’re right, good point,” Milo said and turned back to the curtain to stare until a thought struck him. “Doesn’t it seem strange that once again, we are stuck waiting to be introduced to some magical despot?”

“Let’s hope this one goes smoother.” Ambrose huffed as he looked forlornly at the Gewehr on his shoulder. “I haven’t got any ammunition for her yet.”

“You’ve still got that,” Milo said, nodding at the carbine strapped to his back. “And from what happened in the grove, I’d say it works fine.”

“Machine-operated action, self-ejecting,” Ambrose said, and Milo wasn’t sure if it was disgust or awe in his voice. “Even a child could put eight rounds downwind without pause.”

Milo studied his bodyguard’s face, but the usually expressive features had formed into a sort of mask. Ambrose was locked away with thoughts he wasn’t interested in expressing, but Milo thought he saw some of that same fear and despair that he had seen on the balcony.

“Sounds like it will come in handy if things go like they did last time,” Milo said, hoping to coax him out of his malaise. “If we ever get to step past this damned curtain.”

Beyond the curtain, there was a sound like raised voices. Both men paused, waiting for the many-headed ogre to emerge, but the shouting quieted, and their wait continued.

“I knew an American, different sort than those two, who served in the French Foreign Legion with me.” Ambrose chuckled, his eyes sliding out of the middle distance. “He used to say that a soldier’s business was largely a matter of hurry up and wait.”

Milo sighed. “I suppose a magus’ life is much the same.”

“We’re all prisoners in a world of petty tyrants.” Ambrose grunted. “At least until we carve out our own little fiefdom. Then we get our turn, assuming we make it that far.”

“You read that line in a book.” Milo snorted with a sidelong glance.

“Nope, just a little nugget I’ve been polishing,” Ambrose replied loftily. “Thought I’d share it with someone who could use it.”

“Thanks, but maybe you should keep your nuggets to yourself.”

Ambrose pointedly refused to meet the long look Milo gave him.

“You still aren’t as funny as you seem to think you are.”

The curtain parted and the giant beckoned them.

The Marquis of the Lost Vale sat quietly in the shadow of his pavilion. Two braziers wafted fragrant smoke that filled the tent, so throughout his retelling, Milo could only see the vaguest impression of a seated tall figure. The marquis’ sandaled feet and long hands were the only things that emerged from the shadow of the tent, pearlescent and sharp-clawed. In one elegant hand was a goblet that seemed to be fashioned from polished granite, which the fey would occasionally draw into the shadows to drink from. Milo imagined he saw two glinting eyes within the deep shade.

The marquis had listened without comment as Milo had told the story of Rihyani’s injuries at the hands of Ezekiel Boucher and the discovery that her recovery was prevented because of the curse the murderous cowboy bore.

“So Contessa Rihyani sent us to Tsminda Sameba and we met the priest, who instructed us to come here,” Milo said, sweat pouring across his whole body despite the coolness of the evening. “We were pursued by the other two supplicants and their mercenaries while following Father Zoidze’s instructions.”

Ambrose softly cleared his throat, and Milo nodded.

“If their presence has burdened you, we sincerely apologize,” Milo added quickly. “We didn’t intend for them to follow us.”

He forced his eyes to remain fixed on the shadowed figure inside the cloud of smoke, but he’d noted when they’d first been brought through the curtain that the Americans were nowhere to be seen. Milo couldn’t begin to guess whether that was a good or bad thing, but he didn’t imagine gawking across the tables would look very dignified.

His story done and his explanations given, Milo stood, arms stiff at his sides, waiting. After talking about his experiences in the court of Ifreedahm, he’d hoped he would be more comfortable with this sort of thing,