No Man’s Land

Sarah A. Hoyt

©2025 by Sarah A. Hoyt

All rights reserved.

Little Spy Lost

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Okay, so yes, in another time and another place, if someone looked like Ad Leed, I would have been very interested indeed. 

Having him look at me imploringly and grab at my sleeve should have been flattering. There should have been a feeling of power, a desire to be admired.

Instead, it made me want to cry. No. Correction. It made me want to cry even more than I did when I caught on to the shape of his story. Which is why I’d started baking, because I would not cry. For one, I still didn’t know how they viewed public crying. They seemed very protective of their public face and crying broke that. It made you seem weak and vulnerable, and I got the impression none of them wanted that.

Except that Ad Leed, while I was sure he didn’t mean to, was leaking his heart all over the place. It was enough to watch his answers and see his experiences in the holograms to realize that this hadn’t been, as Mahar had portrayed it, a fling between Ad Leed and StJohn. I’d had flings. They left no trace. The poor creature had been deathly in earnest about the whole unavailing mess. How and why, I don’t know.

I have nothing against flings, sport and one-night stands. I’ve had enough of them in my time. The hallmark of a one-night stand or a fling undertaken for fun is that it washes off. The sun comes up, you shower, it washes off.

If you find out your partner lied to you and everything was for show, it doesn’t matter. You each got what you wanted out of the other, and it’s done. There are no deeper feelings involved. It’s more like synchronized gymnastics than a relationship.

This thing with Ad Leed wasn’t a wash-off. It was obvious from his expression as he spun the likeness of StJohn midair, even before his piteous appeal to me, that it had mattered to him. Mattered a lot.

I suppressed an angry mental question as to exactly what StJohn’s orientation had been, because he’d been a scout, which meant ultimately, he was probably both or neither or whatever was required by the mission. That is, if I understood the scouts properly from everything I’d heard. Which could be wrong, but from this episode, it sure wasn’t.

Things I hadn’t told the Ellyans, and wasn’t sure I should tell them, or even whether I was cleared for telling them, included that scouts was the polite name. The Scouts and Investigators Covert Force—SICF—were normally referred to as Her Majesty’s Sick Freaks. Sometimes even to their faces. At least, after they were mildly drunk or disposed to like you.

Look, the IDS’s job was to investigate the new worlds and determine if they were ready for admittance to contemporary interplanetary society. And at another time, I’d have said that they were sufficient.

We’d been taught enough and put through our paces enough, it should have been plenty.

But the thing was that after what had happened with Draksah, I couldn’t be sure. My faith in my own department was shaken.

And apparently, I wasn’t alone in this estimation, because, well… Obviously, other people had shared that opinion way before I was even born, including, of course, the Queen, Her Imperial Majesty. Or perhaps her mother. Because she had formed the Scout corps when she ascended the throne some time before I was born, to go in and disappear into the world under investigation. To mingle undetected, in disguise, and pretending to be one of the colony’s natives. To really get the things going on under the surface.

From what I’d heard, the best way to know what was really going on in the world was pillow talk. And the Scouts, male and female, did the needful. At least, what was whispered was if you weren’t willing to do just that, you shouldn’t join. Strangely, even in my days of wilding, I hadn’t considered it.

But the Freaks were good at it.

Notable, well-known successes included discovering that Itravine was occupied by the Quan Empire, in secret and by stealth, and had to be liberated before being allowed into the Empire as a protectorate. And that Miranda in the Blind Beggar system had a whole system of hereditary slavery under guise of debt indenture.

There probably were others, of course, but the nature of the SICF was that they didn’t blazon those abroad. What was known of the fruits of their labors was what leaked around the edges, which might be what they wanted to be known.

Their reputation, as far as I know, was nonexistent. Most people thought they were part of the IDS. Inside the IDS, we couldn’t decide if we loved them or hated them. Most of the time, we were just glad we didn’t have to make their choices. The IDS had strict rules against going horizontal with the natives, but the SICF… Well, I wouldn’t want to do that for duty. Would you? Even if that was the best way to get information. 

So, StJohn, though in a world I didn’t expect to find the SICF in, and though probably under strange circumstances, had been doing this duty. Wherever it led. Even if it had led him into a particularly exotic bed.

But the problem working through my feelings right then was: fine, fine, fine. So they were supposed to subdue their own feelings, possibly even their own orientation in pursuit of truth.

I could even concede that might be necessary, given the massive cock-up that was the Draksah investigation. If people who volunteered to do it would do the distasteful to prevent the young people of the IDS or our armed forces, or even strangers in discovered colonies, from dying in droves due to mistakes? I didn’t want to do what they did, but neither would I throw that first stone.

On the other hand—hear me out – they were supposed to subdue their feelings, but were they still aware of dealing with real people, not subjects, not cyphers, not widgets?

Were they instructed not to give a hangnail for the natives’ feelings? Should they, without care, cause emotional damage to innocents? Particularly innocents in a system so complex that I wasn’t sure they had a word for or would admit to emotional damage? Particularly an innocent who was a Lord of the Land and a Magician Healer, and on whom a lot of people depended?

