Read Online Dance of Destinies (The Galactic Mage Series Book 5) by John Daulton - Free Book Online
Authors: John Daulton
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latter had a nasty bite and a gift for invisibility, and the former were capable of regenerating themselves after injuries. There were others as well, nothing dangerous, none capable of doing much damage if they got away, and all in all, Black Sander was sure that for the first shipment of magic users going off to Earth, Jefe and El Segador would be pleased.
“If that’s all of it, then let’s get it nailed shut. I want a canvas wrap on it too, just like we would if we were really shipping hides. Seal that box up tight. We don’t want any accidents.”
It was true, too. With the two orphans in there next to the unconscious whore, weeping and whining, eyes wide and lips trembling with fear, there was a real danger of the teleport going wrong without a properly sealed box. Teleportation magic worked best if the teleporters were sending an object rather than individuals. A body inclined not to be teleported could resist a teleport in the same way one resists wetting the bed while sleeping or resists breathing while submerged. Some reflexes happen on their own, and the terrified were impossible to teleport. Anger wasn’t much better. But, in a box, well, a person could tremble and wet themselves all they wanted. The box would not resist at all.
So Black Sander’s men set about the work of closing it up tight, making sure it would make it to its destination without incident. Black Sander turned to the group behind him while the others worked. These were his teleportation crew. Three teleporters, a seer, and a conduit.
The conduit was hardly in better shape than the prostitute in the box. He wore the traditional red of a conduit, an old set of robes, faded and filthy. He could afford to buy all the sanza-sap he wanted, and he clearly did. His tongue was permanently gray for it, as if he were dead.
“All right,” Black Sander said. “Let’s not make a carnival out of this. It’s one box and one teleport. Kalafrand, have you given Conduit Wanderfrond the location?”
Kalafrand turned a blank look up at Black Sander, his wide face and wide eyes the physical expression of the open spaces in his mind. He’d heard the question but hadn’t processed it. Z-class wizardry resided within that thick skull, if only as a seer. He was brilliant with sight magic, it was true, but so dull witted in every other way, he could apply no creativity to his gift on his own. It was akin to tragedy.
“The basement,” Black Sander said patiently. “In San Francisco. The compound on planet Earth. You remember the room where the man Annison, Thadius Thoroughgood’s old cast-master, lies with his brain all pulled apart and soaking in buckets?”
“Oh, yes,” Kalafrand said, the lamps all lighting up in the vacant house of his head. “I remember.”
Black Sander suppressed a sigh. “So have you given that location to the conduit?”
“Oh. No. I haven’t.”
“Then let’s get it going, shall we?”
“Right,” said the Z-class seer.
The red-clad conduit got up lazily from the chair he’d been sitting in and moved it out from the wall. Black Sander took other chairs and arranged them roughly in a circle.
“You,” he said, pointing to the T-class teleporter they had “on loan” from the marchioness’ contact in the TGS. “Help me. You’ve done this before. Let’s go. You’re the lead teleporter anyway. It’s your head that will pop if it doesn’t go right.”
The man left his place leaning against the wall and sulked his way to the nearest chair, which he set in the rough circle pattern Black Sander had under way around the conduit’s seat. The conduit was already seated, his elbows on his knees as he ran his fingers through the remnant wisps of hair on his blotchy bald head.
“You’re sure you are up to this?” Black Sander asked for the second time since bringing the conduit in.
“I’m fine. Stop asking me or I’m going home. I don’t care how much gold you have.”
“It’s a long way,” Black
“If that’s all of it, then let’s get it nailed shut. I want a canvas wrap on it too, just like we would if we were really shipping hides. Seal that box up tight. We don’t want any accidents.”
It was true, too. With the two orphans in there next to the unconscious whore, weeping and whining, eyes wide and lips trembling with fear, there was a real danger of the teleport going wrong without a properly sealed box. Teleportation magic worked best if the teleporters were sending an object rather than individuals. A body inclined not to be teleported could resist a teleport in the same way one resists wetting the bed while sleeping or resists breathing while submerged. Some reflexes happen on their own, and the terrified were impossible to teleport. Anger wasn’t much better. But, in a box, well, a person could tremble and wet themselves all they wanted. The box would not resist at all.
So Black Sander’s men set about the work of closing it up tight, making sure it would make it to its destination without incident. Black Sander turned to the group behind him while the others worked. These were his teleportation crew. Three teleporters, a seer, and a conduit.
The conduit was hardly in better shape than the prostitute in the box. He wore the traditional red of a conduit, an old set of robes, faded and filthy. He could afford to buy all the sanza-sap he wanted, and he clearly did. His tongue was permanently gray for it, as if he were dead.
“All right,” Black Sander said. “Let’s not make a carnival out of this. It’s one box and one teleport. Kalafrand, have you given Conduit Wanderfrond the location?”
Kalafrand turned a blank look up at Black Sander, his wide face and wide eyes the physical expression of the open spaces in his mind. He’d heard the question but hadn’t processed it. Z-class wizardry resided within that thick skull, if only as a seer. He was brilliant with sight magic, it was true, but so dull witted in every other way, he could apply no creativity to his gift on his own. It was akin to tragedy.
“The basement,” Black Sander said patiently. “In San Francisco. The compound on planet Earth. You remember the room where the man Annison, Thadius Thoroughgood’s old cast-master, lies with his brain all pulled apart and soaking in buckets?”
“Oh, yes,” Kalafrand said, the lamps all lighting up in the vacant house of his head. “I remember.”
Black Sander suppressed a sigh. “So have you given that location to the conduit?”
“Oh. No. I haven’t.”
“Then let’s get it going, shall we?”
“Right,” said the Z-class seer.
The red-clad conduit got up lazily from the chair he’d been sitting in and moved it out from the wall. Black Sander took other chairs and arranged them roughly in a circle.
“You,” he said, pointing to the T-class teleporter they had “on loan” from the marchioness’ contact in the TGS. “Help me. You’ve done this before. Let’s go. You’re the lead teleporter anyway. It’s your head that will pop if it doesn’t go right.”
The man left his place leaning against the wall and sulked his way to the nearest chair, which he set in the rough circle pattern Black Sander had under way around the conduit’s seat. The conduit was already seated, his elbows on his knees as he ran his fingers through the remnant wisps of hair on his blotchy bald head.
“You’re sure you are up to this?” Black Sander asked for the second time since bringing the conduit in.
“I’m fine. Stop asking me or I’m going home. I don’t care how much gold you have.”
“It’s a long way,” Black
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