Art Theft (Wine of the Gods Book 19) Page 2

  He stuck his head out the window. "Jeremy, you need to come down. Carefully." He closed his eyes and tried to remember . . . he'd only seen the first floor. The horse statues, the bull, a door, not so much concealed as plain.

  Faint cursing from the window. Mikey grabbed a dangling leg and set it on the window sill. The rest of Jeremy followed, a bit pale.

  "Jeremy, it takes both of us to hold the shield open. So you have to search. If they aren't in plain sight, I remember that there was a plain door on the bottom level, no idea what's behind it. Servants quarters? Broom closet? Otherwise, can't help you at all."

  "Right." Jeremy slid around the statues. "What do I do if I run into the God of Art?

  "You won't. That's him, right there."

  Jeremy stiffened his shoulders and trotted downstairs. He was back much too soon. "Nothing. Can't open the door down there. Shall I get some wrecking tools?"

  Mikey chewed his bottom lip. "Put your hand over mine. Meditate. Look at the shields we're holding open."

  "Shields. I only know the ones you've shown me . . . oh, these are about the same, aren't they . . . but what's that, that oil slick stuff?"

  "That's the part it's taking both of us to hold open. If you can take over from me, I'll take a look at the door." Mikey watched carefully, as Jeremy added his hand to the effort . . . Mikey slid his hand out. It held.

  "Be quick?" Motivated was still dangling outside . . .

  Mikey trotted downstairs, another room full of statues, and a buffet of food that still looked fresh. Some sort of preservative spell? Down another graceful sweep of stairs to a familiar room. The plain door was locked, with a bit of a trap spell, nothing he couldn't handle.

  The room beyond looked like a cross between a kitchen and a madman's laboratory. Another door led downstairs to the room full of statues. Women and children frozen, mostly with surprised expressions, a few angry . . . there. Two little girls holding hands and gazing upward in wonder. Imp and Whirlpool in bronze.

  He shifted a few other statues, grabbed the two girls awkwardly, and staggered back up the stairs. And more stairs, and the last grand bloody staircase.

  Jeremy looked around.

  "Hold the window. I've got them." And I really hope Sicily is still standing on the rubble chunk this is all tied to. He pulled in the loop of rope he'd used, and tied it to the girls. Heaved them out the window and let them dangle. Interlaced fingers with the other two and took over. "Jeremy, I hope you can climb ropes."

  "Me too."

  "Stand in the window, get your grip solid and high, and you're halfway home." Oh crap, I ought to have gotten a rope around him, too! Mikey changed his hand position carefully, and stepped quickly into the window as Jeremy headed upward. He stood, grabbed a waving foot and stuck it on his shoulder, grabbed the other foot and shoved. "Walk your hands up. Reach over the edge for the rope, it's the only traction up there."

  The foot left his shoulder and his arm quivered . . . the weight disappeared and he saw the legs roll out of sight.

  "Right." He grinned at Motivated. "I'll climb up and then we'll both pull you up and then the girls."

  She nodded.

  He skinned up the rope. Jeremy hauled him over the edge, then they each placed a foot on the rope for traction, grabbed Motivated's rope and hauled. She clambered over the edge and rolled over, shaking hands going to the knots that held the loop under her, err . . . Mikey and Jeremy grabbed the other rope and pulled up the bronze girls.

  Then Mikey helped Motivated with the knots.

  "I'm going to be black and blue from that rope. No fun times for you, Mister Flicker." But the tears didn't flow until she reached cautiously out to touch her daughter's face.

  "Well, step one is accomplished. Let's get off the roof, and see if we can get them out of that thing like we opened the window."

  They slid the statues over to the far side, nearest the road, and looked down.

  Sicily was not standing on the rubble chunk. Foggy was on it, one big hoof planted firmly on the rope.

  Mikey blinked. "Good idea." However the heck you got him through the rubble. "I hope he can get back to the road."

  He and Jeremy lowered the girl statues, managing to not skid off themselves, and then headed for the ladder. By the time they had gotten around the corner with the ladder, the horse was back in the street. They hauled the statues to the street, then just folded up and sat while Sicily hustled around and brought them food, water, and coiled the ropes.

  "My head aches, and if we have trouble getting out of here . . . the girls may be safer as statues." Mikey winced at the glares. "Right. Never mind." He took Motivated's hand and they reached together for the statue. "Foggy had a rough spot, I couldn't see it, but you could feel it and it just . . . popped." Meditating, he could see the quick triple flicker of something like a layered soap bubble peeling away.

  Double shrieks of surprise. "Daddy! You're not supposed to sneak up on me!"

  Motivated snatched her. "Mommy you're squishing me!" Whirlpool's brows dived and she looked around.