His pathetic request not to have his power shut from the Brotherhood because his people depended on him plucked a very deep chord in my own sense of duty and owing something to those under my command.

Mr. Crowe, by whom I would have to be guided, had told me when I saw StJohn and asked about him that he was a man of honor. In fact, perhaps too much honor. Inflexible, unyielding honor that had made him enemies in the IDS and the SICF. When we’d seen him, he was coming out of the director’s office, and the director was in fact glaring at him, and if looks could kill, StJohn would have been at the very least extremely ill.

But what part of honor was breaking the heart of someone like Ad Leed? Because those eyes turned up to me, that urgent question indicated a serious attachment. I wondered how old Ad Leed was. I’d seen him do his job as a healer with competent aplomb and humor. I’d guess his job as the Lord of Brinar—some sort of local Lord and regent, was my guess—wouldn’t be any easier, but he suddenly looked like a child, younger than myself. Someone who didn’t have much experience and had gotten his heart broken hard.

As someone who had never really been in love—lust would have to do for my comparisons—I shouldn’t feel this much empathy for him, but I did. And yes, his being very beautiful probably played into it. But all the same. He seemed like a decent ma— Person. He shouldn’t have been treated as a means to an end. “Yes, Lord Ad Leed. He was a man of my land. Britannia on High.”

He seemed to realize only then that he’d been clasping my arm, because he let go in a way that made me suspect touching strangers was a no-no in their culture. I didn’t remember hugging or close touching even among the members of the little family I was hiding with. Perhaps that was their idiosyncrasy. Or perhaps out-of-bed affection was forbidden in the culture.

Ad Leed remained leaning over the table, staring up at me. Strangely, hope had come into his gaze, a sort of frantic optimism. “Then…then he’s not a Draksall, not an enemy.”

“No, Lord Ad Leed,” I said, though if SICF were here, who knew? What was going on in Britannia? Wait…what had been going on in Britannia before they even sent me?

I knew the Ellyans—Brundar—had said there had been a plot to kill me, but what kind of game was afoot? And why around me?

Ad Leed advanced his hand again, plucked at my sleeve, caught himself and pulled back forcefully. He exhaled long, as though controlling himself by an effort of will. His voice was more neutral when he asked, “Why would he disappear?”

“I don’t know,” I said. I resumed beating the eggs and honey together till they frothed. It helped to beat eggs when you were fairly sure you’d very much like to beat a SICF man. If you could, which, given their training, was likely to be difficult, if not impossible. Didn’t he realize these people were human and had feelings? What I should tell Ad Leed was that StJohn’s mission was probably done. And therefore, he’d left and gone home by some means. Probably a concealed ship in orbit.

I didn’t have it in me. What I said instead was, “I don’t know. It could be anything.”

Truth was, yes, it could be anything. And the most likely reason was that his mission was done. And he’d gone home. Which meant—

My mind raced. If this was a year ago, and if he’d been all over Elly, he would know about Elly. Which means the IDS would know about Elly.

I beat the eggs harder.

Look… It’s like this: No one who had scouted Elly and seen them work their magic, whatever it was, would not have reported to the Queen that we needed a study group here ASAP. An open study group, ready to negotiate with the natives. And a security force to protect the world and make sure our enemies and rivals weren’t infiltrating.

The mere ability to portal—mere—would make them formidable additions to the Space Force, even if it were within limited ranges—I didn’t now if Brundar Mahar and I took multiple portals when fishing and hunting because of a range limitation, or to make it harder for whomever they were hiding from to track us—it would give us the ability to port forces to ships in sight, but not in range yet. And the ability to heal rapidly and without months in a regen tank? That would give our troops the ability to field fighters exponentially larger than anything we’d even dreamed of.

And it wasn’t like StJohn could say he hadn’t seen magic in use. He had to have. Because, damn it, he’d been sleeping with a magician. His point of contact was someone I had seen heal serious wounds and make the people almost well instantly.

Okay, so it hadn’t been said that they were sleeping together. They might very well have been writing love poetry and holding hands, but nah, I’d seen the look on Ad Leed’s face, and I was starting to get a feel for this culture. I’d lay hands on the fire they’d been making the beast with two backs early and often. Whatever that entailed, and I wasn’t even going to think about it. No one died and made me a student of exotic, modified human biology.

But he had to have known magic existed, for sure. Ad Leed was a healer. He’d be called when someone needed him. From what I’d seen, he’d be called at all sorts of times, including in the middle of fun interludes with his exotic male lover. In two months? He’d be called more than once.

Also, he had to know about portals. At least, public portals. Seeing crowds appear from nowhere between two stone pillars was bound to sharpen curiosity, no?

So why hadn’t StJohn reported it to the queen, as well as the open conflict and strange relationship between Elly and Draksah? And the fact that the Draksalls used Ellyans as slaves, and, oh yeah, snacks. If he’d finished his mission and left, surely he’d have reported it. All of it.

Which meant that Draksah would never have been fast-tracked for admission, and I wouldn’t have been sent to perform the ceremonial acceptance of Draksah as a protectorate.

This whole thing stank to the high heavens, and the stink was starting to have a StJohn-shaped hole in it.

Where was the man?

