Cloak Games: Omnibus One Read online

  They…revered the Elves. Respected them. I had spent too much time around Morvilind to think that way. I knew the Elves regarded humans as loyal dogs at best and cattle at worst. But the Marneys had been raised to revere the Elves, and even James with his experience of the Shadowlands still respected Morvilind.

  They were teaching Russell to revere the Elves.

  I don’t know why it bothered me. It shouldn’t have bothered me. Russell had a good home, and if things went well he would have a good life once he was cured of frostfever. I wasn’t a Rebel, to dream of liberating mankind from the Elves. I wanted Russell to have a good life…and I wanted to have enough power that no one could ever have a hold over me the way that Morvilind did.

  So it shouldn’t matter what the Marneys and Russell thought of the Elves, but it still annoyed me.

  “You’re right,” I said. I didn’t want to fight. “I’m sorry. Russell, how’s school?”

  He brightened up at that. Russell liked school. I worried that his inability to join athletics and his intellectual interests would turn the other kids against him, but he had the rare gift of pursuing his interests without giving a damn about the opinions of his peers. Paradoxically, that seemed to make him popular. Teenagers are weird. James encouraging him towards medical school, though Russell’s natural interests were toward computer science. Yet he took to biology well. If he could get his head around the math requirement, he might have a good career as a doctor. God knew the United States wasn’t about to run out of sick people…and plenty of wounded veterans returned from the High Queen’s campaigns in the Shadowlands.

  He might have a life that was nothing like mine.

  We spent most of the afternoon talking. Russell told me about his classes and his friends. Apparently he had joined an automotive club, and spent some of his afternoons taking apart cars and rebuilding them. I approved, though I was careful not to show too much approval. Car repair was a practical skill, and if any of his other career choices didn’t work out, it might give him a good living away from the notice of the Elven nobles. I told some highly edited versions of my work for Morvilind that contained maybe five percent of the truth. James managed to work in a few invitations to his church, and Lucy asked in skillfully indirect ways when I was going to find a husband and start having children, and mentioned that their church had a plethora of eligible bachelors of quality character.

  I didn’t mind the questions about my marital status. If the Marneys didn’t care about me, they wouldn’t ask the questions. Though I certainly couldn’t tell them the truth that I did not want a husband or even a lover. Morvilind held too much power over me already. If gave my heart to someone, he would have power over me, and there was no way I would ever voluntarily surrender that much power.

  Not again. Not after the disaster of the one time I had fallen in love. I didn’t want to dwell on that, though, so I steered the conversation towards food.

  Eventually, I helped Lucy make dinner, while James and Russell went onto the tiny back porch to grill steaks while Lucy and I made salad.

  “Steak and leafy green vegetables,” said Lucy, washing a cucumber and passing it to me. I started slicing it up. “Just like you prefer.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Protein and vegetables are the healthiest. And you didn’t have to go to all this trouble for me, you know.”

  Lucy laughed. “What trouble? I’m making you chop the vegetables. I hate that part.”

  “Fair enough.” I swept the cucumbers into the bowl.

  “For a computer programmer,” said Lucy, washing some more vegetables, “you’re in very good shape.”

  I shrugged. “I exercise a lot.”

  “I help with physical therapy at the hospital,” said Lucy. “Missing limbs from the battles in the Shadowlands, that kind of thing.” Her eyes strayed to the window over the sink. James stood at the grill, cane in one hand, and spatula in the other. “So I know the average fitness level of a woman your age…and you are way beyond that.”

  I shrugged again. “Like I said, I exercise a lot. I spend all day sitting at a computer, so the exercise is to make up for that.” I swept some more cucumbers into the bowl, hoping she would change the subject.

  “The…work you do for Lord Morvilind,” said Lucy, looking into the sink. “Is it ever…dangerous?”

  I said nothing for a moment, watching as Russell started to flip the steaks on the grill.

  “Life is dangerous,” I said at last.

  “Be careful,” said Lucy. “Please. For Russell’s sake. You’re all the family he has left.”

