A Message for Magnus
Hamish Ulstenstrode out of Our Lady’s Court, the dim early morning light just a glow above him. He didn’t break his stride as he shouldered aside the few black clad Travellers who were casually lined up outside the entranceway to the Office for Portal Records. One stumbled, letting out a gasp of surprise, but Hamish didn’tapologise or even give it a second thought. Though he also wore the same black uniform of a Traveller, the green stripes on his shoulder set him aside from these ordinary Travellers. The green stripes were signs of courage and sacrifice—and they gave him license to break a rule or two. As he expected, none of those waiting patiently in the line so much as grumbled as he went past, though he felt the weight of their stares at his back.
Admiration, no doubt. Awe.
Few Travellers would admit to fear of the Betwixt, but fewer still volunteered for the small Portal Corps of the Traveller Force. Brave souls who dared to cross the Betwixt, often more than once in a single day. Those, like him, who kept the business of the Dragonverse running—carrying messages, precious objects and non-winged people across the Betwixt—and continuing the Traveller dominance and superiority across the Dragonverse.
Yes, Hamish was a Porter, and damn proud of it.
He strode up to the wooden bench which held the Portal Record and bent over it, scribbling his name and cargo in the spaces provided, before throwing the pen down with a flourish, as though daring anyone to object to his word. He glared at the Travellers standing guard over the room, but no-one asked to see what he was carrying. They would be well within their rights to look, given the wide search powers ofthe guards of the Portal Record, but no-one spoke up as he turned his back and strode back out of the torch-lit room.
Swinging past the Mail Room, Hamish dumped a bunch of messages onto a bench, without a word to the woman who hurried to gather them up as they scattered across the table.
Let her sort them, he thought. Not his job.
“Looking for another pick up?” The woman spoke softly, almost fearfully, to his back as he turned away.
“Later.” Absent-mindedly, he pressed a hand to his pocket, feeling the one item that remained, and his mouth curled up slightly at the corner.
This one, he knew, was something that would fetch a tip from the recipient. He had no idea what it was, but it had been unusual enough to attract his attention.
Hamish remembered going through the Premyan Portal, though he never expected much there. A virtually vacant backwater, carpeted with thick forest as far as the eye could see. On the edge of the forest, near the Portal, was a wooden box where messages were left for passing Porters. Message boxes were only used at unmanned outposts like Premye, and were usually empty. Stopping in Premye was mostly a wasted stop, but very occasionally—like today—there would be something interesting.
The object was for Magnus Gariq, according to the scribbled tag—the only thing written down.
Hamish knew that anything for Magnus Gariq—President of Gariq Industries and a rich bastard to boot—would be rewarded with a hefty tip on delivery. Hamish’s grin widened in anticipation. Perhaps he wouldn’t need another pick up later. Perhaps he’d spent his day in an Ingresston tavern instead.
Hamish tucked his wings at his back as he touched down on the delicate mosaic work of the Gariq family landing platform. It was a traditional Taraqan mosaic pattern, slightly weathered—generations old, Hamish expected—but well-maintained for all that. It was early morning, the sun hadn’t crept down far enough the steep cliffs to catch the entranceway to the Gariq residence, though they were housed near the top, in keeping with their wealth and status in the Taraqan community.
The man himself greeted him when Hamish announced his presence, looking as though he was straight out of his pallet. Well, the rich could afford to sleep late, Hamish supposed. As long as he paid up, the rich bastard could go back to bed for all he cared.
Hamish fished the item out of his pocket and held it out to Magnus. As far as he could tell, it was some sort of bracelet attached to a charm, though it wasn’t much to look at. A metal charm shaped in a many-pointed star shape, with three small stones pressed into the surface. The charm hung from a bunch of threads knotted together. It didn’t look either precious or valuable. Still, he was no expert.
Not like the man standing in front of him. You didn’t get to become President of Gariq Industries without knowing a thing or two about rare, precious off-world artefacts.
Magnus blinked, looking carefully at the item. Almost immediately, the colour leeched from his face, and his mouth pressed into a thin line. Then with a glance at Hamish, he reached out to pluck the small bracelet from his outstretched hand. Magnus swallowed, turning the bracelet over as he continued to stare at it.
Hamish let his hand drop to his side and waited for the words of gratitude, for the generous tip that he’d expected. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. After a long silence, he began to wonder if Magnus had forgotten he was there at all.
Finally, giving Hamish a vague nod, Magnus simply turned and walked into his house. He vaguely mumbled something that sounded like that will be alland gave a wave of his hand, without looking back to acknowledge Hamish at all. Hamish gritted his teeth, watching Magnus’ retreat. He jerked around, a quick rush of anger clouding his thoughts.
Rich bastard, all right. Ungrateful too, he thought.
He squared his shoulders and spread his wings, leaning forward to dive from the platform. A rush of air greeted him as he plunged head first towards Vertin Gorge. He flicked his tail and pumped his wings to turn tight circles, working the edge off his anger by battling the air currents. A fight he couldn’t win, he knew, but he never stopped him from giving it a damn good try.
Buffeted by a particularly strong gust, Hamish remembered someone close by who might be more grateful than Magnus. Someone who—experience told him—always welcomed the tit-bits of information that a Porter might come across. Someone who would reward him fairly for it.
Hamish banked and dove into a plunge, coming to rest on another landing a little further down the cliffside.
He announced himself and was greeted by the appearance of a familiar, handsome face. The man cut a similar figure to Magnus, though without the greying hair and the lines around his eyes. The face grinned at the sight of Hamish, as though he was welcoming back a close friend.
“How can I help you, friend?” Zorman Gariq flashed a broad smile and Hamish’s lips curled up in response, though his delivery felt more contrived. There wasn’t any particular spark of recognition in his eyes, though Hamish saw Zorman’s gaze flick over the green lines on his shirt. Hamish was just another Porter to him. Not that it mattered, so long as he paid.
“Sir, I just made a delivery that I thought you might be interested in,” Hamish said, wondering if he should mention a price at the outset.
Hamish saw interest sharpen in Zorman’s gaze and suddenly found himself the subject of his undivided attention. “That is very…diligent.”Zorman’s smile broadened and he stepped to the side, with a sweep of an arm that indicated that Hamish was welcome to enter his house. “Such diligence should be rewarded.”
This time Hamish’s smile was genuine as he stepped over the threshold and into Zorman’s house.