Had he left just because the relationship was getting too close? Or he’d been afraid of betraying himself? Sick Freaks they might be, but were they completely amoral?

No, it was nonsense. In his case and in those circumstances, running away from a relationship with a native and hiding would be just about as bad as in my case engaging in a relationship with a native. Because in this case, it would mean shirking his duty to report to the Queen and leaving a world whose capabilities were essential to Britannia to twist in the wind. In fact, it would probably cause the loss of the world. Maybe the loss of the world to our enemies.

If he’d done that and it was discovered—and it would be discovered—it would mean at the very least disgrace and disbarment, and if his father weren’t a Duke, probably a long drop on a short rope.

No. That wasn’t the behavior of a man of honor, even accounting for the flexibility of the word while serving in the SICF. And the thing was, I trusted Mr. Crowe. I’d seen Mr. Crowe in action in my own life and training, and I had no reason not to trust him, even if I wasn’t sure how he knew StJohn or what Mr. Crowe’s visibility into the Freaks was.

I looked away from the bowl and met Ad Leed’s startlingly blue eyes fully, and stopped torturing the eggs and honey for a moment. 

I spoke as earnestly and truthfully as I could. “Milord, I don’t know the precise reason, but I can tell you for sure he didn’t leave willingly. I can’t explain to you why, but I can absolutely assure you of that. He wouldn’t have left willingly and disappeared without a trace. He’d have reported back to our…sovereign.” I wasn’t sure how the nanos would prompt “queen.” “He didn’t. I can’t explain that very well, but I can tell you if he had reported, I would not be here. 

“Therefore, he didn’t leave willingly, and he probably… Well, Milord, he’s either on the run and unable to communicate with the world or—”

I didn’t finish. I also don’t make it a hobby of going around kicking puppies and stomping on kittens. But he understood. Of course he understood. After all, he lived in Elly, and this wasn’t a world for sissies. I had yet to see an old person, which told its own tale.

Anyway, I didn’t finish because even before I could shatter Ad Leed’s heart, I was shocked by being certain, absolutely certain StJohn was dead.

“Oh,” he said. And then, standing straight, I saw in his eyes as he dismissed the most dire of the possibilities and the light of hope kindling. “On the run. Who would be chasing him?”

“Probably Draksalls,” I said, making a wild leap and assuming StJohn ended up in Elly after being assigned to Draksah and probably running into a slave or ten. “He did… I mean, he told you he was a Draksall, and I take it you had reason to believe him?”

“Yes. He knew Draksall. I only know very few words without a translating spell, but he knew them. And he…” He shrugged. “I don’t know how to explain it, but he moved and talked like a Draksall.”

I understood. That was part of what SICF did. What I’d like to know, though, was how spooked a SICF man, and particularly StJohn, whom Mr. Crowe hadn’t seemed to think was insane or deficient, had to be to invent a story of an Imperial succession in Draksah, which would have been exploded if Ad Leed hadn’t been an innocent, ignorant of the enemy’s structure and recent events in Draksah. It sounded like a quick lie invented in a blind panic. Curse it all, the SICF were trained and deployed to be well-informed enough that there was never a reason to panic.

If things had been that bad, if he’d been on the run, would he have left a message or a warning for someone from our world who came after him? I was suddenly in wild hope of a mechanism, a beacon I could use to signal distress to Britannia; something that would allow me to be rescued. Surely, surely, StJohn, if he wasn’t hiding somewhere, alive, had left something I could use. I had to be the only one who jumped out of a window and into another world without so much as a deposit.

Ad Leed was still staring at me, as though I held the key to everything. The fact that it made me want to punch something or someone wasn’t his fault.

“Do you have anything of his?” I asked. “Did he leave anything behind?”

Ad Leed hesitated, then sighed. He went to his pile of neatly folded clothing, started going through, and brought out a bulky belt with a pouch attached that he probably had worn over the fur tunic. I’d seen people in Brinar wearing those at the fair. He rummaged through the pouch.

I fully expected Ad Leed to produce a lock of StJohn’s hair. This would fit in with the sickly sweet and utterly unhelpful nature of everything I’d intuited about their relationship. At least, from Ad Leed’s side.

Instead, he brought out an oval pendant with a crystal, dangling on a fine gold chain. “I didn’t want to wear it,” he said, bringing it to me. “Until Troz certified that my pattern hadn’t been tampered with. I wore it before. But if Troz thought my pattern was corrupted, I’d give him this to examine.”

He held the pendant just above the eggs and honey bowl. I wiped my hands on my tunic and grabbed it. Because I knew what it was and the audacity—

A data gem. A pretty one, mind you, and inset in a gold filigree structure that allowed him to pass it as a jewel in this non-technological place. A data gem. The expensive portable kind that connected to nanos injected into you, so you could record directly into it without using a computer or another device.

He’d left a data gem behind. Granted, better than writing, but also useless unless he expected someone to follow up and have a reading device. Or he’d been running in a panic again, and had simply forgotten it. Had he left it behind on purpose? “Did he…did he give it to you?”

