The Magician's Land (The Magicians, #3)(25)

“Anybody know where we’re going?” Betsy said, studying her reflection in the ceiling.

“If I had to guess,” Plum said, “I’d say Newark.”

“You don’t have to guess,” Stoppard said. “We’re going to the Newark Liberty International Airport Marriott.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw the guy put it into his GPS.”

“Now that is some master magician shit,” Betsy said. “Right there. Damn, I was hoping for at least a DoubleTree.”

Of them all she was the only one who really fit the profile. Lots of attitude, lots of aggression. And something else. She kept the banter coming, but she had the air of somebody who’d survived some tough breaks along the way.

“So have you guys done stuff like this before?” Plum asked. She was showing a lot of persistence in keeping the conversation going.

“Like what?” Stoppard said. “Like stealing something?”

“Like stealing something.”

“Torrenting porn doesn’t count,” Betsy said.

“I have,” Quentin said.

“Really. You have.” Betsy had dramatic eyebrows. She knitted them skeptically. “What have you stolen?”

“A crown. Some keys.”

Betsy didn’t look impressed, grudgingly or otherwise.

“Anybody else?”

“I’ve stolen things,” Stoppard said.

“Like?”

“Like I’m going to tell you!” He opened the mini-bar, but it was empty. He slammed it shut. “Cheap crow.”

“Like you’re such a big drinker. What are you, twelve?”

“It’s not a crow, it’s a blackbird,” Plum said. “Crows have black beaks. This one’s was brown.”

The mood in the limo was slightly hilarious—they might have been a bunch of tourists in the same gondola, passing a flask of schnapps around, and in another minute they’d get to the top of the mountain and ski off in separate directions forever. Except that they wouldn’t. It was strange to think that he might have to trust these people with his life.

“Tell me,” Pushkar said. “Who here went to Brakebills?”

“What’s Brakebills?” Stoppard said brightly.

“Oh my God.” Betsy looked like she was thinking about jumping out into traffic. “It’s like a mobile f*cking Breakfast Club in here!”

“I did.” Quentin couldn’t think of any reason to keep it a secret.

“I did.” Plum shrugged. “Sort of.”

The limo slowed down and went over a speed bump. They were almost at the airport already.

“So are we supposed to have specialties, or something?” Plum said. “Is that how this works? I got the impression we were all supposed to have special skills or something.”

“You’re saying you don’t have any special skills,” Betsy said.

“Is that what I said? Probably I’m here because they want somebody who does illusions.”

“I specialize in transport,” Pushkar said crisply. “And some precognition.”

“Stoppard?”

“Devices,” he said proudly. Quentin tentatively tagged him as some kind of prodigy, or precocious anyway. That would explain his youth, and the special treatment from the bird.

“All right,” Betsy said. “I guess I’m offense. Penetration. Damage. What do you do, Quentin?”

She said it as if she were not completely convinced it was his real name.

“Not much,” he said. “My discipline is mending.”

“Mending?” Stoppard said. “The f*ck do we need somebody who mends shit?”

“Beats me. You’d have to ask the bird that.”

Quentin very much doubted that that was why he was here. He was doubting it more all the time.

Fortunately it was a short trip: the limo drew up under the lighted awning of the airport Marriott, and bellmen in cheap livery converged on it, probably hoping it contained drunk, heavy-tipping newlyweds. They were going to be disappointed.

“I cannot wait to get out of this thing,” Betsy said.

“Speak for yourself,” Plum said. “I never went to prom.”

—

Lionel and the bird had reserved three suites. The five of them sat on a vast beige sectional couch in one of the living rooms, waiting to be briefed. Betsy paged through the room service menu. The bird pecked at some nuts from the mini-bar. A clutch of Heinekens stood on the coffee table, but only Stoppard was drinking. From his expression it seemed not impossible that this was a first for him.

“All right,” Lionel said. “Here’s what we know, here’s what we don’t know.” He had the manner of a bored tech-support guy explaining something very, very basic. He was standing by the flat-screen TV, which he’d unplugged. He touched it and an image appeared—he was apparently able to project them straight from his mind, which was a trick Quentin hadn’t seen before. “This is the case. Not the actual one, but same make and model.”

It was a handsome but unassuming leather suitcase, pale brown, pleasantly battered, very English, with lots of nice straps and clasps on it. It looked ready for a weekend in the country.