  “You’re his parents,” I said. “He doesn’t even remember our mom and dad. You’ve been there for him far more than I have.”

  “You’re his sister,” said Lucy. “If he lost you, I don’t think he could handle it.” She swallowed. “We’d be upset, too. James and I. You can stay here whenever you want, you know.”

  “Thank you,” I said. I never would, though. My “jobs” from Morvilind were far too dangerous. If I made a mistake, if I got arrested by Homeland Security or, God forbid, the Inquisition, and if the Marneys and Russell were with me when I was arrested…

  No. I would have be careful. That meant not staying here.

  “Well,” I said. “Do you want to talk about our feelings some more, or should I crack some eggs for the salad?”

  Lucy laughed at that. “So that is where Russell gets that smart mouth from.” She opened the refrigerator and handed me a carton of eggs.

  By the time we finished the salad, Russell and James returned with the steaks, and we withdrew to the dining room. Like the rest of the house, it was small but cozy. On one wall was a cross and a picture of Jesus with some sheep. On the other wall was a portrait of the High Queen Tarlia, stern and regal in her silvery armor, with a banner bearing Morvilind’s hieroglyphs hanging from the frame. I’d asked Morvilind once why the High Queen had not crushed the churches the way she had destroyed so many other organizations and factions during the Conquest.

  To my surprise, he had answered me.

  “Give to Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is God’s, is that not the traditional doctrine of the western churches?” Morvilind had said. “Those who can accept the High Queen as their Caesar…well, Her Majesty is a pragmatic woman, and she will leave them in peace so long as they serve her. For those who do not accept her as their Caesar, you can drive past the ruins of Chicago to see what Her Majesty does when pragmatism fails.”

  I shuddered a little as I passed the High Queen’s portrait, but fortunately no one noticed. James and Lucy and millions of others had no trouble accepting such an arrangement. Me, I didn’t care. I was no Rebel. I just wanted Russell to be safe and happy.

  And enough power to make sure no one like Morvilind could ever dominate me again.

  James said grace, which in the Marney household was an affair of five minutes, asking God to bless everyone he knew, and asking Him to grant wisdom to Lord Morvilind, Duke Tamirlas, and the High Queen. I squirmed at that part, but thankfully everyone else had their eyes closed.

  The meal was delicious. James knew how to grill a good steak, and he had passed that skill to Russell. For a while we sat in silence, too preoccupied with the food. Later the conversation turned to its previous easy rhythm, with James and Lucy telling me about their work at the hospital. After dinner I helped clear the table, while Russell loaded the dishwasher. I wandered back into the living room, opened the closet, and checked in the pocket of my coat. I had my main phone in my jeans pocket, of course, but in my line of work I went through a lot of burner phones, and one of them was in my coat. I had a new text message, an answer to the one I had sent from that phone earlier.

  It said that I had an appointment at 10:00 AM in exactly eight days.

  Eight days. I thought through the implications. Would eight days be enough? It ought to be. I would have to start tonight, and…

  “Nadia?”

  I blinked, tucked the burner phone b
ack into my jacket, and turned as James hobbled into the living room.

  “Leaving yet?” he said, holding a small white package the size of a deck of cards. “I wouldn’t what you to miss out.”

  I glanced over my shoulder, saw Lucy and Russell busy in the kitchen. “You’re a saint.”

  “No, I’m not. Come on,” said James, leaning on his cane. “We should probably talk.”

  I sighed. “Right.” I followed him onto the front step. June days in Wisconsin last a long time, but the sun was fading away to the west. James sat down with a grunt on the concrete step, the cane propped against one of Lucy’s potted flower bushes. I sat down next to him, and James opened the little pack of cigarettes. Some restricted items are available only to veterans who have honorably completed their term of service in the Shadowlands under an Elven lord, and cigarettes were one of them. Naturally, there was a black market, but I never bought them. Cigarettes were expensive, and I didn’t have the money to waste. And I didn’t want to use anything that might make me weaker.