Ad Leed opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then shrugged. “He… He took it off that night. Our last night together. He took it off and told me to hold it for him, in case… If the Draksalls found him. To hold it for him. To keep it. That it had… It had belonged to his parent, and he wanted me to have it as a sign he would come back for me. And so that people who were friendly to him would know we were…that he had valued me. In the morning, he was gone. I held onto the gem. I kept it for him. It was all I had of him. I couldn’t allow the last thing I had of his—” His voice started wavering halfway through, and he stopped abruptly and pressed his lips together hard.

If we found StJohn and he were alive and if he had left without a pressing and immediate reason, I was going to beat him within an inch of his life. If he were hurt, I’d wait till he was healed and then beat him within an inch of his life. I didn’t say that.

My eyes met Lendir’s. Lendir stood, legs slightly parted, arms crossed. He looked like he was on guard. But the expression in his eyes as they met mine was, You can have whatever I leave behind. But I intend to kill the bastard.

If I understood everything I’d overheard—doubt I did, but I understood much—then while Ad Leed was Lendir’s half-crossibling—like Brundar, but through the other parent—Lendir had raised him. Which explained why that expression had knives in it. He looked like nothing so much as a father whose innocent daughter has been seduced by a cad.

I pitied StJohn if he didn’t have a very good excuse for running and disappearing.

I stared at the gem. A data gem. It might not answer all our questions, but chances are it would go a ways towards doing so.

…And we had no computer and no way of reading it.

And Having Writ

Eerlen:

The archimagician saw the envoy clutch the jewel. 

There were only two reasons for Webson to be that interested in a jewel from this other man from the stars. Spy? Who’d been in Elly, Eerlen calculated, just over a year ago.

One was that he recognized the jewel, perhaps as a very valuable artifact, that shouldn’t be lost in a barbarian world, as he probably viewed Elly—the Draksalls viewed Elly that way—and that he wanted to take possession of it.

But if Eerlen had any idea of how people looked when they coveted something—and he did because his role of archmagician had catapulted him into the strangest situations for over twenty years—Webson wasn’t looking at the gem as if he coveted it. Or even particularly appreciated it. He was looking at it as though it were the most frustrating thing in the world. Vital, important…and maddening.

Eerlen came nearer, and maneuvered to get a good look at the bauble.

It was a pretty thing, a sapphire, encased in a little filigree cage that left only a small opening at the top, near the clasp that attached it to the necklace. And the envoy was looking at it as though it were…a puzzle. A maddening puzzle. But also with a sort of deep sorrow, as though whatever the puzzle was, he had no hope of solving it. Eerlen had the impression he was cussing in his mind. Or, like Brundar in a similar frame of mind, running through memorized formulas. Backwards.

Well, Eerlen might not be able to do anything for it, but he was going to try. “Milord Webson,” he said, drily. “You might want to not hold that, whatever it is, over your dough.” He paused, as Webson set the bowl of eggs on the counter and took two steps back, still looking at the jewel as though it contained something unattainable. 

Eerlen cleared his throat and approached. “Would you tell us what that jewel is? I can tell you think it’s important, but why is it important?” Eerlen asked politely. 

Kalal Ad Leed nodded and added, “Please?” He sounded like a small child, which should be impossible, but Eerlen had seen Kalal Ad Leed stripped of all pretense these last moments. More revealing than mind contact and pattern-merging, strangely.

He’d thought Ad Leed’s romance with the star man was a foolish one, and it was that, still. But there was something else to it, something that was making the Lord of Brinar very vulnerable indeed. Maybe he’d truly fallen in love. There had been faster and stranger such attachments. Some would say his with Myrrir. Maybe that was all it was. But Eerlen didn’t like the feeling that Ad Leed was hiding something so deeply that even pattern examination couldn’t reveal it.

If it wasn’t pattern corruption, it should be none of his business. However since Myrrir’s death, the way things had been happening he didn’t quite understand Eerlen would prefer to not be in doubt about secrets held by inner circle magicians. He cleared his throat. “Lord Webson?”

The ambassador looked up from the jewel, startled. “I… I couldn’t explain it to you. I wouldn’t know how to. I’m not—I’m not a scientist.”

Eerlen should have been offended, but he wasn’t. Not really. He was…amused. He had a feeling that the civilization of the star flyers knew a terrible lot about a lot of things, including jewels, but he suspected in some things, at least, that Elly—through a different path—had arrived somewhere not very different. He cleared his throat. “Could it be that the gem you hold is a storage for…knowledge? Words, thoughts…for whatever this person wanted to record? Like…writing on cloth? Or like the ruby records?”

Webson’s eyes widened, but he was not stupid. His gaze went to the jewel on Eerlen’s chest. “The ruby?” he asked. “Pardon, but it seemed to be more than that. I mean, during the battle.”

Eerlen shrugged in turn. Well, he was glad he hadn’t gotten offended at Webson. He must remind himself Webson was not a Draksall, and didn’t necessarily look down on Elly and its people. Also, unlike Draksalls, Webson was quick enough to put things about how Elly worked together. Perhaps it was Eerlen who had underestimated the man from the stars. “Yes, the ruby is more than that,” Eerlen said. “A bit more. It seems to have a personality and a certain amount of autonomous ability. Unless it is very old spells controlling it that give it the appearance of being able to do things on its own. And it controls the power of the brotherhood, of course.”

