He didn’t respond, so I continued. “Look, I’ve seen cops do terrible things and I’ve seen cops be braver than anyone would ever give them credit for. Most of us are just trying to get by and make the world a little bit better before we hit retirement.”
Jax pointed at a group of kids in matching denim and fur-trimmed leather jackets. They walked with a collective swagger, taking up most of the sidewalk.
“You think they say the same things about themselves?” he asked. “I don’t mean the dangerous ones. I mean the small-time criminals we arrest and see back on the streets the next day. You think they’re simply trying to get by, seeing terrible things and feeling like the good they do is underreported?”
The teens approached an elderly lady with a walker. As they came up on her, two of the group shoved the others aside to allow her plenty of space to pass unmolested.
I frowned. “I know they do.”
Jax gripped the steering wheel, eyes back on the creep of traffic. “I didn’t get the dupe made because while I was in that pawnshop I kept hearing my training officer from Kohinoor.” Jax had seen his hometown overcome by organized crime and street drugs. “He told us that every dirty cop starts with something small. A free coffee, a better seat at a restaurant. Small things offered as thank-yous. Nothing that’d hurt anyone. But after a while, the cop thinks they deserve that coffee, they deserve the better seat. And the first time they walk in and they don’t get it, they get angry.” Jax hummed a low note. “Angry, entitled people with power are dangerous.”
“Getting a dupe badge isn’t a power trip,” I said. “Your original fell out of your pocket, probably while you were arresting a killer. Does a ten-day suspension for that sound fair?”
“No. And free coffee doesn’t sound like corruption.”
I didn’t respond, awkwardly aware of the wallet in my pocket, and the duplicate badge it held.
Jax was the one to break the silence.
“So when you’re doing your magic thing,” he said. “What exactly can you do?”
I hesitated, gnawing on my bottom lip. But I’d agreed to tell him, and I didn’t see any way out of it.
“I mean,” he was actually starting to sound excited, “can you fly or turn invisible?”
“Don’t be stupid.” I made a show of looking at the foot traffic. “So how long do you think the Barekusu will stay? You want to make a wager on when they can’t handle this town anymore?”
His windchime laugh was obnoxiously loud in the confined quarters of the Hasam. “Sure, if I was interested in changing the topic. Which I’m not. Tell me what you can do.”
“Fine.” I stretched my legs as far as possible in the Hasam’s tight quarters. “You know how manna connects things, right? Like if you bind a pebble to a boulder, then spin the pebble, the boulder will move, too?”
He nodded. “Or bind the pebble to a hat, and make one as soft or hard as the other. I’m familiar with the concept, Carter.”
“Well, there’s lines of force that connect them, like threads. Since the manna strike . . . I can feel them.”
“Like they’re real things?” he said. “I was always taught that connecting threads are a conceptual construct. There’s nothing there to interact with. That’s what makes magic . . .” He waved a hand, searching for the right word. “. . . magic.”
“Hey, you’re the one who wanted to hear this,” I said. “I was happy to talk about the caravan coming to town. Speaking of which, are you gonna go see them?”
Jax rolled his eyes, as if walking a particularly moody child down a candy aisle. “I’m asking questions because that’s how I learn. And to answer your question, no, I’m not planning to go see them. I saw a Barekusu caravan once. I think I’ll pass on this one.” He inched the car forward. “So you can sense the invisible threads of magic. And then what, you can weave them together?”
“No, they stick to me. But back up a minute. You’ve seen Barekusu in person?” I glanced at him. “When? What’s it like?” Nomads, teachers, philosophers, the Barekusu were the eldest of the eight Families, and had introduced each of the other sentient species to the world as they awoke. Traveling in caravans the size of small towns, they had taught the world the One True Path, and helped negotiate peace and prosperity among the other Families. They also made really great sweaters.
“Stop changing the subject. We’re talking about you being a secret sorcerer.”
“It’s not sorcery. Sorcerers create the ties that connect manna-bound objects. I can’t do that, but I can feel them, you know?” I shifted in my seat, wishing I hadn’t let him drive. “Like spider silk sticking to your hair when you walk through a web.” I looked at the thick plates covering his scalp. “Do you need me to explain hair, too?”
“I do not get paid enough for this,” he muttered, before raising his voice slightly. “Okay, so you can feel them but not create them. You’re like the opposite of a sorcerer.”
I opened my mouth, then paused. “I guess so. I hadn’t thought of it like that before.”
“Okay. I understand that, I think. So what do you do to these threads?”
“The problem’s what they do to me,” I said. He started to respond, but I cut him off. “If I pull on the threads—or maybe it’s more like squeezing on them? It’s hard to explain. Anyway, it drains the strength of that manna bond. Everything gets cold, and the world sounds far away. Like being underwater. Then I can redirect that . . .” I shook my head. “That energy, I guess? I don’t know what it is, but I can dump it into another manna bond.”
“Like a sponge,” he said. “Or a battery. You’re a battery for magic!”
“Whatever. Anyway, it’s your turn,” I said. “When did you see the
