Yuletide Yield: Adventures of Benjamin Baxter Book 3

Yuletide’s Yield

Having five seconds before the next attack, Benjamin Baxter scanned the throng of starwise patrons around him at Bauman’s Bazaar. Five. The sea of brightly colored robes, cloaks, and wraps of the shoppers receded, clearing a forty-foot radius around him.

Four. A handful of shoppers and hawkers—who had stopped lending their voices to the constant chorus of sale barking—watched his plight.

Three. None had the intense gaze it took to control the ongoing spell and none were willing to help—and, worse, he didn’t see a hint of tan trench coats anywhere. Where are the guys?

Two. Ben spun.

The bright metal of the whirling scimitar—a blade he had only seen in use by bodyguards from the middle east—reflected the corridor of lights vendors had set up to highlight their tents, tables, and wares in the largest outdoor night market in Las Vegas.

One.

Centered on him, for some reason, the tumbling blade stopped as the pommel seemed to press against its range thirty-feet away near an abandoned pewter mug at an abandoned table. The steel morphed into a rapier—or is that a cutlass? Which one is it that pirates use again?—pointed at his chest.

Now.

It shot at him.

Ben twisted sideways and bent.

The blade swooshed by. In its wake, the scent of delicious spiced cider.

Keeping his gaze on the blade, Ben jammed his hands into his coat and came out with his Anvilsmith tablet and mouthpiece.

Five. Though he didn’t need it anymore, Ben jammed the mouth guard in as, by muscle memory, his fingers worked his tablet to press Spells, Enchantments, Achilleus, and Cast. The welcomed scent of fresh-cut pineapples pillowed in his nose as the spell flowed into him, winding his fast-twitch muscle up for action.

Four. To keep up appearances of what people were used to seeing technocaster do, Ben quivered his arms and worked his chin as though the magic had to be forced into his body.

Three.

“Daddy!” A small girl in a long, absurdly pink, full-length fur coat screamed and pointed at him.

The man in red furs next to her grabbed the child’s upper arm, scooped her into a defensive hug, and bellowed, “Ape casting!”

Two.

A fierce-faced woman—the mother—leapt in front of the man and began to work the air to build a mystic barrier. She wasn’t alone. Eyes wide in surprise, fear, or wonder, over a hundred casters’ hands worked the air to throw up protective power to shield themselves, and loved ones, against his magic. More people had been keeping an eye on him than he had thought.

One. Ben hadn’t seen this many spells thrown at once since the Arcane Alehouse wizards had stacked dozens of Hold spells on him. They have no idea what spell I cast. This knowledge made him smile around his mouthpiece. He sucked at the pineapple that had worked into his saliva, and turned back to the sword. It had already switched back to a scimitar. Ben stood sideways to present a smaller target. Now.

It whirled at him.

He waited.

It closed.

Leaning, Ben slid back.

The sword whooshed pass his chest.

He snatched at the hilt as it rotated—got it!—and found something small in his hand as the bright blade dispersed into red whirling mist.

The ghost of the spell flew on and faded.

Having cheered and applauded with crowds in the past when someone used flair to end a spell not of their casting, Ben spun to take in the crowd with hungry eyes and ears.

“Tradition’s blight.”

Instead of appreciation, insults where thrown as the crowds—which had formed a communal protective magic circle around him—began to move away. Tinted the same colors as their various robes, their translucent mystic barriers popped like a rainbow bubble and sparkled away.

“Lack wit.”

The circle around him stretched into an oval as other bazaar buyers began to move through.

His eyes found the face of the little girl in the pink fur coat scrunched up in a tiny scowl as she stared at him over her father’s shoulder. “Nobody likes you.” Innocent disdain clung to her words. “Go home, ape.”

That slur! Reflexively, Ben’s fist balled.

The Nilosian font, the energy Ben regarded as belonging to Bastion—the monster in his head—flashed hot. Boiling, his vision dimmed momentarily as The Beast raised its head.

Ben tensed at Bastion waking and tried to relax. I can’t blame her for her parent’s bias.