“I presume it stores information,” Webson said, coming near. “But what else… You said your ruby was autonomous?” He was staring at the ruby. “I know you pulled some kind of energy from it? Channeled it through your body to form a shield, which is what burned you?”

“It was a stupid choice, but one I had to make due to the no-magic dampening my use of my own power. Um. Not advised.”

Webson cackled once, Eerlen thought, in surprise. “I imagine not, Lord Troz. I saw the burns on your hand and arm. Like channeling power from a nuclear reactor.” The last two words were untranslatable and came out in his almost-musical language.

“The other capability the ruby has is to leave the archmagician, when the archmagician is dying, and track the next in line to inherit the…Leadership of the Brotherhood, by itself, and attach to him. The morning I woke up wearing the ruby was a strange one. I knew the previous archmagician had died and I was now in his role.” The relief had almost killed him, since he’d been at that moment hiding from Drahy and trying to figure how to protect the brotherhood of magicians from their nominal leader. But it had been a surprise too.

“The next in line?” Webson asked. “Do you mean as Archmagician?” Webson’s eyes went from Eerlen to Nikre, who stood quietly, next to Lendir.

Eerlen nodded. For some reason, he felt like this was a very delicate conversation, and that what he said meant he might or might not solve the enigma of Ad Leed’s vanished lover. But whatever gave him this impression must be buried thoughts, because his logic couldn’t deduce what the envoy from Britannia might know that would unfold the mystery. And certainly not why the jewel was important. “Nikre Lyto has archmagician power, which is as great as mine, though very different. He’s the best trained and most powerful of the candidates. If something happens to me, he’ll find himself wearing the ruby in the next minute.”

“Translocation?”

“I don’t know what the word means. It must be in your language, and your translation spells don’t know one like it in ours. As far as we can determine, the ruby opens a portal and takes itself through it, and attaches itself to the next in line. We have it on good authority that Amissar Mahar jumped into the sea wearing it, but his middle child, who was his apprentice, was wearing it within minutes of Amissar taking his last breath, and of course, when Amissar’s corpse washed ashore, he didn’t have it. He had the ring, but not the ruby.

“Thing is, not all the wearers of the ruby have had archmagician power.” Eerlen sighed. “The shuffling of inherited patterns, and the…well…the hazards of life, and of some archmagicians’…proclivities, for that matter, means that sometimes there isn’t an heir of power high enough to be considered the archmagician.” He met the envoy’s puzzled look and sighed. Not that he was going to unfold Drahy’s sins for the man, and Drahy wasn’t even the worst of them, from what legends and tradition said. Though a habit for sexually abusing your apprentices and giving them bellyfuls when they were too young to bear, thereby killing them, was bad enough. “High power and training don’t make you an admirable person or even a good one. Being an archmagician means you’re an archmagician, no more, no less. Your morals are your own. For that matter, the same for any magician.”

Eerlen sighed. “Some archmagicians have treated their apprentices as rivals and destroyed them. Some viewed them as assets and used them to death.” That was as close as he would come to saying what Drahy did. Until the ambassador knew more of Elly, he didn’t want to horrify him. Perhaps the star people would try to eradicate a people primitive enough to have such as Drahy. “So when that archmagician dies, there’s no successor, and the person who inherits might be simply the highest power available, which in times of serious upheaval got as low as a third circle. The person who wears the ruby under those circumstances is not an archimagician, but just the Brotherhood Leader. In those times, we’ve lost knowledge.”

He didn’t like to admit it, but felt he had to, to be as straight about what it involved as possible. “There are references in old stories and writings that we could once call up any of the archmagicians’ memories, the recorded lives of everyone who ever wore the ruby, but that hasn’t been true for at least a century, and maybe more. And then my successor did something to it, so what I can access is limited. The ruby can record, if I will it, which is why I called up that image to record it, so it might be shown to others in the brotherhood to look for the missing star man. And it can play back the recording, at my prompting, but it’s not the same. The old writings gave me the impression you could interact…not with the past archmagicians—or at least I hope not: I don’t want to my essence captured in a jewel when I die—but the memory of how and what these people were, so we have all their memories and know how they’d react. Maybe ask them questions, though that might be poetic license in the old sagas.”

Webson nodded. “We have something like,” he said. “For very important people. Oh, we don’t record their entire lives, but we can recreate what they were with…” He seemed to be struggling with words, and Eerlen sensed that the program was translating the closest. “With Artificial Intelligence—” those two words were in the sounds of his language, probably meaning that Ellyan didn’t have terms for whatever they meant, “—spells and we can consult them. Sort of. Or ask why something in their time was solved the way it was. The queen has that with her ancestors.”

“The ring is supposed to be that,” Brundar said, sounding brash and annoyed. “It’s not. Or if it is, we lost the knowledge of how to activate it long ago. It doesn’t even transmit as the ruby does. And if it was once like the ruby, it has since been stolen and replaced. It is now merely a symbol of kingship.”

