The Select's Bodyguard, Page 2

  Chapter 2 - While the City Sleeps

  Five Years Earlier

  Half of Jalseion lay open to Calea's examination, the wedge-shaped sections of the city clearly delineated. Section Three and Four opened before her like pages of a book, both dark though the sun had set only an hour before. Both sections had labored beneath the economic and social theories of their current Guides, the population of the latter faring better by all metrics available. To the far left, Calea could see the riotous lights of Section Two, a largely lawless neighborhood, but on the whole happier than Three and Four, if the data collected by the surveyors was accurate (which was an ongoing debate). Section Five, to the far right, shone quietly, an obedient child by her bedside with her religious texts open. Alseum, the Guide of that Section, was an odd one, more suited for the theoretical pursuits of an Examiner than for the politics of a Guide, but his citizens were happy and healthy, which was more than could be said for three-fourths of Jalseion.

  Tomorrow, that would change. Although she was only seventeen, Calea had been promoted to Guide of Section Four. She would begin to put her theories and inventions to work. Prosperity would follow for its citizens, prestige for her. As it should.

  Calea hovered over the city for ten more minutes. Her rooms were halfway up Telmion's Tower--Tower Three to be proper--and the breeze brought her the merest hints of the city's odor and din. She loved to spend evenings upon her balcony, planning how she might mold the city below her. It was an extension of herself, like an arm or a leg, and the merest thought could move it. Or so she dreamed.

  She heard a shuffle. They had sent another man to retrieve her.

  "Guide Lisan, the Overseer eagerly awaits your arrival."

  "I know. I was on my way."

  "Of course."

  By the time Calea turned away from the view, the servant was gone. He should have asked to accompany her. That was what etiquette required.

  She strode inside to check herself in the mirror. She was tall, thin, with sharp features. Her hair was cut short so she didn't have to bother with it. She didn’t bother smiling, either; her smile was usually mistaken for a grimace. Her dark eyes were fierce, and combined with the pronounced nose and chin, she looked ready for a fight. Though it was spring, and the winds off the barren hill lands had warmed, she wore sleeves with her gown, and gloves, so that only her neck was exposed. The gown was indigo, almost black in the night.

  Her appearance was ordered and pristine, and that was enough for her. She walked with a slight hesitation, noticeable only if one watched closely. She was certain everyone watched.

  In the hall outside her rooms, a tall, broad-shouldered man waited. So, they had followed through with it. She ignored him and headed to the elevator.

  The knobbed door opened, meaning the platform had been sent for her. Stepping in, she pulled the door shut before the broad-shouldered man could follow her in. Then, siphoning magic from the Well where it resided, she raised the air pressure in the shaft below the platform, pushing it upward. The act took only the slightest concentration; it was like tensing a muscle, thought and action intertwined--energized by the Well's magic rather than a beating heart.

  The elevator box rose until it thumped softly against the end of the shaft. She had reached the roof.

  The gala was already in progress. Displays of fire-work lit the area, magic-sustained flames twisted into contorted and fantastical shapes. The broad-shouldered man appeared from the door to the stairwell, but he hung back, blending into the milling Select.

  Teacher Almetter noticed her first. The prematurely gray-haired woman grabbed a glass of wine and headed over. "Here, take a drink. You deserve it. And it'll help you enjoy the night, at least a little."

  "I'll enjoy it. Where's Essendr? I'd like to see his face."

  "He's accepted his retirement from guiding Section Four with grace, Calea. Why rub it in?"

  "He’s certain I’m too young."

  "You are young. But I've never heard him say any such thing. He is quite impressed with you."

  "That's what he tells people. It's not what he feels." Calea gulped down the glass, repressing a shudder. It was stronger than she had expected.

  "I'm proud of you, Calea. You've come a long way--"

  "That's enough.”

  "I'm just trying to say this isn't Thyrion. If one of us makes a breakthrough, we all move forward."

  "That's not what you were saying. Get me another glass."

  "Try to be pleasant tonight. For my sake."

  "Of course, my dear, dear teacher," she mocked. "Wouldn't want you to be looked down upon. Now, another glass. Is it my night or not?"

  "You’re lucky I don’t take your fits to heart. Marrying a bear of a madman has its advantages."

  "Honored. Now, go!"

  Calea hung back from the main crowd, waiting impatiently. She could feel their eyes, dissecting her. And his eyes, too, watching her discreetly. After tonight, she'd find a way to be rid of him.