Committing her face to their memory, Bastion sneered at the girl.

Ben’s brow furrowed and he sneered.

No! Having expressed Bastion’s reciprocal disdain, Ben covered his face. Diffuse your emotions, Ben. Cool down. He closed his eyes and lowered his head. There’s no way to change their prejudice. To them, their casting method will forever be pure and superior while ‘techno-wizardry’ will forever be an affront to ‘true magic-users’ everywhere. His jaw and fist began to loosen.

Recalling the hard lesson he had learned from the Arcane Alehouse, Ben wanted to yell, None of us are real wizards. Instead, he took a deep, calming breath. She’s not a threat, Bastion. He took another breath and insisted. She’s not.

Unconvinced, Bastion snorted. Wary, it went back to rest.

That was close. Focused on his shoes—month old Tore Vex boots he got through Meadows Towing—the seams remained slack. His feet weren’t growing to bastion-size. He exhaled his relief.

Adept Love had, in his nasal whine, warned against coming to Bauman’s Bazaar which had set up in Vegas for a week before moving to Los Angeles next month. “It’s a den of derision,” he’d said. Love had been filling in for Senior Adept Collins, who went absent after the Samhain Festival. “You may be attacked, openly, and no one will come to your aid.” The small man’s face took on a shrewd smile. Everyone knew Bauman’s Bazaar was the only place where an Archon Private Academy student could get the spells the Academy wouldn’t—or couldn’t—teach. “Which is why I’m breaking you all into groups of four. You will be responsible for each other.”

Ben’s throat rocked at the memory. “Hmph.” Responsible for each other, ri-i-ight. Having been attacked, he temporarily forgot that he, Neil, Kevin, and LeRoy had agreed to split up to find vendors who sold technomancy spells. Remembering, Ben shrugged. Guess Love knew what he was talking about.

Curious about what he held, Ben opened his hand to see a miniature duplicate of the scimitar in his palm.

“Hey, showman,” a high-pitched feminine voice called before he could really analyze what he had in his hand. “Give you a gold for that.”

Risky Business

Ben sucked one last time at the pineapple flavor in his mouthguard before he pulled it out. The effect of his Achilleus spell persisted and he found it hard to keep his amped-up, thrumming body still. He closed his hand and looked to where the voice had risen above the clamor of vendors selling and shoppers haggling. He picked up on something he hadn’t noticed earlier. Everyone’s dealing in one ounce units of precious metals...

No vendor offered or accepted local, regional or global currency. Currency was backed by an institute or agency which would go after a seller if you got a really bum deal. No one backed ordinary gold or platinum. Wow, guess all sells are final.

“Right here.” A tall, bald, slender woman—that’s a really long neck—raised a hand. She stood in a light green sleeveless dress before a ten-foot wide emerald canvas tent. One of the flaps had been pinned inward showing a bare hint of what lay within the tightly packed rows. Something about her—the large eyes?—made her quite comely. Her neck scarcely bent, giving him the slightest degree of a courtly greeting.

Ben made sure to return the gesture. That probably looked fast-forwarded. He focused and gave a proper—so slow—bend of his neck.

She nodded in return. “You did well in defending yourself, trencher, so why not profit from the momentary inconvenience?”

Trencher. Elder Komir had call him that, too. Hearing it again made Ben smile. Heck, why not?

“I’ll give you two gold.” Another woman, almost alike in every way except her dress had full sleeves and she stood in front of a red silk gazebo. “One and a half for the spell focus and the extra for the wonderful show.”

“Two and two silver.” The lady in green counter-offered. “My first offer was low just to get your attention.”

“Two and five.” Confidence accompanied the second’s bid as she motioned to the opening to her gazebo. “That’s the highest price it will fetch.”

Ben gently squeezed the small blade in hand. If that’s the most it’ll fetch here, what’s it really worth? Better yet, do I even want to sell it? While he wouldn’t dare take the tiny thing home where his family could find it, it would look rather nice in his basement lab at Meadows Towing. I’ll hang it next to the soldering iron.