Webson nodded. “All right,” he said. He took a deep breath, like a man about to plunge into deep water. “Let me try to explain. This gem is similar without being a symbol of office. I think StJohn lied.” He looked apologetically at Ad Leed. “Not seriously, but a white lie to explain why it was important without telling you what it was. I don’t think this was his parent’s gem… I mean, it might have been, but I suspect this was privately purchased and attuned to…spells in the wearer’s blood. In StJohn’s blood. Not exactly spells, but it is something like. As far as I know, from others like it, it would only store information. Though sometimes it’s a…processor for spells, and can do other things. Yes, advise or provide information or a call for help when you need it. But if this were that, he wouldn’t have given it to someone. So I suspect it’s just information.”

Eerlen did his best not to look at Nikre, but he could see Nikre’s shadow of a smile. He kept his own face impassive. The last thing he needed in the middle of all this was for Nikre to blurt out that the ruby could also call for help and for Lendir to find out about Eerlen’s own little escapade. Lendir would take it entirely wrongly, and be hurt. Eerlen was many things, but he wasn’t such a bad sworn as to want to hurt Lendir.

“I don’t know what this gem has stored in it.” Webson held it aloft, catching the light. “Probably something he wanted others to know. I suspect he was leaving to escape something, and left it behind for someone who might help him. Though why leave it to Ad Leed I’m not sure…” Webson turned to Ad Leed. “Did anyone try to come for it? Men from the stars? Or Draksalls?”

Ad Leed shrugged. He looked worried. “There were reports of…odd people around the palace, but they’re everywhere these days. Or at least rumors of them. So…perhaps they were true, perhaps not. But …” He blushed. “I’ve been wearing the jewel so they couldn’t have found it and stolen it, even if they wanted to. I’ve worn it under my tunic.”

“Having it move around and close to you might have been the best protection you could give it,” Webson said. 

The ambassador looked up intently. He brought his brows together in confusion, then stepped out from behind the table and came near, still holding the sapphire almost reverently in the palm of his hand. Ad Leed trailed him, looking desperate to get the jewel back, but not wanting to interrupt whatever was happening. Like a child when an adult holds his favorite toy.

Not for the first time, Eerlen felt immensely old, and thought of Ad Leed as a pretty little child who needed protecting. From Lendir’s expression, he felt the same, but with an edge of really wanting to punch someone. If only he could find the one responsible for his younger sibling’s hurt.

Webson held the gem out, cradled in his hand, so Eerlen could see it, and looked up to meet Eerlen’s gaze. “The problem is that we can’t read it. Not without the…spells of my people. Either a machine or… It might have been designed to interact with StJohn’s blood spells so he could have accessed it, written to it and read it. But those blood spells would be purpose-designed and particular. I don’t have them and can’t play back the information.” 

Again, what he had said was probably not spells. Eerlen frowned. 

The ruby and the ring weren’t the only jewels of their kind. Or, rather, of their kind they might be: ancient, powerful and only dimly understood.

But the brotherhood spelled jewels all the time to contain images, sounds, even whole experiences. Eighth circles did a brisk business in “Illusion Jewels.” Usually very low-grade semi-precious stones, found or purchased cheaply, and then spelled to hold…a vision, a song, a dream. Or an experience. Yes, some of those experiences were…well, of the intimate kind. Nomads got lonely. Everyone got lonely sometimes.

The funny thing being that Eerlen only knew of them because the head of Eighth Circle, Selbur Deharn, hated them with a passion. He said they could fall into the hands of children and be accidentally activated. From the way he said it, he probably had been that child once. And Eerlen sympathized, but there wasn’t much he could do. 

He stared at this jewel. Maybe it was like the ruby and would defeat his best work. Or maybe— “It’s possible I can’t do anything, but would you let me try to see what I can read in and from it? I can read the ruby, at least to a limited amount.”

Webson bit his lip. He said, “It’s unlikely the technologies—”

The word wasn’t translated. It sounded oddly alien.

Brundar was practically hopping in place. He’d come near. He and Ad Leed were flanking Webson, like curious children.

“I can charge the weapons. I can charge the weapons, remember?” Brundar said. He grabbed at Webson’s sleeve. “Remember? Your society’s spells aren’t that different.”

 Eerlen raised his eyebrow, and even he couldn’t tell if it was at the gesture or… What had the child been doing?

Brundar gave Eerlen a look that managed to be both fearful and defiant, and tugged on Webson’s sleeve again as he said, very fast, “And Nikre could find and kill your tracker. Eerlen might be able to read at least some of the jewel. And he will try not to hurt it.” A look at Eerlen. “You’ll be careful, won’t you?”

Ad Leed’s expression shifted. He looked at Eerlen, “You’ll be careful, Lord?”

Not even sure what he was being asked, Eerlen nodded.

Webson stretched out his hand, holding the jewel towards Eerlen.

And Eerlen could feel the recorded matrix in it. 

He took it, carefully, in his right hand, between thumb and forefinger, holding it up, shining in the light of fire and candles. He could see the power windings on it, as intricate, thin and delicate as the filigree cradling the gem.

He looked for the place where it could be activated, the way he would look for the end of a ravel of string. Or power string, at least. If it were his own jewel, something made by the brotherhood and the magic of Elly, he’d be confident enough to create a break, if he couldn’t find an end. But in this case, he’d promised not to damage the thing.