  Overseer Piers approached as Almetter slipped away. He smiled genially and moved to embrace her in his grandfatherly way before he caught her look. He was a forgetful, touchy-feely sort of man, the last an unusual trait in an Overseer, but his mind was extraordinarily quick and intuitive when presented with a problem. "I apologize. I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. You remind me of my daughter, that's all. She's out there, in Section Eight somewhere. Doesn't like to visit. I tend to forget important things like her birthday, her name--never quite forgave me for all those years." He nodded vaguely. "We won't make a prolonged speech. Everyone's read the research. We'll do a quick little thing then get on with the party. If you'd come along?"

  She followed, taking the glass Almetter passed her and finishing it before the Overseer had started his announcement. It didn't taste better the second time down, but she would keep at it until it did.

  The Overseer waved a hand at the two musicians, who ceased their manipulation of wind over the many pipes of the panorgan. Those gathered were mostly of the political class, including the seven active Guides and a number of their bureaucratic assistants. Used to social cues, they quieted quickly. A few of the more eccentric Examiners, the theoreticians of Jalseion, had to be hushed.

  "My fellow explorers," the Overseer began. Calea forced a smile, her hands curling into fists at her side because she didn't know what else to do with them. Everyone was looking at her, taking stock, deciding if she really belonged. She knew many of them, at least by sight, but how many truly believed in her? None. She wanted to hide; she pressed the thought away, bore their polite smiles, suffered their applause. She was better than they were, and she would prove it.

  Then, that quickly, the speech was over, the story of her advances in magic storage and the promotion it gained her told in a few concise words. The Overseer patted her on the shoulder and meandered off. Calea fumbled her way through handshakes and congratulations, fellow Select commenting on her work, or, worse yet, on her gown. At the first lull, she made her way to the food table, giving the cold shoulder to others who wanted to talk. She took another glass and finished it. Almetter reappeared.

  "I hate this," Calea breathed.

  "People adoring you? I thought you demanded it."

  "You're an idiot," Calea said. "You're all idiots!" she shouted. Those nearby looked at her, uncertainly trying to take it as a joke.

  Almetter grabbed Calea's arm. "What was that about?"

  “It’s the truth, that’s all.” Another glass. Soon, she’d stop caring. “I miniaturized the battery. So what? Wait until they see what I have planned next.”

  “Excuse me, Calea?” The voice belonged to a rather handsome young man. “I suppose you remember me?” Rodin had been a Student a level above Calea when he graduated. He had begun three levels above, but Calea had worked hard and fast.

  “I do. I have a memory.”

  He smiled. “Yes, you do. And an astounding one at that, I recall. Not the only thing you excel at, either, it seems.
” He indicated the festivities. “I’ve read the papers. It took me three times, but I finally followed. It’ll take me longer to replicate it on my own. Your magical technique is very delicate.”

  “Why bother? Let the Architects bother with the menial labor.”

  “No, it’ll be a nice challenge, and I need to keep in practice. I haven’t much reason to practice fine manipulation otherwise. But that’s not important right now. I actually came over here hoping you’d give me the honor of a dance.”

  “No.”

  His face fell momentarily and what returned was a little less certain. “I’m not sure what I expected. If not yes, then an excuse.”

  “I won’t dance. End of story.”

  He glanced down at her feet, and she grew angry. “No. And tell everyone. No dancing. I’m here to enjoy myself, so I’d be pleased if you’d leave me alone.”

  He gave a little nod, almost a mock bow, but not quite. “I’m sorry.”

  Almetter had snuck away at the start of the conversation, to grant them “privacy.” Calea grabbed a glass and a plate of cheese and fruit and headed to the corner of the roof, away from the crowd. A dreadful turmoil raged against her ribcage, demanding tears. She took deep breaths, clenching and unclenching her right fist with slow, deliberate motion. She bottled up the storm, pressed down the cork, and held it firmly in place until the danger had passed.

  The dark city lay beneath her, music and foreign acquaintances behind. She floated, unanchored and alone.

  She set her empty glass down. Someone was near.

  “Go away.”

  “I cannot.”

  “No one’s going to attack me here. Now or ever.”

  “I’ve been informed otherwise.”

  “So you insist on babysitting me.”

  “I’m here to protect you.”