The first woman, who Ben—lost in thought—had turned to face extended her hand to the red tent as well. “She is correct.”

“Lies!” A squat rotund man called from across the way. He stood before a crimson-and-violet stripped pavilion made of hard, opaque plastic. His dense, parted mustachio wound two wide loops on each cheek. “I have a cousin who collects such items. If you look closely, ape, you’ll see two tiny gemstones on the pommel. It points to its origin and true value.” The man hooked his thumbs on his thick black belt. “The info is free and I’ll give you the truest offer. Three gold.” He raised his chin. “Neither gazelle will top it.”

Though Ben had made his mind up on keeping it, the man calling him ape made him want to prove a point. He looked back to the women. Long necks. Large eyes. I can see why he called them that.

The woman in green bent her neck slightly, again, but both signaled open palms to the man, conceding to his bid.

Though the passing crowd, Ben examined the man. There’s something about him… besides him calling me ape… Ben couldn’t figure out what about the man bother him, but there was something there.

The mustachioed man raised his head a bit higher and a slight smile spread his face open in pride of winning Ben’s business. Figuring Ben would follow, the man turned and walked to the door of his store. “This agreement is beyond far, but the focus will thrill my collector cousin to no end.”

Ben turned and bowed to the woman in front of the green canvas tent before approaching her. She was the only one who extended any courtesy. He made a point of speaking loudly, hoping the man would hear him. “Though your offer was the lowest, I would like to see what you can offer in trade.”

Her neck bent again and, this time, her body folded slightly, too. “I will be honored.”

“Three and two!” The man called. “A full ounce of gold more.”

Ben did not look back as he moved to her tent.

“Three and five! No, four full!”

Ben crossed the threshold. The din of the bazaar faded, then fell silent. Soft music, like a string quartet playing from beyond the door behind him, took the place of the hustle and bustle of the marketplace. Sandalwood incense filled his nose as he took in the twenty-foot depth of tightly packed rows of similar cherry wood shelves covered with various traditional knickknacks, brick-a-brac, foci, totems, and spell components. Dangling from the center of the tent, a brass brazier caught his eyes.

“Rawk. Right this way.” A green parrot with a hooked yellow and red beak whistled, and repeated, “Right this way.” Its perch appeared to be the handle of a strong box in the far left corner.

Guess she’s not worried about being robbed.

Next to the bird, the woman pushed on the canvas back wall. With a pop, it parted to reveal to a secret room.

Okay, that’s cool. Making sure to go to the opposite skirt, along the edge of the tent opposite the parrot with the wicked beak, Ben carefully hustled along the narrow walkway to get into the back room. She’s got spells! He spied the SD cards on a shelf in a glass display. Of his schoolmates, he’d been the first to find one of the rare merchants who had items to sell to technomancers. A bit less carefully, Ben picked up his pace and pressed the Anvilsmith’s volume button down twice to signal the rest of his group.

The fact that he might be walking right into a trap didn’t occur to him... until after he crossed the threshold.

Relax... Relax

A soft lavender scent—almost the exact scent mom keeps at home—filled the seven-foot by seven-foot room. To the immediate left, a small round folding table with a pale green checked table cloth. Floating inches above the table, a manila ceramic teapot with cherry blossom trees—they’re moving—painted on the side. The falling petals look so graceful. As the tiny pink flowers rocked to the base, a sense of serenity eased into him.

While he’d thought about raising his guard as he stepped in, as soon as he entered the room, all semblance of worry slipped from him.

Cool. A cherry blossom had spiraled away from the teapot to land on the side of one of the two thin-lipped manila tea cups set upon similar ceramic saucers. More drifted from the pot to the cup, which filled from the bottom up releasing a fragrant—oolong?—brew.

Voice softer in the quiet room, she said, “Feel free to take your coat off.”

Ben didn’t much feel like taking off his trench coat. Due to the magical enchantments placed upon it, he never felt discomforted from it and it regulated extreme temperatures to nothing more than either a slight chill or a subtle warmth. Still, it sounds like a good idea.