He looked harder. The power patterns were so thin and spidery and yet so precise, it was like a weaving done by a master magician.

Ah. There it was.

Very gently, he grasped it with his power, and pulled.

A voice sounded, suddenly, loud and deeper than most voices. Almost as deep as Brundar’s, but more resonant.

It spoke alien words, neither Ellyan nor Draksall.

Ad Leed’s eyes widened, and both his hands flew up to cover his mouth as his eyes filled with water.

The Message

Skip:

When Father read me scripture, there was a passage about those who haven’t seen and yet believed being blessed. In which case, I was the opposite of blessed, because I saw and heard, and still couldn’t believe.

Let me put things clearly: humans are not machines. More particularly, and despite a lot of bad metaphors throughout the centuries since—as Father put it—humans taught sand to think, humans are not computers.

So a gem that’s been encoded with information shouldn’t be able to be opened by a mere human who doesn’t have the nanos coded to interact with it, even if the human came from a culture that slung around “magic” like a promise of free candy, joy for all and everlasting unicorn farts, too.

More importantly, even if a human could make a gem disgorge information that had been recorded into it by use of an emergency code sequence that caused it to play its recording, what would the gem speak through without a computer? Gems are minimal. They are kept minimal so they are light enough to carry and to encode a lot of information into. Oh, yes, and to pass for just pretty baubles so that spies can take them into primitive societies, unsuspected.

This means they have no speakers, and no means to make a sound.

Suppose a human could—as Eerlen Troz did—make a strange gesture towards the gem, as though picking something up with a pincer movement, and then pull, and…

What? Even if what he grasped was the recording, and he could make it speak, what would it speak through? Logically, it would be the human, right?

No. It wasn’t. Apparently for Ellyans, things like speakers and codes and high tech were mere encumbrances. Never mind the long march of human advancement. They had magic, and could just wishcast.

The words just came from the gem itself, sounding clear and perfect, in a variant of English that made Mother seem like she’d learned to speak in a slum. An accent—presumably StJohn’s accent—which was so high-bred that it had to carry at least three genetic defects and one bespoke inherited disease.

“To whom it may concern: this is Lowell StJohn, Earl of Allridge, an officer in the Scouts and Investigators Covert Force. If you are receiving this message, which means you had the code to access the gem without it self-destructing, you are here on a mission from Her Majesty of Britannia on High.”

Well, wrong on most of it, but right in spirit, I supposed.

“If you are meant to be my support for this mission, I must ask where you have been. I was told you’d been in Draksah ahead of my being sent to Draksah, and that if I needed you, I could find you there, but I have not been able to find any of you, no matter how many attempts at contacting you I’ve made.” StJohn sounded extremely not happy with his presumed support, apparently with reason, if he’d run from Draksah and to Elly and no one had looked. But my brain was ticking and turning over.

They’d sent the SICF in years before my own mission? How could it be?

“If you are someone looking for me, and presumably my support, I’ll assume we are all missing. All of us. And I must give you an account of what happened to us, so maybe you can still find us and rescue us, though if it’s more than a year, I’d rate the possibility poorly.

“I was sent to Draksah on suspicion of both forbidden activity—slavery—in a world that was applying for protectorate status with Britannia on High and on suspicion of illegal activity by Britannia on High citizens. I found evidence, but also things I hesitate to even mention, because if you just arrived on this world, and have had no contact with the natives, you might not believe me.”

Brother, did I know that song. He wasn’t even going to say the word magic, was he?

“However, on the off chance that you are ignorant of what the Empire just stepped into, as far as I can tell, there is a strange melding of genetics and, for lack of a better term, micro-cybernetics in Elly, a world we weren’t even aware of, but where I suspect our people have been disappearing to. Also in Draksah, though the percentage of those being able to deploy it is much lower in Draksah.

“I don’t know how any of this is possible, nor will I pretend to understand how such capabilities can be transmitted, seemingly genetically and with garbled knowledge over ten thousand years. But I will tell you that it exists and that if we can tap into the power here, we—and the cause of freedom—will be unstoppable. Oh, there is the same power in Draksah, too, I suppose, which has blinded a faction in our government to the obvious tendencies and evil of the Draksall empire.

“Via portals, opened through this technology and which can be opened between worlds, Draksah has attempted to and sometimes invaded Elly for centuries, which could be the sort of thing that’s part of any lost colony’s history. However, Draksah is still doing it to the present, and part of the reason for it is the acquisition of Ellyan slaves.”

StJohn continued, describing that the Ellyans were hermaphrodites, but their DNA seemed to be both compatible with Earth origins and reproduction with other Earth-derived races. In fact, as StJohn pointed out, so far in human explorations, there was no indication there was any sentient not of Earth origin in the universe.

“The conspiracy to admit Draksah and allow them to utterly enslave Elly,” he continued. “Is by a cabal of citizens of Britannia on High. Not the kind we like to admit to.” You could hear not our kind, dear, in that. “They include some of the wealthiest citizens, including I believe Loshian Jordain.” I blinked, uncertain. Did I hear what I thought I heard? “And I must believe they also intend to seize and traffic citizens of Elly for both the use of their capabilities and also immoral purposes throughout the Empire, and possibly breed them as part of an underclass of sex slaves and interworld—or in-world—portal openers.

