by Eytan Kollin
The
Great Bridge
Boston,
Massachusetts
October 4th
6
Taught by George
Overton wrapped his overcloak tight against the night’s chill. He had grown out a ridiculously curly moustache and pointy devil’s beard for this disguise, but the frost still nipped at his cheeks and nose. An overcast sky blanketed the stars and moon, leaving only a few pockets of light dimly illuminating the sleeping city. Below, the sound of the Charles River gently echoed as it welled against its banks. It would be two hours still before the populace began to wake, and more fires would scar the serene stillness and hush of night.
He rubbed his eyes and sped up, stifling a yawn. It had been months since he had felt the call of a new artifact being forged but he had been unable to depart for the Colonies until he was sure the King’s men were no longer watching him. It felt like days since he had slept. Now that he was here, he had simply to make his way to Philadelphia, and find the artifact Jane Loxley had warned him about. Shadows kept him company on his walk, illusory pedestrians stepping in and out of focus as his vision played tricks on him.
He paused for a moment, making sure he was alone, then muttered to himself, “Bǽran.” The darkness melted away. It was not that he had summoned a will-o’-the-wisp, or open flame, but rather, he had summoned light that only he could see. And as his vision pierced the shadows, he realized that one of the phantom walkers hiding at the edge of his vision was no mere distortion of the eye. He spun to confront the wraith, but the shade was ready for him.
“Macht kleb!” echoed across the bridge.
Invisible hands grabbed Overton’s wrists and yanked him back till he dangled precipitously over the water. A stream of pure force smashed into his abdomen, knocking the wind out of his chest. Overton let his head loll, inviting the attacker to come closer.
The shadows simply faded away from a man, dressed in simple clothing—though of high quality—who stepped forward with his hands clenched about empty air. Overton immediately understood the man’s magic. “You were taught by George.”
The man nodded, and spoke with a north London accent. “Yes. And I’ve been sent to collect you and the objects of power. You have committed treason and will be brought before his Majesty to receive judgment.”
“I see. Is that all?” Overton studied the man, taking in every detail.
The man paused, confused. “I’m sorry. What?”
“Is that all? Is there a particular object you seek? Did the King tell you who I am? Are there more of the King’s Guard here?”
“How did you—” he glanced over his shoulder to the other side of the bridge. It was all the confirmation Overton needed.
“Æris!” Overton spoke the word calmly and a gust of wind bowled the man over.
The guardsman struggled to his feet, hurling clamps of unseen force at Overton as he kept repeating the phrase, “Macht kleb!”
Overton countered with wind strikes each time, casually swatting away the other’s rudimentary magic. “That’s the problem, you see. George never teaches his students more than one or two things. He is too scared of what you might do if you touched real power.”
“Macht blic!” a second voice joined in the fight and an arc of lightning smashed silently through the night and caught Overton full in the chest. He flipped through the air backwards, his head banging against the rail of the bridge. Barely catching himself before tumbling to the river below, he managed to collapse on the walkway. Everything was stained white and his ears rang.
And the two guardsmen stood side by side, walking calmly toward him. Pushed to his limit and beyond, by both exhaustion and having his head solidly rung like a bell, he gave up on being gentle. “Abrecan, ád dwǽscan.” He slammed his hands down on the bridge, focusing on his assailants.
Both men froze. Their eyes went wide and their mouths gasped for air. Below their skin, the veins that carried their lifeblood began to glow as fire sparked and consumed them from the inside out. Within seconds, their skin flaked off, so much dry parchment, and all that was left of them was a pile of dust.
Overton sucked in a huge breath, took a moment to collect himself. Lest he get caught by more of the King’s men, he quickly gathered the ashy remains into a pouch and vanished into the night.
The Plumstead
Warehouse
Philadelphia,
Pennsylvania Colony
October 17th
7
Dextrous of Hande
The crude wooden stage occupied most of one end of the warehouse, in an area normally taken up by bales of Carolina cotton and the latest crates of goods coming into the city from Europe. Late afternoon sunlight from vents in the ceiling mixed with smoky torchlight and the glow of candles in reflective metal sconces. Together, these illuminated the performers, who had just that day arrived in Philadelphia, in a shroud of tantalizing mystery for the watchers.
After this portion of the show, tonics and such would be for sale until evening time, when the main body of the troupe would put on a translation of Il Vero Amico, the newest play to make its way across the ocean. Meanwhile—the celebrated Callista Family Acrobats having completed their display of tumbling, balance, and strength—the audience’s attention was now wholly occupied by the antics of a middle-aged man with a curiously long and curly moustache and beard combination, capped by oiled-back hair, who was dressed in garish blue-and-purple robes. Capering about the stage with him was his comically bumbling assistant, a bewigged boy wearing a bedraggled Italian gown at least twenty years out fashion. Propped against the wheel of a cart at stage right was a large sign that read:
GASPARINI THE GREAT
— IL MISTERO DEI SECOLI —
The Most Dextrous Of Hande, The Greatest
Entertainer Since Isaac Fawkes
MYSTERY OF THE AGES
Gasparini spoke to the audience in Venetian-accented English, gesturing at the new props his assistant was clumsily unloading from the cart. “As you can see, good friends, I have three pails—One! Two! Three!—and a single watermelon . . . ” The boy stumbled at the watermelon’s weight; Gasparini righted him mid-pratfall and continued. “At least I hope to have these necessities, assuming my not-so-lovely assistant can find her feet!” With that, he placed one of the wooden buckets over the watermelon, hiding it from view; then gestured to the boy to sit down on the bucket, which was accomplished with considerable flouncing of the rumpled gown’s skirts.
