The Atlas Six (The Atlas 1)

The problem with seeing through things so readily was the development of a certain degree of natural cynicism. Some people could be promised knowledge and power without a compulsion to uncover the caveats implied, but Tristan was not one of them.

“I need to talk to you,” he said, remaining behind the other five candidates and approaching the Caretaker who’d so evasively insisted on recruiting him.

Atlas looked up from muted conversation with whoever the man was who’d come in to drone on at length about the Society; Dalton something-or-other, who’d been effusing quite a lot of magic while he spoke. That was partially why Tristan had not made an effort to listen. If he were going to be convinced to abandon the life he’d already set up so meticulously for himself, he wasn’t going to be illusioned or manipulated into it. It would be his choice, based on uncompromisable facts, and Atlas would give them to him or Tristan would leave. Simple as that.

Atlas seemed to have gathered as much from a glance and nodded, dismissing Dalton.

“Ask,” Atlas beckoned, neither patiently nor impatiently, and Tristan’s mouth tightened.

“You know as well as I do that my abilities are rare, but not useful. You can’t possibly expect me to believe I have one of the six most valuable magical specialties in the world.”

Atlas leaned against the table, considering Tristan for a moment in silence.

“So why would I have chosen you, then, if I didn’t believe it?”

“That’s precisely what I want to know,” Tristan said staunchly. “If this has anyth

ing to do with my father—”

“It doesn’t,” Atlas said, dismissing Tristan’s concerns with a wave of a hand. “Your father is a witch, Mr Caine. Skilled enough, but commonplace.”

Of course Atlas would want him to believe that. It wasn’t the first time someone had tried to magnify Tristan’s abilities in order to reach or infiltrate his father’s gang. “My father is the head of a magical crime syndicate,” Tristan said, bristling, “and even if he were not, I am—”

“You,” Atlas cut in, “don’t even understand what you are, I’d wager. What was your specialty? And I do not mean your abilities,” he clarified. “I mean to ask which credential you received from the London School of Magic as a medeian.”

Tristan scrutinized him warily. “I thought you already knew everything about everyone in that room.”

“I do,” Atlas said with a shrug, “but I’m a rather busy and important man with many things on my mind, so I would prefer you to tell me anyway.”

Fine. No sense dragging this out. “I studied in the college of illusion.”

“But you are not an illusionist,” Atlas pointed out.

“No,” Tristan said gruffly, “but as I can see through illusions—”

“No,” Atlas corrected, startling him. “You can do more than see through illusions.”

He rose to his feet with sudden immediacy, beckoning Tristan after him. “Walk with me,” he said, and though Tristan did not remotely want to listen, he conceded to follow, allowing Atlas to lead him through a narrow hallway that wound into a wider corridor.

“Here,” Atlas determined, pausing abruptly before a painting. “What is this a painting of?”

Disappointing. This, as far as Tristan could tell, was predictable cultish recruitment. Evade and flatter, mystify and conceal.

“I don’t have time,” Tristan snapped, “to play games. I assure you, I was diagnosed by every medeian at the London School, and I know the extent to which my abilities are—”

“In the moment I asked,” Atlas interrupted, “you identified this painting as a portrait of the artist’s lover.” He gestured again to the painting behind him. “You saw a number of things, of course—far more than I was able to distinguish from my brief foray into your observations—but you looked at this nondescript portrait of a nineteenth century Society benefactor and interpreted the details which led you to conclude what you were looking at, which no one but you would have seen.”

Atlas pointed to the title on the plaque, which read simply: Viscount Welles, 1816.

“You ascertained that the light coming in through the window came not from a typical portrait studio, but a location both the artist and the subject found comfortable. You noted his presentation was informal and the marks of his rank were added hastily afterward. You came to a reasonable conclusion not on what was presented to you, but on what you deduced. This is because you see components,” Atlas pointed out, and Tristan, always wary of a hidden agenda, assumed a guarded suspension of disbelief. “In mortal terms that would make you a savant. You also see magical components, which is why you were identified for medeian classification. But you are correct,” he conceded, “to suspect that our interest in you exceeds the magic you have exhibited deliberately up to this point.”

Atlas saddled Tristan with a look of immense and troubling expectation.

“You are more than rare,” Atlas said, pronouncing it with finality. “You cannot begin to imagine your capabilities, Tristan, because no one has ever known what to do with you, and thus you have never encountered a reason to know. Have you ever studied space? Time? Thought?”

To Tristan’s momentary furrow of bemusement, Atlas said, “Precisely. You were educated alongside a group of illusionists, intending only to profit from marketable sleight of hand.”

Tristan bristled. “Is that what you think I am?”