“They are in league with the ruling class of Draksah to defraud the empire and get Draksah admitted as a protectorate, all the while denying the existence of Elly. They plan to use the ability to trade with Britannia on High to acquire weapons to finally invade and subdue Elly permanently.

“Their plan was far advanced when I uncovered it, and I was identified as a threat to it. I managed to make it to Elly through one of the portals between worlds that the enhanced—let’s call them what both sides do—magicians of Draksah and Elly can open. In this case, I managed to come through a portal on the war zone, escape the destruction, and fetch in Brinar.

“For months I’ve been hiding in the palace of Kalal Ad Leed, Lord of Brinar.

“I have now been discovered, and I don’t wish to bring danger onto Ad Leed. He does not deserve that. I will leave this gem behind. It has certain features that will protect him—well, the wearer—should anyone attempt to harm him bodily. And I will change my place of hiding.

“If you are in the service of Her Majesty, you will have the code for my tracker, and you will be able to find me.

“But you must call in aid for Elly, and stop the admission of Draksah as a protectorate. Now. This minute. Too many lives are riding on this to delay.”

There was a pause, and I thought he was done, but Troz was still pulling the invisible thread and eventually, StJohn’s voice came again. It had an odd sound that I recognized. Or, at least in me, that tone of voice would mean: Dear Lord, Mother is going to have my head to do petit point upon, but I have to do this, because it’s more important than my family inheritance, my family’s honor or even staying on the good side of Mother. I presumed StJohn’s father wasn’t that much different from Mother. Probably.

“I’d like to invoke Her Majesty’s special protection to Kalal Ad Leed, both for the help rendered to me and because he is— Because he belongs to me. Or perhaps I belong to him. In a way I can’t explain. Whether I can be saved or not, I wish this world, these people, this person to be saved.

“So you have your orders. If you’re an agent of Britannia, save Elly, then come find me.

“Lowell StJohn, Earl of Allridge.”

“PS: If you can’t find me, remember these words, and that I said them and mean them: I hereby choose to swear, one-sided, because I can’t explain to Kalal Ad Leed what I am, nor ask him for his swearing in return with someone under a cover entity. But fortunately, they believe in one-sided marriage, and I choose to marry him, by native rules. I, Lowell StJohn, son of the Duke of Drakeford of Britannia on High, swear on my honor to Kalal Ad Leed faithfulness in bed and primacy in the daylight, and that I shall not sire children with anyone else. I promise that my body shall be his fiefdom, my care his repose and safety. And that should he die before me, I’ll raise his children as though they were my own.”

As the message ended, I was speechless. I empathized wholly with StJohn’s words, even though I’d never been in love. I, too, wanted to protect Elly, its people, my little band of misfits here in this cave with me. Not that I was about to marry them, but if that would do it, I would have.

I felt almost as though I couldn’t breathe, and it took me a moment to realize that there were tears down my face and that the people staring at me hadn’t understood a single word.

“It was Itarr!” Ad Leed said in an awed whisper. “It was his voice. What did he say?” He stepped forward, reached for my sleeve, then dropped his hand before touching me. He looked at my face, as though trying to understand the tears in my eyes. “He said my name! He did, didn’t he? I heard my name.”

I cleared my throat. Remembering the words wasn’t the difficult part. We were trained in total recall as diplomats. Nor was translating, because as I said them, the nanos would take care of that. I thought about it, though, because I wasn’t sure how much I could tell them or how much they would believe.

On the other hand, of course, whether they were wedded to the People of The Land delusion or not, the truth was the truth. And at least Brundar already knew it wasn’t true.

So I started. “I will tell you. As close to the language as I can.” And then I started reeling it off.

When I talked about the conspiracy, Brundar Mahar made a sound, and, as though his legs had lost strength, sank down the wall, onto the floor. Eerlen Troz leaned against the wall. Nikre Lyto bit his lower lip, but didn’t betray his emotions in any other way. Lendir Almar stood quite still, but his eyes looked horrified. And Kalal Ad Leed went pale.

Then the closing words. Those closing words. On “swear one-sided,” Ad Leed’s eyes opened wide, his mouth formed an O. His cheeks flamed. At the very end, there were tears falling down Ad Leed’s cheeks, but he pretended he couldn’t feel them. As though if he didn’t admit to crying, he wouldn’t cry.

Which was fine, because everyone else was crying. Brundar openly. Almar as though he didn’t realize it. Lyto wiping his eyes to his tunic sleeve, and Eerlen Troz with his head turned down and away so you only saw the tears by the shimmer of candlelight. He clutched the jewel tight in his hand.

Ad Leed spoke in a tiny whisper, “He swore to me? One-sided? The fool. I’d have sworn to him in return. I’d have given him my belt. He should have told me the truth. We could have protected him. Oh, Itarr…” He swiped at his cheeks, which didn’t dry them so much as smear the tears. He shook himself, as though waking. “Milord,” he said, looking at me with blind trust. “What is the code for his tracking spell? The one he mentioned? How do we find him?”

I wished I knew.