Mages could be many things. A mage who stuck their nose in books earned the potential to become even greater, but each is born with something that makes them unique. Maharani was born with the gift of chronomancy, and to make matters worse, for me, at least, she then grew into someone ambitious and vicious enough to rise to the Lorica’s very highest ranks.
“We need to have a little chat, Mason Albrecht.”
I frowned at her, stepping away cautiously. “I find it really unsettling that you all know who I am, yet I know so little of you.”
“But I only just introduced myself,” she said. Her tone could have made the words sound like a joke from anybody else, but Maharani was a very, very serious woman. The edge of her mouth curled slightly, her attempt at a smile. “My name is Maharani. It means ‘great queen’ in Hindi. You may call me Rani, if the casual comfort of knowing my nickname puts you at greater ease. Why, I even gave you my rank.”
I winced. That wasn’t meant to be a formality. It was a threat. The Lorica was the highest order of mages in the Americas, meant to monitor and police the use of magic within the region. In ancient times, a lorica was a kind of breastplate, making the organization the literal governing body. Its mages were ranked according to their specialties. The Hands were combat specialists, doling out justice with raw, horrific magical powers. The Mouths were telepaths who could read and erase minds. The Wings were teleporters who transported the others to various missions and destinations.
But the Scions were the worst of all. These experienced mages held the highest rank attainable within the organization, sitting at a council known collectively as the Heart. And contrary to a heart representing fluffy things like love and tenderness, the Lorica’s version of it was utterly ruthless.
Florian stepped up to the frozen flames, his finger just inches away.
“Don’t touch that,” I hissed. “You know better, damn it.”
He tucked his hands behind his back, sulking. “I wasn’t gonna.”
“My goodness,” Rani said, once again using a mocking, amused tone. “The two of you do have fun, don’t you?”
I raised my chin at her. “We do. Is there a problem?”
Rani blinked at me, unperturbed, and gestured around us. “This. This, Mason Albrecht, is a massive problem. For you, and for the Lorica.”
“Okay, listen up, because I really don’t want to have to repeat myself. This has been a long, shitty day, and I really don’t need to deal with being attacked again. We didn’t do this. Florian does nature magic, and I do arms and armor. No fire magic between us. We were ambushed, fella by the name of Quilliam.”
Rani clasped her hands, looking around the area pointedly. “I see no one else here.
No sign of this ‘Quilliam’ either. Though I did catch a glimpse of your feathery friend just moments before he made his expedient exit.”
“I can explain,” I said, and proceeded to do so, only stopping for breath when I spread my arms out to describe the explosion. I may have used the word “kaboom” at some point. Rani listened closely all throughout, staring intently and nodding.
“These alleged wines you mentioned, the ones that became fuel for this extremely regrettable incident. Did you obtain proper permits for the manufacture and commercial distribution of said products? Was your workspace inspected by a professional accredited by the Lorica? No, gentlemen. There is more to operating a small business in the arcane underground than simply making things and selling them.”
“Okay,” I stammered out, “but we didn’t know all that. What if we were to – ”
“What if your customers were to contract illnesses? What assurance does the Lorica and the general magical public have that your products are not, in fact, tainted with curses or hexing tinctures, or even mundane bacteria? I think not. I would prefer to nip this operation in the bud before someone contracts a more than mild case of food poisoning, or worse. There will be no further attempt to sell your ‘wines,’” she said, making air quotes around the word, “until you can satisfy all of the underground’s requirements.”
“Fine,” Florian said, defiant now, his chest stuck out, his fists at his sides. “Okay, fine, we’ll have everything done properly, and you can send your health inspector or whatever, and – ”
“Which isn’t even to say anything of the taxes.” There was a heavy finality to her words, and again that artificial excuse for a smile worked its way across her lips.
“Oh,” I said. “Taxes.”
She nodded. “Indeed. Since you were intending to sell your wines in the Black Market – an interdimensional space outside the jurisdiction of both Californian and the United States federal government – then you would only be paying taxes within the arcane underground.”
“But we were planning to sell them to Dionysus,” Florian mumbled. I shot him a glare, wanting to run over and kick him in the shin to stop him from talking, but it was too late. “You know, at the Amphora.”
She raised her eyebrows. “What? The Amphora? You mean that your wines would have been sold within this reality? The one where the IRS and the California Franchise Tax Board exist? Where you would be liable for self-employment taxes totaling – ”
“We get it,” I said, somehow keeping my voice level. “We get it. We won’t do anything now. We’re going to behave, okay? No more bootleg wine.”
Florian sighed, deflated. I mouthed a soundless “Sorry” to him, but I knew there was no winning with Rani.
“Then I am pleased that we could come to an understanding,” she said. “Curious, is it not? How so many things can be resolved without violence. I do so prefer to work that way.”
I kicked at the ground. “Yeah, but you can stop time,” I mumbled.
“An excellent observation. Perhaps you would prefer that I include you in the temporal stasis field I’ve lain down in the vicinity? Would it comfort you more knowing that the alternative would be for me to freeze both of you in time, slap your faces for sport, then have you both thrown into the Prism?”