Inheritance wasn’t perfect, and genetic combinations were unpredictable. Powerful mages from outside the Families could strike out on their own, attempting to build their own empires. Or, they could go to work for the Families. Magikal power didn’t necessarily imply ambition or intelligence, so the Families attracted mages from outside.
Osiris was an example of a mage who was strong in magik, very intelligent, but only moderately ambitious and not much of a risk-taker. The perfect employee, and Findlay richly rewarded him.
The guardians he had assigned to protect me were all strong mages, with an assortment of talents. I noted that both shifts included an aeromancer, who were skilled in creating protective shields. The others were either pyromancers or electrokinetics.
I rode over to Findlay House, arriving around twilight. The guards at the gate recognized me, and I sailed right on through. Up the long, curving drive, through the gardens starting to wilt as the season changed to fall, I rode until I reached the huge, sprawling mansion on top of the hill. I had no idea what had been there prior to the wars. Someone told me once it had been a public park, but I hadn’t bothered to check and see if that was correct.
I actually had a suite of rooms set aside for me on the second floor overlooking the back garden. The total space was as large as the house Kirsten and I shared, and far more opulent. When I was ‘in residence,’ there was also a maid assigned to me full time. Even as a child, that made me uncomfortable. One of the noticeable differences between the Ten and the rest of the Hundred was the number of human servants. Only the very rich could afford human servants. The merely wealthy made do with robots. Findlay primarily employed robots in roles that didn’t put them in contact with the family, such as gardening and cleaning.
During my teen years, I spent time at the mansion for human holidays, although I lived with my mother at the dam when I wasn’t away at school. The contrast between the two places was considerable. Mom cared nothing about riches or power, while Grandmother cared about little else—except me. I had never doubted that she loved me, in her iron-willed, inflexible way, and she paid for my schooling at elite institutions. Which is where I met that insanely intelligent, unbelievably gorgeous, absolutely outrageous girl who became my lifelong friend. Two entirely different kinds of outsiders.
But in spite of the fact that I learned to nominally fit into my grandmother’s society, I never felt comfortable there. I always felt like an actress on a stage, reciting my lines and trying to survive until I could escape. I was an outsider, a black sheep, and most of the Findlay Family hated me. They never let me forget that I was a James, the source of all the world’s problems. As if their patriarchal attitudes and avariciousness were so wonderful and the natural order of things.
My relationship with Grandmother Olivia had changed as I matured. I had become more responsible, and she had become more flexible. In a way I never would have predicted, we became comfortable with each other.
We dined in her private dining room, and her cook served my favorites. Fruit salad with some golden elven wine, which I was sure came from my mother, followed by lobster accompanied by drawn butter and lemon wedges with a lovely white Châteauneuf-du-Pape, then tournedos drizzled with Wellington sauce and a pinot noir bursting with cherry and chocolate flavors.
As I sat back and sipped the special cordial she had imported from France, I said, “I’ll have to invite myself to dinner more often.”
She laughed. “Don’t press your luck. I just happened to be in the mood for one of your favorite feasts. So, to what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”
I told her about what I’d uncovered concerning the connections between Ashvial and Akiyama and how they tied into Johansson. My grandmother’s expression grew grimmer as I detailed everything I had learned. When I got to Johansson’s involvement with Akiyama’s shipping company, that expression turned to stone.
“So, you think they’re bringing in slaves from the Middle East and Africa?” she asked.
“And parts of Europe. Unloading them in Montreal.” Findlay controlled the ports of Baltimore and Wilmington, and would have noticed such traffic. Montreal was more wide open.
“Makes you wonder what they’re bringing in through Vancouver,” she said. “The question is why? Why get involved in such trade?”
“Money. The very wealthy are willing to pay well, whether for sex toys or domestic servants,” I said. Findlay employed a battalion of servants at their various estates, and paid them handsomely. “Figure the cost of a trained domestic over ten years. Once you’ve recovered the purchase price, their only cost for the next thirty or forty years is room and board.”
“That’s disgusting. They’re human beings.”
“I agree, but not everyone has your values. And what turns my stomach the most is the young girls and boys. Many of them become domestics when they grow too old to serve their original purpose. Olivia, I’ve rescued several hundred children just in the past five years. And that doesn’t even take into account the people sold to demons, many of whom end up crossing the Rift. When children outgrow their use as sex toys, there is a major market selling them to demons. And the