  Mikey sat back and rubbed his eyes. Must have got some dust in them . . .Oh eff it all! He hugged them. Then hugged Jeremy-and-Imp. Squeezed Sicily's shoulder. Hugged the horse. Why the hell not?

  He walked out onto the rubble strewn street. "God of Travelers, we're stranded far from home, can you help us?"

  A deep flood of magic, like a blanket of heat and humidity rolling over the ruins. A tall thin figure, dark of skin, a glint of light off a bronze spear tip. "So I see." The god surveyed the ruins, and slumped. "New Tokyo. Dear Lord, there's not much left, is there? Where are you from, what are you doing here?"

  Motivated walked up beside him. "Rescuing our children. Art had them in his museum. We . . . need to get back to Scoone."

  "I don't recognize towns very well." The god's brows furrowed.

  "How about Lady Gisele's garden?" He's the God of Travelers! "How about the North Road, where it meets the docks?"

  "Oh yes. That's a good strong recognition . . . " the ruins faded into night, water lapped at the pilings. ". . . point."

  The god walked out on the road. "Gisele? Wolf? Romeau?" He stood a long time. "Am I the last one? The only one?"

  "No, Lady Gisele . . . " but the god was gone.

  "You're not alone." And neither am I.

  Mikey looked around at his family. "Well. Let's get home. "

  About the Author

  I was born and raised in California, and have lived more than half my life, now, in Texas.

  Wonderful place. I caught almost the first bachelor I met here, and we’re coming up on our thirty-fifth anniversary.

  My degree's in Geology. After working for an oil company for almost ten years as a geophysicist, I “retired” to raise children. As they grew, I added oil painting, sculpting and throwing clay, breeding horses, volunteering in libraries and for the Boy Scouts, and treasurer for a friend’s political campaign. Sometime in those busy years, I turned a love of science fiction into a part time job reading slush (Mom? Someone is paying you to read??!!)

  I've always written, published a few short stories. But now that the kids have flown the nest, I'm calling writing a full time job.

  Empire is my twelfth novel. I've also issued three collections of novellas and short stories, and published separately three other short stories.

  I'm planning to bring out at least four more books this year. Two of them are manuscripts that I've pulled out the batch making the rounds of publishers, so they should go up quickly. I've got two new books in the Wine of the Gods Universe under way. And then a third "Zoey Ivers" book in the Doors series. So I may manage to squeak in a fifth book before the end of the year.

  I need to find the time to get more books out in print . . . I need to find the time to invent a time machine . . .

  Email pamuphoff@gmail.com to join the mailing list for notifications of new releases

  Other Books by Pam Uphoff

  Wine of the Gods Serie
s:

  Outcasts and Gods

  Exiles and Gods (Three Novellas)

  The Black Goats

  Explorers

  Spy Wars

  Comet Fall

  A Taste of Wine (Seven Tales)

  Dark Lady

  Growing Up Magic (Four Novellas)

  Young Warriors

  God of Assassins

  Empire of the One

  Warriors of the One

  Dancer

  Earth Gate

  The Lawyers of Mars

  Fancy Free

  Writing as Zoey Ivers

  YA Cyberpunk Adventures:

  The Barton Street Gym

  Chicago

  Atlantis (2016)

  Fantasy:

  Demi God

  Excerpt from Warriors of the One

  265 Year of the Prophets

  Rangpur

  The tower was down, the west wall starting to collapse as the internal timbers burned.

  "Take the wives and children, put them in your bubble." Nicholas swept a look around the fiery scene.

  "One!" Isakson put all his protest into the single word.

  "You will be with them. Do a slow count to ten. Then emerge." The old man's eyes tracked beyond him. "Be sure that Ra'd is inside."

  "Father! You should be the one speaking of going turtle!" The boy—fifteen years old, still growing, not yet a man—had a gun in his hands and enough smoke smudge and dirt on him to show he'd been with the defenders.

  "No. I am old, at the end of my years. You are at the start of yours. My last son. I want you to live." He switched his glare to Isakson. "Now. Hear that? The last defenders have fallen, we are done."

  Isakson nodded. "I hear and Obey, One." He pointed the boy at the low structure, one of the few still looking intact.

  He felt for his bubble. A multidimensional phenomenon. They, the One, could not make them, only use them. A gift from Those Left Behind. There were thirty-three of them still working. Isakson had inherited his from his father. He opened it with a snap.

  Ra'd glared.

  Isakson shook his head. "Your father has one. He'll use it."

  "If he can." There were tears in the boy's eyes. But he stepped in.

  The wives followed him, shepherding the younger children before them, carrying the youngest. They'd drilled often enough. Isakson glanced behind. Nicholas had the handle of his in hand.

  "Go. I will conceal the handle with an illusion."