Checking to see if Bastion, who had a supernatural sense of when things were about to go wrong, had cause to be wary, Ben found the beast soundly asleep.

Well, why am I not surprised? A faint, pleasantly warm fog filled his mind. With how peaceful this place is... He slipped off his coat and looked for a place to hang it.

“There.” She extended her long arm to point a long finger at a single-peg coat rack in the opposite corner. It stood at the foot of a long, narrow emerald green canvas camping cot—heh, it and the blankets match the walls—which, coat-rack notwithstanding, ran the full length of the right wall.

Something about the bed—no, it’s a cot, cots aren’t comfortable—felt inviting. His nerves jumped.

“Don’t think about the bed.” She gave his shoulders a slight rub before giving a mild directing push. “Just hang your coat on the peg.”

Ben did. A price tag—two hundred and fifty... ‘Two hundred and fifty’ what? Is that the number of days that I’ve worn it?—flipped from the tip.

“Don’t forget your tie.”

“Oh yeah.” Did I want to take off my tie? With the wonderful warm fog filling his head, Ben found it hard to tell. Why’d I come back here in the first place? In answer to this thought, his shoulders gave a lop-sided, drugged shrug. Well, I took off my coat. He slipped the red silk tie off and looped it over his coat collar. The rack sucked the tag back in and flipped another from the tip. Two hundred and seventy-five. Weird. What does that mean?

“If it chafes...” She began.

Ben faced her.

Nothing remained of what he thought the woman out front looked like. Instead—the dress is the same—a young lady, very similar to both Penelope and Alice—if the medusa didn’t have scales—stood. The two semblances seemed to struggle against one another as though uncertain which visage it should take.

She took a step toward him. A soft lilac smell—Alice’s scent—washed over him and all traces of Penelope faded. Voice tentative and hopeful, a human version of Alice suggested, “You can hang your tablet harnessss too.”

What’s with the hiss on harness? Ben recalled Alice ticking off common misconceptions of her cursed race. She isn’t sibilant. The warmth in his head cooled a bit. He patted the holster that kept his Anvilsmith at easy reach over his leg. “No, I’m good.”

“Sure, understandable.” She said. All hint of hisses vanished. She lifted the two ceramic cups with cherry blossoms settled on the base, sat on the edge of the bed—it’s a cot—and extended a cup to him. “How about we sit and have some tea?”

Without thought, his arm extended to accept. Ben pulled back just short of taking the cup. Wait, Alice can’t stand me! The fog vanished.

Kevin, who always talked as though he were in a competition to get the most words out in a minute, chattered. “Come out from wherever you are, Ben. We got your location ping.”

Tone confident and sharp, LeRoy called. “You know you’re not going to scare us.”

Ben glanced to the canvas wall separating him from the main store. A light from the other side projected Kevin and LeRoy’s shadows on it. When he shifted his gaze back to where Alice had sat on the bed—cot—the tall, bald, lanky woman from early sat there, sipping tea... And had been there the entire time. Well, I think she’s been there...

“Oh good. More customers.” From her expression, the tea—or something—put a bad taste in her mouth and made her words sound bitter. “Perfect timing.”

Something weird was going on. Ben tried to recall exactly what, but could only recall cherry blossom, oolong tea, and the smell of Alice’s skin. Why am I thinking of Alice? Better yet, why’d I take off my coat and tie? He snatched both from the peg, gave the woman a dirty look. Trickstress.

She shot him a tight smile.

The glass rack of spellcards, which has been there all the time, seemed to sneak up on him.

Ben jumped away. Whoa, that’s right. Spellcards. He called out, “In here, guys. Check this out.”

Something Like Friends

Though LeRoy, Kevin, and Neil had done a great deal of haggling and some buying in the green canvas tent, Ben had remained a few steps behind. First, mentally, as his schoolmates worked hard for the best deal, then, physically, as the three of them left the tent and had to come back for him to pull him along.