  Nonetheless, I really enjoyed cigarettes.

  “Those things will kill you,” I said as he passed me one.

  James grunted. “I’m fifty-five. Something’s going to kill me eventually. The Lord will take me in his own good time.” He lit his cigarette with a lighter, and I lit mine off the end of his. We sat in silence for a moment, puffing. The smoke burned a little going in, but left a warm, pleasant feeling in my chest. Of course, too much of it would leave my lungs a scarred ruin.

  “You tell Lucy about these?” I said.

  James smiled. “I love my wife, but I don’t tell her everything. You love Russell. But you don’t tell him everything, do you?”

  I stared into the gathering twilight, watching the smoke rise from the end of the cigarette. “No. So why smoke with me?”

  “You’re not a veteran,” said James.

  “Of course not,” I said. “The High Queen only wants men for her armies. Women can stay home and make the next generation of soldiers.”

  “You’re not a veteran,” said James, “but you know some things that only men who have served as men-at-arms should know. It sometimes turns up in the things you say. You know how guns work. You know a lot about magic. And the Shadowlands…”

  I felt a chill. “What about the Shadowlands?”

  “You can always tell,” said James, “when someone has seen the Shadowlands.”

  I thought of that strange, terrible place between the worlds, a place where guns and electronics did not work, where men had to fight with swords and spears and arrows as their ancestors had. I thought of some of the creatures I had seen, things that gave me nightmares still.

  “I suppose you can,” I said.

  “So whatever work Lord Morvilind has you doing,” said James, “I’d wager it’s more dangerous than computer programming.”

  “You know I can’t talk about it,” I said.

  “No,” said James. “And I trust Lord Morvilind’s wisdom.” It took some effort, but I didn’t laugh. The last thing I wanted was another lecture about elfophobia. “But there are so many strange things about you. When we took Russell in, I thought Lord Morvilind would place both of you in our house. Yet he let Russell live with us, and you stayed to work for him.”

  I said nothing. What could I say? That Morvilind used me to break the law and steal things for him? That I knew magic and spells that humans were forbidden to learn, that the Inquisition would execute me if they ever found out? That Morvilind had a vial of my heart’s blood and I didn’t dare to disobey him, to say nothing of what would happen to Russell?

  “The only thing that matters,” I said, “is that I love Russell, and I want what is best for him. And I’m grateful to you for taking care of him for all these years.”

  James sighed. “I suppose you have an envelope for me?”

  “Left it on your desk,” I said. “If I’m not back by two weeks after Conquest Day, open it up. I’ve got some money set aside. The documents in the envelope can help you find it. It can help Russell. Maybe you can find another Elven wizard willing to work on the frostfever cure. Because if I don’t come back, Lord Morvilind won’t help Russell.”

  “Your work for Lord Morvilind,” said James, “is that dangerous?”

  “Extremely,” I said, thinking of my limited time frame. “More so than usual, for this job.” I put out the cigarette and stood up. “I should go. It’s time to get to work.”

  James got to his feet with a grunt, leaning on his cane. “Be careful, Nadia. We shall pray for you.”

  I started to say that if God really cared what happened to people, then my parents would still be alive, but I stopped myself. James didn’t deserve that…and I needed all the help I could get. “Thank you.”

  I went back inside, retrieved my jacket and helmet, and said my goodbyes. I took one last look at Russell, realizing it might be the last time I ever saw him.

  Then I got on my motorcycle and drove into the darkness.

  It was time to get to work.

  Chapter 3: Preparations

  I had eight days before my appointment, and I put them to good use.

  Using the Internet for anything in my line of work is dangerous. Morvilind’s teachers had told me that the last few pre-Conquest Presidents had built huge computer systems to monitor the Internet, both to spy on the various groups that eventually became the Caliphate and to monitor their own political opponents. After the Conquest, the Inquisition had taken over those computer systems and maintained them to this day.

  So I had to be very, very careful.

