Legion by Brandon Sanderson Page A

,” I said, quiet but intense.
    “Good man,” J.C. said. “I’m going to go untie the others.” He moved over, letting my other aspects free.
    Monica groaned, shaking her head. “What . . .”
    “I think we’ve made a gross miscalculation,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
    I was surprised at how evenly that came out, considering how terrified I was. I’m an academic at heart—at least, most of my aspects are. I’m not good with violence.
    “What do you see?” I asked. This time, my voice quivered.
    “Small room,” Ivy said, rubbing her wrists. “No windows. I can hear plumbing and faint sounds of traffic outside. We’re still in the city.”
    “Such lovely places you take us, Stephen,” Tobias said, nodding in thanks as J.C. helped him to his feet. Tobias was getting on in years, now.
    “That’s Arabic we hear,” Kalyani said. “And I smell spices. Za’atar, saffron, turmeric, sumac . . . We are near a restaurant, maybe?”
    “Yes . . .” Tobias said, eyes closed. “Soccer stadium, distant. A passing train. Slowing. Stopping . . . Cars, people talking. A mall?” He snapped his eyes open. “Malha Railway Station. It’s the only station in the city near a soccer stadium. This is a busy area. Screaming might draw help.”
    “Or might get us killed,” J.C. said. “Those ropes are tight, skinny. Monica’s are too.”
    “What’s going on?” Monica asked. “What happened?”
    “The pictures,” Ivy said.
    I looked at her.
    “Monica and her goons showed off those pictures of Razon, walking around the church,” Ivy said. “They probably asked every person there if they’d seen him. If he was working with someone . . .”
    I groaned. Of course. Razon’s allies would have been watching for anyone hunting him. Monica had drawn a big red bull’s-eye on us.
    “All right,” I said. “J.C. You’re going to have to get us out of this. What should—”
    The door opened.
    I immediately turned toward our captors. I didn’t find what I’d expected. Instead of Islamic terrorists of some sort, we were faced by a group of Filipino men in suits.
    “Ah . . .” Tobias said.
    “Mister Leeds,” said the man in the front, speaking with an accented voice. He flipped through a folder full of papers. “By all accounts, you are a very interesting and very . . . reasonable person. We apologize for your treatment so far, and would like to see you placed in much more comfortable conditions.”
    “I sense a deal coming on,” Ivy warned.
    “I am called Salic,” the man said. “I represent a certain group with interests that may align with your own. Have you heard of the MNLF, Mister Leeds?”
    “The Moro National Liberation Front,” Tobias said. “It is a Filipino revolutionary group seeking to split off and create its own nation-state.”
    “I’ve heard of it,” I said.
    “Well,” Salic said. “I have a proposal for you. We have the device for which you are searching, but we have run into some difficulties in operating it. How much would it cost us to enlist your aid?”
    “One million, US,” I said without missing a beat.
    “Traitor!” Monica sputtered.
    “You aren’t even paying me, Monica,” I said, amused. “You can’t blame me for taking a better deal.”
    Salic smiled. He fully believed I’d sell out Monica. Sometimes it is very useful to have a reputation for being a reclusive, amoral jerk.
    The thing is, I’m really only the reclusive part. And maybe, admittedly, the jerk part. When you have that mix, people generally assume you don’t have morals either.
    “The MNLF is a paramilitary organization,” Tobias continued. “There hasn’t been much in the way of violence on their part, however, so this is surprising to see. Their fundamental difference with the main Filipino government is over religion.”
    “Isn’t it always?” J.C. said with a grunt, inspecting the newcomers for weapons. “This guy is packing,” he said, nodding to the leader. “I think they all