The Long Hunt: Mageworlds #5 by Debra Doyle, James D. MacDonald Page A
Authors: Debra Doyle, James D. MacDonald
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quarters across the square, and Jens had been looking for that establishment since first hearing of it on board ship—and if he thought that a carved bone fipple-flute and a set of bluestone counting-beads would make perfect souvenirs for his aunt and uncle back on Maraghai, then Faral wasn’t going to argue with him—but just the same …
“Parchants and berry-root—are you serious?” he asked Jens under his breath. “The plate probably comes with a doily under it, too.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Jens. “The experience wouldn’t be complete otherwise.”
Faral sighed. “Is there some reason you’re being difficult, foster-brother, or is this only a ploy to keep from getting bored? Because I remember what happened the last time you decided you didn’t want to get bored.”
His cousin abandoned his Khesatan manner for a few seconds and grinned at him. “It worked, didn’t it? We weren’t bored.”
“Yes, but—”
“Ssh. Here’s the food now.”
And, indeed, a second woman—this one in a cook’s apron over a neat white shirt and plain black trousers—was coming out of the kitchen with a loaded tray as Jens spoke. The tray held a steaming crystal pot of ruddy liquid, a cut-glass dish full of greenish cubes dusted with coarse sugar, and a porcelain platter with a pile of small round things under a white napkin. Faral couldn’t tell if there was a doily under the platter or not.
He wondered if the cook was Bindweed or Blossom. The other woman, the one who’d taken their order, was up at the other occupied table with her datapad—settling a bill, it looked like. The cook drew closer, smiling.
Then, without warning, her posture shifted and she heaved the tray full of hot tea and pastries straight at their table. Faral threw himself sideways off his chair as the heavy crystal pot flew toward him. He thought he saw Jens ducking in the other direction, but he didn’t have a chance to look. Immer-leaf tea splashed in all directions as the pot flew past where his head had been, and parchant buns pattered down like hailstones.
The cook was still moving, bringing up one foot in a kick that knocked the table over completely. He recognized the move—it was a common one in the hand-to hand he’d learned growing up back home—but where did a sweet little old gentlelady pastry cook learn something like that? Porcelain crashed and broke into splinters, silverware crashed and slid and clattered, and somewhere close behind him a man shouted in surprise and pain.
Faral took a chance on glancing up from the floor, and saw a man in tea-soaked blue and white livery clawing at his scalded face. In the next moment, a heavy blaster fired close by, its distinctive zing echoing through the shop. Then another blaster fired near at hand—once, twice, three times—the crimson energy bolts taking the scalded man in the chest and head as he fell.
“Get on your feet, boys,” said the cook, who had somehow acquired a blaster in the few seconds that had passed since she’d stopped needing to hold on to the tray. “We have to get the two of you out of here.”
She snapped off a quick shot through the milk-glass of the right-hand front shop window, where a shadow had moved. The glass curled away, leaving a neat round hole, and the shadow dropped suddenly down. Then she shifted her grip on the blaster and drew back her arm to throw it.
“Bindweed!” she shouted. “Catch!”
Well, that settles the question of which one is which, Faral thought, as the cook tossed the blaster across the room to her partner. The other woman plucked it from midair as it whirled past her, fired a quick bolt at an unseen target outside the door, then dropped and rolled. She came up kneeling on the other side of the doorway, half-covered by the frame, with the blaster gripped two-handed before her.
“Got you covered!” she called back to Blossom. “Go!”
Faral scrambled to his feet—Jens was already up off the floor, he saw
“Parchants and berry-root—are you serious?” he asked Jens under his breath. “The plate probably comes with a doily under it, too.”
“I certainly hope so,” said Jens. “The experience wouldn’t be complete otherwise.”
Faral sighed. “Is there some reason you’re being difficult, foster-brother, or is this only a ploy to keep from getting bored? Because I remember what happened the last time you decided you didn’t want to get bored.”
His cousin abandoned his Khesatan manner for a few seconds and grinned at him. “It worked, didn’t it? We weren’t bored.”
“Yes, but—”
“Ssh. Here’s the food now.”
And, indeed, a second woman—this one in a cook’s apron over a neat white shirt and plain black trousers—was coming out of the kitchen with a loaded tray as Jens spoke. The tray held a steaming crystal pot of ruddy liquid, a cut-glass dish full of greenish cubes dusted with coarse sugar, and a porcelain platter with a pile of small round things under a white napkin. Faral couldn’t tell if there was a doily under the platter or not.
He wondered if the cook was Bindweed or Blossom. The other woman, the one who’d taken their order, was up at the other occupied table with her datapad—settling a bill, it looked like. The cook drew closer, smiling.
Then, without warning, her posture shifted and she heaved the tray full of hot tea and pastries straight at their table. Faral threw himself sideways off his chair as the heavy crystal pot flew toward him. He thought he saw Jens ducking in the other direction, but he didn’t have a chance to look. Immer-leaf tea splashed in all directions as the pot flew past where his head had been, and parchant buns pattered down like hailstones.
The cook was still moving, bringing up one foot in a kick that knocked the table over completely. He recognized the move—it was a common one in the hand-to hand he’d learned growing up back home—but where did a sweet little old gentlelady pastry cook learn something like that? Porcelain crashed and broke into splinters, silverware crashed and slid and clattered, and somewhere close behind him a man shouted in surprise and pain.
Faral took a chance on glancing up from the floor, and saw a man in tea-soaked blue and white livery clawing at his scalded face. In the next moment, a heavy blaster fired close by, its distinctive zing echoing through the shop. Then another blaster fired near at hand—once, twice, three times—the crimson energy bolts taking the scalded man in the chest and head as he fell.
“Get on your feet, boys,” said the cook, who had somehow acquired a blaster in the few seconds that had passed since she’d stopped needing to hold on to the tray. “We have to get the two of you out of here.”
She snapped off a quick shot through the milk-glass of the right-hand front shop window, where a shadow had moved. The glass curled away, leaving a neat round hole, and the shadow dropped suddenly down. Then she shifted her grip on the blaster and drew back her arm to throw it.
“Bindweed!” she shouted. “Catch!”
Well, that settles the question of which one is which, Faral thought, as the cook tossed the blaster across the room to her partner. The other woman plucked it from midair as it whirled past her, fired a quick bolt at an unseen target outside the door, then dropped and rolled. She came up kneeling on the other side of the doorway, half-covered by the frame, with the blaster gripped two-handed before her.
“Got you covered!” she called back to Blossom. “Go!”
Faral scrambled to his feet—Jens was already up off the floor, he saw
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