In fact, the four of them had walked well out into the expansive dirt parking lot and located their cars amidst the thousands—if not tens of thousands—of hastily parked vehicles before, still smelling lavender, Ben finally started to come back into his own frame of mind—they’re like scattered cherry blossoms—puzzling out the, mostly horrid parking situations much further away from the bazaar.

If the Bauman people laid down chalk parking lines, everyone would follow suit.

Late-comers were often the third, or fourth car blocking in people who had come early. Others parked to the side of a horizontal row meant for two cars to pass, narrowing the lane to one, in which—if two cars came toward each other with too many cars behind them—the lane would become yet another row of parking, locking in even more cars.

And thus his earlier plan to have at least have one direction to get out by parking side-by-side—Kevin’s luminescent orange flame-tipped next to Ben’s matte black—backed-in behind Neil, and LeRoy’s A.P.A. approved, stock, bright reds had been foiled.

Both sides—as far as the eye can see—had been blocked in. If this were my event, I’d have lines drawn and offer valet. Ben found his head shaking. “This is atrocious.”

“Oh, he’s back.” Kevin rattled, “Welcome back, Ben.” He raised a powder blue spellcard with a large white energy bolt painted on the flat which branched out to seven strikes high near his crazy brown swath of windblown hair. “Check it. Chain Lightning.”

Trying to focus on the spellcard, the mental image of raining cherry blossoms and phantom smells of the woman’s back room finally faded to the buzzy ozone smell of too many arcane-powered vehicles in close proximity. Each of schoolmates, in their school uniform of white dress shirts, red ties, brown slacks, and tan trench coats, leaned on the corner of their cars facing the space between them.

Not remember anything after having parked, Ben tried to quickly piece the night back together. We came right after Spell Programming, split up. Someone attacked me with a sword. No... He opened his hand and rediscovered the small masterfully crafted light, high-quality silver, three-inch sword whose hilt alternated between strips of cooper and steel. The ruby chips... The husky vendor had the highest bid, but I... I went to the lady in green...

“Hey, wizzes.” A guy in a dark trench coat and long oily hair called to them from the end of the row.” For five hundred Strong or seven hundred M.U.s, I can get your car out. Then a second ride for half as much.”

Wizzes. Ben used to toss the friendly, casual slang for unknown casters quite a bit. Now—we’re all sort of delusional—now it just felt false. No, it’s pretentious.

“Nah, wiz.” LeRoy called back. “We’re good for now. Please hit us up later though.”

“You got it.” The guy waved and walked on.

Ben asked, “How can he get our cars out.”

Offhandedly, LeRoy answered, “He’s a porter specialist.” As though that explained everything, he turned his attention back to Kevin. “Nice buy.” LeRoy shuffled several cards and presented a silver one at his hip near his red leather belt held closed by his Top Junior Caster belt buckle. The low angle helped the lighting from the Koffman floating lights to highlight an embossed sword. “But not nearly as hot as my sweet Mage Sword.”

Ben wanted to pry into porters, but his thoughts were still preoccupied. She— She bewitched me and tried to rob me. He balled his fist on the blade. It bit into his palm. Ow. He relaxed his hand and kept his fist closed so the cut could heal before being noticed by the others.

Kevin laughed a challenge. “You can’t cast seven stones.”

LeRoy shrugged. “You cannot cast Chain Lighting.”

Kevin and LeRoy are jaw-jacking again, and Neil’s off—as usual—in his own little world. None of them probably wouldn’t have noticed if he held his hand opened and showed how the small cut on his bloody palm was healing shut.

LeRoy flipped the SD card over his knuckles, making it dance on top of his hand. “Perhaps you should master Lighting Bolt first?”

Ben winced. Low blow! While, between the four of them, he could out program and engineer the others put together, Ben wouldn’t have dared to brag about it. LeRoy, on the other hand, had made direct reference to the spell he used to finish Kevin, twice back-to-back, to become the school’s Top Junior Caster for last school eighth.

Kevin stopped laughing.

LeRoy drove the point. “I mean, it should come naturally, now, since you know what it tastes like.”

“Want to go right here?” Kevin pointed to the ultra-narrow, walk-side-ways-only lane between the cars that had them blocked in. “Go ahead. Step out.”

