Janny Wurts That way lies Camelot

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hours. Any havoc was possible.
Mac James's laconic observation interrupted the lieutenant's thoughts. 'Now, I
see you have two choices.
Murder your pilot to get me, and you've got a Fleet investigation on your
case. You can bet they won't send a lightweight to chew your ass. Not if you
kill without witnesses and a suspect like me turns up dead on your chaser,
smack in the middle of a classified installation.' 'That won't save you,'
Jensen said quickly.
'Maybe not.' Harris's head lolled to one side as Mac James shifted his grip.
'But a review of Sbearborn's flight log will uncover a coded file, accessed
through stolen passkeys. The data list includes plans for every project Cassix
Station personnel have going on the drawing boards. Fleet court-martial will
nail you on theft of military secrets, without appeal. You need me alive, boy.
Unless you know enough to go into that system and monkey that file out of
existence without leaving tracks.'
Jensen felt shaky down to his shoes. He lacked the expertise to clear the
encoded locks on the
Sbearborn's software, much less to alter records on the other side. His
helplessness galled doubly. In the event of a trial, the very ignorance that
ensured his innocence would be impossible to prove.
'You're much too quiet, boy.' Mac James shifted his weight with sharpening
impatience. 'Why do you think I've been so busy?'
Rocked by a stab of hatred, Jensen perceived more. 'You sent that other
skip-runner in, pitted me against him specifically to gain entrance to Cassix
Station without leaving traces. The Indie contract on the kidnappers was only
a cover.'
A strained silence followed, broken gruffly by Mac James's reply. 'A man lives
according to his nature, you for pride and advancement, and Captain Gorlaff
for his bets. That one buried his future permanently because he neglected to
watch his odds. You
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can, too, boy. Or you can lift off Cassix and rendezvous with the Marity,
where I can transfer that incriminating file without leaving traces in the
system. I'll return Harris in a cargo crate. When he recovers from his
hangover, he can fly you back to Commodore Abraham Meier for the commendation
and promotion you both so richly deserve.'
Jensen steadied his grip on the gun. His hand trembled, and his face twitched.
A single shot would restore his inner pride but shatter his public career
forever. Swept by rage, and by a desire like pain to see the skip-runner
captain who had manipulated him end up cold and bloody and dead, Jensen shut
his eyes. Cornered without recourse, he made his choice.
Commodore Meier stepped forward on the dais, and stiffly cleared his throat.
'Each man lives according to his nature,' he said in official summary. The
medals in his hand flashed brightly in the lights of the vid cameras. 'May
others draw inspiration from the bravery and initiative cited here.'
Jensen held very still as the precious medallion was affixed to the sash on
his chest. Like MacKenzie
James, he never gambled; there had been no allowance for doubt. A Fleet
officer with a future might pursue a skip-runner to the death. The duel of
wits would continue. Reveling in his promotion and his honors, the newest
Lieutenant Commander in the Fleet promised himself victory at the next pass.
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The Snare
Inspired by the painting 'The Wizard'
by Don Maitz
The opening move was deadly because of its extreme simplicity. Iveldane caused
one of the candles in the Wizard's private study to flicker out. There was no
draft; the casement was tightly closed and latched against any intrusion of
the starry night without. The Wizard raised no arcane defense. Mellowed,
perhaps, by wine and smoke from his hookah, the enchanter, whose stare had
once shattered mountains, and whose spoken word leashed earthquakes and
stilled the raging seas of hurricanes, suspected no threat from a single,
darkened candle. He glanced up, even as a mortal might, annoyed at the sudden
invasion of shadow across the drifting trough of his lap.
Spindled with smoke, the spark-tipped wick glowed red as the eye of a demon,
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pinning the Wizard's gaze. Before he shaped a Command of Rekindling,
Iveldane's snare transfixed his unguarded mind like a spearshaft, and held it.
Wind tore like laughter through the chamber. Flung headlong from its
ensorcelled current of air, the
Wizard's goblet shattered in a spray of glass and wine. Iron candlesticks
toppled, scattering the carpet with necklaces of flame. The spellbook
crackled, a tumbling wheel of pages, as stone walls wavered and danced in
destruction's wild light. Bound, the Great Wizard of Trevior sat with blinded
eyes, unaware of all but the voice of his antagonist.
'Long have I awaited this moment, Master!' Deep in his cave of ice and rock,
Iveldane smiled. The winds of his summoning screamed in echo of his taunt, and
fanned the white mustache
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