  Calea turned. The man stood nearer than she had supposed. He was taller than she was, and thick--thick-faced, thick-armed, thick-shouldered. Thick-headed, no doubt. “What’s your name?”

  “Bron.”

  “Do you know why the Overseer assigned you to me?”

  “Not specifically. I was told to protect you. That is all I need know.”

  “I’ll show you why.” The storm was bottled; the alcohol was working. She’d show him she didn’t care. She set her untouched plate on the roof-ledge beside her glass and began peeling her right-hand glove off mid-bicep. Nearly from shoulder to fingertip, metal and wire. Gears and hinges worked with the faintest creak as she unflexed her fingers. “A year ago, this was impossible. I would have had to wear a 100-pound backpack to power this, or perform a dozen intricate magical manipulations minute by minute. The power source on this is the size of what should be my humerus. So, apparently, I’m in danger.”

  “I understand.”

  “Quicker than you look, then. Or are you just pretending to humor me? Explain.”

  “Magic is power. When magic is stored in a battery, portable power. You make the battery smaller, you increase its range and application. You’ve created something everyone wants.”

  Calea clapped. “Very good. You earn a passing grade. I’ll recommend you for a level up. Now, if you want to be helpful, get me something to drink. I’m parched.”

  “You’ve had plenty.”

  Calea pulled her glove back on, pulling it tight at the fingers, and got her own drink. She was feeling light; the prosthetics normally made her feel heavy. Essendr was at the table, too. He was in his late forties, bearded, rather tight in the belly, and perpetually tragic-looking due to the tilt of his eyes and mouth. He’d found a wife during his time Guiding Section Four, a homely, non-Select thing. They were talking closely when Calea saw them. “Essendr! Nice party. When’d you have yours, sometime before I was born?”

  He smiled sadly. “Something like that, yes. I was a rather different man then.”

  “Skinnier, I hope.”

  He nodded amiably. “Less happy, more hopeful, so to speak.”

  His wife added, “I’d just like to say again, Calea, how proud we are of you.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Neither Essendr nor his wife could find an answer. Bron intruded, “It means you’ve had a bit to drink.”

  “That’s not what it means!” She grabbed a glass and poured it down her throat before Bron could take it from her. “It means you pity me. This isn’t a celebration. It’s therapy. That’s what you all think. I made myself an arm and a leg and everyone thinks it’s a big deal. It isn’t. I haven’t even started. This was a hobby, something I did to pass the time. But you’re all so anxious to make me feel good about myself, show me I’m almost your equals. Isn’t that right?” Essendr was pale-faced, his wife red. Calea laughed at the contrast.

  Bron touched her shoulder and she jumped as if stabbed. “Get off me!”

  Others were beginning to gather around, though they still pretended to be absorbed in other conversations, but Calea noticed. “Closer, closer! What have you heard about me? It’s all true, every last bit of it. Even the parts that contradict. Who’d like to dance with me, take me out for a test run? No one? Where’s Rodin? Rodin, I change my mind. Let’s sweep across the dance floor, and let these fine folks take notes. Sketches, too, like good scientists. Rodin? Where are you?”

  Bron grabbed her again and did not let go when she tried to escape. With an iron grip, he pinched her shoulder and led her away. She cursed and screamed, and he, in her ear, said softly, “Be quiet. Don’t make this worse.”

  He ushered her to a far corner, away from the lights, near the stairs. She was crying now, shuddering in his grasp. The bottle had cracked; the storm was loosed. “How dare you! How dare you!”

  “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “They can’t hurt me,” she screamed, voice raw. “But you--you--!” She turned away, bawling uncontrollably. She felt his presence, silent, unreadable, unmoving, relentless. She wanted to squirm. She could take any insult; she could not take this. But she forced herself to stop crying. She forced it down, beat it down, crammed it tight, tight, into a crevice. It would come out again, unexpectedly, but for now, she was calm.

  She hated him.

  “I’ll have you fired,” she said.

  “I don’t think they will listen. I’m good at what I do.”

  “No one’s trying to kill me.”

  He did not answer. He met her gaze then, suddenly, looked down. “You’re right. I will remain at a distance.”

  “I’m returning to my room. You enjoy yourself up here.”

  “Of course. Thank you.”

  Calea studied him for a moment longer. She would repay him for what he had done to her. Carefully, she made her way down the stairs, listening for the sound of her knee. She could hear it; that would have to be fixed.

  Bron watched her go and waited. Then he descended, following her.