This spiraled fast.

Nonplussed, LeRoy rocked his head on his shoulders. “The duel was supposed to be a best of three match... You didn’t even take one.”

Oh, no! Ben extended his arm to stop Kevin from moving to the row to call LeRoy out to duel.

“Move, Ben.” With contact being frowned upon, Kevin stopped short of Ben’s arm. “All I need is one.”

LeRoy flipped the card over his knuckles again before putting it into his pocket. “Easy, Kevin. Do you think the Magistrates want to be pulled from the Bazaar?” He crossed his arms and pressed more of his weight on his car. “This is like their vacation time.”

Kevin’s spoke slow dread through clenched teeth. “It would only take a minute.”

Strength left Ben’s arm. The hawkish nose, flat cheeks, pronounced brow. Kevin looks just like Collins when the jerk threatens us...

“Less, actually.” LeRoy slid his hands into his pocket. “What’s up with you, Ben?”

Ben studied Kevin’s face a bit longer. Could the number-two caster and the Senior Adept be related?

Kevin stole a glance at Ben.

“Uh.” Ben shifted his eyes to LeRoy, and lied, “Nothing.”

Finally moving, Neil pushed a few strands of his white hair behind a pigmentless ear, and held up two of his four cards. One had a clear case to show off the circuitry within while the other was black with a faint gray line. Voice soft and steady, he said, “I don’t know which I am more proud of...” He presented the clear one. “Wind Wall.” Then the black one. “Or Enervation.”

Ben eyed the black card. What’s Enervation?

“Neil the Techno-Necro-mancer, you gotta know it’s the Enervation,” LeRoy answered with a sneer as though the question lay leagues beyond stupid.

Kevin’s chin relaxed a bit as he raised a leg to his car and, in his normal fast patter, agreed, “Hands down.”

Clever. A slight admiration kindled in Ben for Neil; the smallest, and softest spoken of the them. He changed the topic and neither of them seem the wiser.

“Yes, it is necromancy, which I adore.” Neil slid the black card into the pocket of his heavily starched shirt, presenting the clear one. “And yes, it is more useful in combat, but this one completes my collection of standard three-stone spells.”

What? Ben’s ears rose, and his focus shot to Neil who still eyed the card. I know he comes from a wealthy family, but if he has all three-stones... Not sure if his question strayed into an area considered too personal, Ben asked, “So, you have all single and double stones too?”

Neil nodded absently as he bent over the card, putting his pigmentless face closer to it for inspection instead of raising the card before his powder pink eyes. “Interesting. There’s a faint brick wall in fine white paint.”

“Wait.” Kevin stood again. “You mean to tell me you wasted coin on Erase?”

Neil bobbed his head again. He ran a finger on the flat. “Talk about craftsmanship. The paint is in miniscule grooves.”

Kevin waved a hand. “Man, that’s the most useless spell in the world.”

Having programmed it for extra credit, and used it to keep Collins from seeing a letter of complaint he had composed against the Senior Adept during Spell Programming III, Ben ventured to disagree, “It has its uses.”

“How?” LeRoy shook his head. “Okay Ben, there you are, standing across from me at dueling length. How would you use it?”

Ben opened his mouth to try and back out of LeRoy’s hypothetical before it could accidently spiral into a real challenge. Another flash from earlier in the night came to him. Crap. I had a vision of dueling him, but we were between tents. Man, I really don’t want to—

Neil interjected, “Ben doesn’t duel.”

“In this example, he does.” LeRoy looked from Neil, who hadn’t stopped marveling at the card, to Ben. “So, there we are, hooks in and ready to throw.” He stood and, in an instant, drew his hand from his pocket as though he held his tablet. “Somehow, in this fictional world, you gain the dominant caster’s advantage.” Staring into Ben’s eyes, LeRoy took an aggressive step forward into Ben’s personal space.

What are you doing LeRoy? The manner of approach meant ‘go time.’ What’s this about? You don’t like someone disagreeing with you?

