The Atlas Six (The Atlas 1)

“Obviously not, Tristan, or I would not be standing here trying to convince you otherwise.”

Tristan considered that a moment.

“You make it sound like the game is rigged in my favor,” he observed, still guarded, and Atlas shook his head.

“Not at all. I know how useful you are; it’s your turn to convince the others. The promise of your talents is nothing compared to whatever you ultimately prove to be.”

At that point, Atlas gave Tristan a curt, inattentive smile, expressing wordlessly that he wished to conclude the conversation.

“I can promise you nothing,” Atlas said. “I will, in fact, promise you nothing, and whatever you take from this, do not be misled; nothing I have told you is a guarantee of anything at all. Unlike the others of your initiate class, your power remains largely untested. Your potential is almost entirely unreached, and however unmatched I believe it to be, it will have to be you who brings it to fruition. I’m afraid, Mr Caine, that you will simply have to take the gamble if you wish to see it through to the reward.”

Tristan wasn’t entirely risk averse; he had been known to cast his lot in venturesome ways before. In fact, the majority of his current life had been a gamble, and while it had been paying off as he intended thus far, he hadn’t been aware at first how unsatisfactory that return would be. Based on his previous decisions, Tristan would be married to an heiress in a matter of months, the inheritor to a massive player in the magical economy, finally dismantled from his father’s criminal enterprise and probably equally likely to jump off a bridge as he was to ‘accidentally’ poison Rupesh’s favorite detoxifying kombuchas.

Some gamble.

“Shall I see you to the lifts?” Atlas prompted.

“No, thank you,” said Tristan, who figured he ought to start learning the building. “I can find them myself.”

PARISA

Following Dalton Ellery’s path was not a particularly trying task. The building was mildly sentient, possessing enough layers of enchantment that it had a basic primordial sense of thought, and so it was a simple enough effort to identify the motion of his footsteps along the vertebrae of its corridors. Parisa stepped daintily in his trajectory, hardly breaking a sweat.

To her relief, he was still handsome upon second glance. It wasn’t a face he had put on for them at the meeting; typically, masking charms of any kind were too strenuous to hold at unnecessary moments, like this one.

She felt, though, the little catch of an unseen mechanism when he spotted her; his defenses flying up.

“You don’t seem like the power-seeking type,” Parisa ventured, deciding to guess aloud what sort of man Dalton Ellery was. The assertion was so accurate as to be unremarkable; he had a studious look to him, and a solemnity that didn’t lend itself to the hypermale braggadocio of politicians and businessmen.

Her more pressing estimation—the more reckless guess—had been that candor might alternatively unnerve or embolden him. Either way would be enough to secure herself a place in his thoughts, in which case it would be like leaving the door open a crack behind her. She would more easily find her way back to his thoughts if she had been inside his head to begin with.

“Miss Kamali,” said Dalton, his tone evenly measured despite his initial surprise. “I cannot imagine I seem like much at all, given the inconsequence of our meeting.”

That was insufficiently informative, to say the least; neither unnerved nor emboldened, but merely factual.

She tried again, attempting, “I wouldn’t describe anything that just happened as inconsequential.”

“No?” He shrugged, inclining his head to dismiss himself. “Well, perhaps you’re right. If you’ll excuse me—”

That wouldn’t do. “Dalton,” she said, and he glanced at her, giving her a look of intensely restrained politeness. “Surely it’s reasonable that I still have questions, despite your illuminating presentation.”

“Questions about…?”

“Everything. This Society, among other things.”

“Well, Miss Kamali, I’m afraid I can’t give you many answers beyond the ones I have already provided.?

?

If Parisa hadn’t already been aware how little men cared for evidence of female frustration, she might have grimaced. His indifference was deeply unhelpful.

“You,” she attempted, venturing a more effective topic. “You chose to do this once yourself, did you not?”

“Yes,” Dalton said, with an unspoken obviously.

“You chose this after one meeting?” she prompted. “Tapped by Atlas Blakely, sat in a room with strangers just as we were… and you simply agreed, no questions asked?”

Finally, a hitch of hesitation. “Yes. It is, as I’m sure you know, a compelling offer.”