  Isakson stepped in with the crowded jumble of people. Closed the handle behind him. The bubble pressed down upon them, and he fought off a wave of claustrophobia. The bubble would expand to hold any amount that was crammed into it. And not a centimeter more. He forced his thoughts away from the allure of grabbing the handles and ripping open the unnatural sack. At least there was light. Several woman held electric torches.

  One of the halfbred wives was praying, a hodgepodge of the old Islam and the New Prophet's introductions. The Prophets of the One had taken over the religion, unified it, modernized it . . . Be honest, Isakson. They were not prophets, they were only men, and they used the words of Allah, changed them to their advantage. They do not even believe, those few of them who still live. I don't know if I believe, or not. The powers we feel were never felt before the Prophets came.

  "Isakson!" The boy's voice rang from beyond the women, riding over weeping, prayers and children's distress. "It's been ten seconds. Open the handles."

  He grit his teeth. "Boy, you had better learn some manners."

  Somewhere in the pack a woman's voice rose. "You have no respect for your elders! You have been spoiled, a man of your father's age can't help but be proud to sire a boy child! But you'd think he'd discipline him!" Not Ra'd's mother, but another of Nicholas's wives. She'd attempted to curb the boy, after his mother died. With little success.

  Other voices rose in support. "You tell him, Umaya!" Three new widows, not that anyone had told them yet. But turtling like this, they must know the fort was lost.

  There were only six women total, but their voices clamored like three dozen.

  "Enough. Silence!" Isakson raised his voice. His own wives should know better.

  The overwrought children started crying. His own children should know better. But only three of the children were his. He muttered curses under his breath.

  The boy wiggled through the packed bodies. Tried for dignified, in the crush of bodies. "I beg your pardon. Isakson, who is of the One. Has the time expired? May we sally forth and check the situation?"

  Isakson sighed. Tried to speak gently. "Your father has not opened the sack."

  "No!" That was from Umaya. "He may have retreated, or turtled with the other soldiers."

  Other shrill voices rose.

  "Allah curse all women!" He turned and scowled as the handles pressed up against his body, the bubble pressed against his face, he shuddered and forced control over his body. He would not rip the handles wide open and leap out into the fresh air . . . he would carefully part the handles and stoop to look out.

  At the bronzy inside of another bubble.

  "Oh, no." The boy sounded stunned. "Double bubbled? Father put his over yours? We've been yelling and arguing for . . . minutes. That’s . . . centuries?"

  "No. Don't be silly." Now he ripped the bubble open, spotted the other handles and parted them carefully.

  Fresh spring air. Twilight. No smoke, no scent of burning at all. He ducked and stepped out, the boy on his heels. All the others crowded after them. He opened his mouth to order them back, but stopped at the sight of the intact fort. Clean, new.

  "They've rebuilt. We won." Isakson drew a deep breath. "Praise Allah! Praise the One True God! Praise the Prophets of the One."

  He counted heads. Everyone was out. He closed the handles of his sack and pulled it out of Nicholas'. Hung it on his belt. Closed Nicholas' and hung it next to it. The stucco of the wall was cracked and shattered along a vertical line the height of the handles. That was a powerful illusion! They replastered the wall right over the bubble, never seeing the handles.

  Ra'd was frowning up in the dim light. An electric light on a tall arched pole.

  "They've modernized, as well." Isakson strode out, for the commandant's quarters. Would Nicholas still be here? Or, if the war had moved on, would he have moved with it? He slowed and frowned at the metal grill locked across the door.

  The boy walked up beside him, raising his left hand and summoning light. A gleam of metal to the side. Ra'd shifted and shined his light on it. "The Office and living quarters of the Commander and his wives."

  They stepped back and looked around. The wives were milling around the officer's quarters. Umaya strode across the trimmed grass towards them.

  "They're locked out." She called. "There's a grill over the door . . . like this one."

  Her daughter Qamar had stopped halfway, looking at a pedestal that hadn't been there. . . five minutes ago? Ten? How much time had passed inside of two sacks? Ten thousand to one, inside of one. Surely it didn't multiply . . .

  Ra'd walked over and stood beside his half sister, hand raised to shed light on the pedestal. "The original Fort Rangpur fell in the Year of the Prophets 265. Here, Prophet of the One, Commander Nicholas One held the Armies of Imperial China for three weeks, giving the Army of the One time to assemble in Dacca for the final victory over the Imperialists. May he and all his troops rest in the Peace of the One."

  His voice had gotten thick and clumsy, and now nearly choked altogether. "The first reconstruction was built on the site of the original fort. Dedicated to world peace and unity on the 23rd of Shaban, 1266. It was damaged by fire in 1345, and rebuilt and rededicated, 01 Ramadan 1375."

  Twelve year old Qamar edged closer to her brother. "Daddy's dead, isn't he?"

  Ra'd put a comforting arm around her shoulders, as the truth sank in. "Over a thousand years ago."

  ook 19)