  Not that I did anything stupid. Going on a social network and complaining about the High Queen or one of the nobles would lead to a Homeland Security squad kicking down your door, followed by a public flogging (broadcast live on the Internet) on Punishment Day, a steep fine, and status as a lifelong pariah. But there were subtler dangers. If, for example, someone robbed Paul McCade, and investigators realized that I had been doing a lot of searches about him before the robbery, they might start sniffing around me.

  That would be bad.

  I was careful. There were ways to avoid the Inquisition’s online eye, and Morvilind’s teachers had taught them to me, a maze of hardware scramblers and false accounts and redirected connections. It helped that most of what I wanted to know was public information, available on various government sites and job boards. In a short time I had McCade’s home address, his official biography, and the names of the companies he hired to clean his palatial mansion and to cater the lavish parties he hosted.

  Specifically, the name of the catering company he had hired to provide food for his Conquest Day gala.

  I got jobs at both companies. That part wasn’t hard. Service companies tended to hire unmarried women and married women whose husbands were serving as men-at-arms in one Elven noble’s army or another, so they had a lot of employee turnover. I forged the necessary credentials and forms, and Natalia Smith joined the Duncan Catering Company, and Jesse Clarke got hired by the EZClean Cleaners. I spent a couple of days at both jobs, going through employee orientation and helping the cleaners vacuum mansions along the lake shore and the caterers prepare shrimp plates and truffles for various fancy parties. I kept my head down, didn’t ask a lot of questions, but made sure that I got my work done ahead of schedule and without any complaints.

  That endeared me to my supervisors (my fellow employees did not tend to be the most competent or motivated), so I had no trouble getting assigned to the EZClean crew scheduled to clean McCade’s mansion before the party, or to the Duncan Catering Company team that would cater McCade’s Conquest Day gala. I felt bad about that the deceptions, but if my plan worked, no suspicion would fall upon either company. And if it didn’t work…well, if I had to choose between Russell and a bunch of strangers, Russell would win every single time.

  Two days before my appointment, I drove downtown to take a look at Paul McCade’s mansion.

  I didn’t take
my motorcycle. A Royal Engines NX-9 motorcycle wasn’t the most expensive bike available, but it was not the sort of vehicle a woman like Natalia Smith or Jesse Clarke would drive. Instead I stopped by my rented storage unit and got one of the cars I had purchased under a false name, a fifteen year old green Duluth Car Company sedan with a hundred and fifty thousand miles, dents along the right side, and an air conditioning system that sounded like a running food processor. I preferred my motorcycle, but the green sedan was the kind of vehicle that everyone ignored.

  Though it did stand out a bit in McCade’s neighborhood.

  I parked the sedan at one of the public beaches and walked to McCade’s mansion. I wore my gray cleaner’s coverall, my hair pulled back into a ponytail beneath a baseball cap and a duffel bag over one shoulder, my eyes hidden behind sunglasses and a wireless earpiece in my right ear. To anyone who looked, I would seem to be a janitor going to work.

  So I was able to take a good, long look at Paul McCade’s mansion.

  It was a big place, set comfortably on a bluff overlooking Lake Michigan, surrounded by acres of close-cropped green grass. The mansion itself was a five-story monstrosity, built in the same Elven style as Morvilind’s mansion, but McCade’s mansion simply looked gaudy. I didn’t think he had intended his mansion to scream “I have too much damn money”, but it shouted the message so loudly I almost needed earplugs.

  The front courtyard had been enclosed in glass beneath an elaborate skylight, the space large enough to comfortably hold hundreds of people. I saw tables and chairs within it. McCade’s gala would take place there, and then in the gallery in the mansion proper.

  The tablet that Morvilind wanted might well be within that gallery. I had found an article about McCade’s art collection in the sort of gushy lifestyle magazine that got really excited about hardwood floors. McCade displayed many of his prize pieces in the gallery beyond the glassed-in courtyard. He had a secure vault deeper in the mansion that held some of the more valuable objects, and I was certain that he had security measures that he had neglected to mention to the magazine, and perhaps had failed to mention to Homeland Security.