Bastion—the Nilosian monster that could steal control of Ben’s body—remained fast asleep. In its slumber, the beast uttered an annoyed grumble at the challenge.

LeRoy stared intensely.

Tension seized Ben’s shoulders, back, and brought his brow into a tight knot. Man, I really don’t want to duel you LeRoy… Ben stood up straight. I really don’t.

Quiet Confidence

LeRoy’s breath smelled of bacon.

You want to start something from nothing? Ben took a small step forward, tightening the narrow space between them and a faint, invisible static, as though they were Tesla rods attracting dimensional energy, built between them. I may not win, but I’m not going to slink away.

“Shit.” Kevin leapt forward to get his arm between them before they bumped chests.

Counter to the seriousness of the moment, a group of people—they’re enjoying themselves, why can’t we be like them—laughed. Staring into LeRoy’s African brown eyes, Ben found an intense pinprick of cobalt blue at the center of the black pupils.

“You have first bang, Ben.” LeRoy gave a dangerous grin. He lowered his voice to a threat. “I dare you, piss it away on Erase.”

“First, I don’t start fights.” As he said the words, Ben tamped down the desire to cast Erase on LeRoy just to see if the Top Junior Caster would have attacked him. “More importantly, tactically, it’d be a waste again you.”

LeRoy nodded a, I didn’t think you would nod. “Exactly.”

Ben added, “However—”

Breath hitched, Kevin bristled.

LeRoy’s eyes narrowed.

Neil looked up to them.

Ben continued, “—since we’re talking fictional events.” He gave a dismissing wave to negate LeRoy’s scenario and took half a step back. “Say you and a traditional caster are battling for real. Life or death. No minimum distance. You both have just enough juice for a single low-level spell.” He slipped his hands into his coat pockets and dropped the miniature sword as he turned a small circle.

Paying them no mind, Koffman Lanterns floated above patrons moving to and from the bazaar.

Ben stepped back, bumping into Kevin’s arm which bumped into LeRoy. “So, there you two are. Eye to eye. Nose to nose.” He yanked his hand from his pocket. “He pulls a scroll!”

Expertly, LeRoy said, “I blast him.”

“Yeah,” Kevin agreed.

“Really?” Ben’s brow eased. He didn’t even think to try and rip the scroll away. His eyebrows raised. “It’s not enough to take him down. He’s mystically shielded.”

LeRoy blurted, “I punch him!”

“Ah.” Ben stepped backward and raised a finger. “Your spell hits, but he’s made of sterner stuff. The strike lands, a solid shot, but we’re not martial masters so it doesn’t knock him out.” Ben took another step back and leaned on his car.

LeRoy’s eyes bounced around his sockets as he searched for another answer.

Ben added, “In fact, this trad-caster is well practiced at concentrating through such damage and activates the scroll.”

Rapt in the scenario, knowing that LeRoy would have to eat whatever came, Kevin found the breath to ask, “What spell is it?”

LeRoy raised his chin and tightened as though he were preparing to take a punch. “Yeah, what spell?”

Ben hadn’t thought the scenario that far. Not important really. You’re already cooked. He shrugged at the two constant contenders for Top Junior Caster. “It could be anything, but to be sure, it’s offensive and, remember, traditional mages can fit up to four spells on one of those scrolls. So, after the first, another would come, and another, and—most likely—another. Then, he still has juice for a personal spell.”

Stunned by the reality of being totally screwed by his choices in the scenario, LeRoy stepped back from Kevin’s arm.

Dumbfounded, Kevin still stood there with his arm out like a crossing guard at an empty street.

“Tactics, LeRoy.” Ben peeked in his Transcend to check on Tex. The other guys’ knee-high Golemcasts where there, but not his. Darn it, Tex. If the others check their robots, they’d see his missing, and then the awkward questions would come. Hoping none of the guys would, Ben returned his focus to LeRoy. “The main difference between you and me—in this scenario—is that I would make a play at grabbing the scroll and using my last arcane watt to erase the magic.”

LeRoy frowned slightly. “But you’d still be at an impasse and he’d have a tick up on you.”

“Yeah.” Kevin lowered his arm and moved back to let his car support his weight. “What then?”

Ben gave another shrug and chastised himself. I’m starting to act like Jek. He looked away to the Bazaar, taking in the glorious spectacle of so many Koffman Lanterns hovering—they’re like stalking butlers—to light people’s way out into the parking lot. “Well, being civilized, we could call it a day and go our separate ways.”

Kevin shook his head hard. “No. You said it was life or death.”

“So, I did.” Ben lifted his gaze to the night sky. He found the North Star. Just one arcane watt...

The horrified expressions on the Old Henderson orcs’ faces when blasted their life from them came to his mind’s eye and took roost. Expression left his face. The justifications—they had Clarissa. They would have killed me—still didn’t ease the guilt.

Tonelessly, Ben said, “Then it’s ‘may the most determined man win.’”

“You mean the best man.” LeRoy correct.

In an internal quagmire, Ben shook his head. “Winning doesn’t make you the best.”

“Wow.” LeRoy cast his gaze to the sky as he fell back on his car. “That’s deep.”

“Yeah.” Kevin nodded and did as LeRoy had. The two of them had a long time rivalry. While one might be the best for several school eighths, the other could pull out a win to take the Top Junior Castor belt buckle. No matter which one held the title, they tended to mirror each other.

Since looking up, Ben had felt Neil keeping a steady eye on him. Scrutinizing.

“Why are going this deep anyway.” Ben tried to shake off his sense of woe. Plenty of time for that later. He cleared his throat. “Bauman’s Bazaar is right there guys. There’s bound to be more sellers. Plus, I haven’t had one mug of spiced cider yet.”

“Me too.” Kevin sat up. “And I still got money.”

LeRoy echoed, “Me, too.”

“Then back into the den of derision we go.” Neil tucked his clear spellcard away and stood. “Until cider come from your noses and moths from my pockets.”

Ben laughed and clapped with LeRoy and Kevin, but wondered. What does he mean by that?

Neil

Searching for other vendors with technomancy wares, the four of them crossed back into the heart of the bazaar and split up again… Or at least they were supposed to. Ben kept catching glimpses of Academy-trench coat tan when he least expected it. One of them is following me. Still, Ben wondered aimlessly through the bazaar, rarely pausing.

Ben came to a full stop. In the valleys of the hawkers calling out, he heard and—mmm—smelled bacon frying. He was standing at the corner of a pale orange and blue striped pavilion. He feigned interested by passing a curious glance over the wares in the rows and rows of glass cases with tiny glass boxes of powders, herbs, and fluids of various transparency before fixing his gaze on the deep fried bacon balls on sticks, freshly rolled in maple.

The vendor, an elderly Asian with a huge, mean-looking, twelve-legged spider tattooed on his face, eyed Ben and muttered in a Far-Eastern language.

That doesn’t sound pleasant or welcoming. Hopeful, Ben approached the man.

“For paying customers only.” The man waved him away. “Go feast your eyes somewhere else.”

At least he didn’t call me ape. Ben turned away. When he did, he got his best look at the flash of tan following him at it ducked behind two large whiskey barrels stacked atop each other. Must be Neil. Too short to be either LeRoy or Kev. He had a clear view of both sides of the barrels. Whoever it was, couldn’t slip away around a corner like before. Ben headed back to the hiding spot. I have to know why.

He had made it most of the way there when a large, burley man in a long-sleeved golden shirt and red overalls stepped from a crimson dome tent with yellow and orange paisleys. The man seized something near the barrels, lifted it, and flung Neil like a sack of potatoes into the main thoroughfare.

The crowd of colored robes scattered away from Neil like frightened cats.

Can’t believe how quiet everything got. Nearby hawkers fell silent. The immediate din quelled. Sales from rows over spilled in. Having just been on the inside of such a circle for the first time a short while ago, Ben scanned the crowd to note what kind of view the others had.

“We don’t serve your kind!” The man barked and pulled a narrow—is that bone?—wand as he closed to only ten feet from Neil.