“I know you have all seen the magic of the cups and balls, perhaps even as performed by Isaac Fawkes himself! But you have never seen anything like this, gentlemen and . . . um . . . ” Gasparini squinted at the audience as though he was having trouble finding someone. “Si, si, ladies, such beautiful Philadelphia ladies! And free spenders, no?”
The seated assistant idly withdrew a recorder from the floppy sleeve of his gown and began to play a vaguely mysterious tune. Gasparini stopped him with a mock slap to the back of his head, which jolted his wig forward; the audience laughed loudly while the two performers exchanged an elaborately escalating series of glares. Gasparini sighed loudly, wagging his finger. “Not yet, Giuseppe . . . I mean Giuseppina, si, that’s what I meant! Wait for me to gain a connection to the mistica, you silly thing, and then you begin the musica!”
Franklin gently elbowed his son. “I say, this is marvelous. Much better than last year’s performance.”
William nodded. “Is he really as good as Fawkes?”
“Not a patch. But we must take what we can get, here, and he is lively.”
The traveling company was a welcome respite in the midst of intense times. The Pennsylvania Assembly had petitioned the colony’s owners, the Penn family, to contribute from their holdings to locally collected taxes and fees, towards local matters and needs. To no citizen’s satisfaction the Penns had refused, and the dispute was in clear danger of escalating. The Proprietors were bl
untly refusing to pay taxes themselves, as well as using the taxes collected from others in a method the Assembly balked at. With pressure building, a chance to ignore the colony’s problems and simply laugh was a welcome relief to many: the entertainers would find generous and needy audiences here.
Gasparini now hefted a bottle filled with a bright pink fluid over his head, striding the stage like a tiger. “Once I drink this tonico mistico, derived from the meat of the watermelon and the essence of waters obtained from the lost temple of Solomon, I shall be able to make the fruit disappear!” There was an obligatory gasp from the crowd, mixed with challenges of disbelief.
Gasparini brought the bottle to his lips and drank, leaning back further and further, until the pink fluid was entirely consumed. Then he straightened, and, as his assistant played, he lifted the other two buckets up—to show the audience they were empty—before slamming them back down again with great thumps upon the stage. In this lifting-and-dropping manner, he reversed the buckets’ relative positions, placing one at the other side of his assistant, then both, and then worked them back to their original places. At no time did the boy move from his perch or pay any attention to his master at all, remaining fully focused on playing.
Finally Gasparini stopped with a flourish and addressed the crowd, “My esteemed friends, which bucket do you think the watermelon is under?”
A din of shouting voices made plain that the audience knew nothing had changed, and the watermelon was still under the seated boy. Gasparini crooked a dramatic eyebrow and snapped his fingers. The boy in the dress immediately stood up, stopped playing, and backed away from the bucket. Gasparini, smiling mischievously, lifted it to reveal . . . nothing.
The crowd gasped.
In quick succession Gasparini lifted the other two buckets, and the audience gasped again when the watermelon was found under the last one.
At that, without another word, the magician launched into the rest of his act. The boy in the dress stood to one side, playing faster and faster, as Gasparini lifted and moved buckets at will, his robes swishing dramatically. The watermelon appeared first here and then there, under a different bucket every time. As the music grew more intense, a second watermelon was found, which Gasparini rolled to one side. Moments later a third watermelon joined it, and then a fourth. The audience’s applause grew louder with each addition.
The music stopped. In a series of flamboyant motions, Gasparini turned all the buckets right-side up and placed a watermelon in each, then stacked them in a clumsy, ill-balanced tower. That done, he snapped his fingers twice and kicked the buckets over. As they tumbled and rolled noisily on the stage the onlookers could see that they were all now completely empty.
Thunderous applause followed, along with foot stomps, whistles, and shouts. The grinning magician basked in this acclaim for a moment, then clapped both hands together above his head with a shout of “Presto!”
At this the three missing watermelons fell from the rafters, narrowly missing the boy, who jumped back in unfeigned surprise. They smashed as they hit the stage, spraying seeds and red-pink pulp in all directions.
Ben blinked rapidly and brought his hand to his chest. The Key, which he now wore under his shirt on a chain, had begun to warm when Gasparini had completed his act’s first move.
The magician and assistant bowed to the crowd while the acrobats from earlier set up a table to sell watermelon tonic infused with “Solomon’s Gift.” William Franklin moved forward to join the queue, but Ben caught his arm.
“No.”
William was surprised by his father’s reaction. “Why not? As you say, the tonics are harmless enough. Just sweet tasting waters, yes?”
“This is different. Quietly, please, step aside with me.”
William gave him a look. “Father . . . ” he began.
Franklin interrupted. “I know, I know. But step aside with me nevertheless.”
William followed his father out of the warehouse. Outside, William breathed deeply of the cool autumn air with its hints of tobacco smoke and hearth fires and said, “You are obviously troubled, Father. Why?”
Franklin rubbed the Key through his shirt. Its metal had started to cool as soon as they had exited the building. “Somehow, whatever that man was doing made the Key come alive. Painfully so, in fact. I do not know how or why, but I prefer to avoid whatever agency was in use.”
“But this . . . this is marvelous! A clue! We have so many questions and no answers. Your investigations have offered no—”
“I have gained greater control.”
“Yes, yes, but no understanding. If there is a connection between what this mountebank was doing and the Key, then he might know something useful!”
Franklin shook his head “My boy, we are men of thought. Men of philosophy. Through observation and questioning, that is how we will find our answers. Not from some strolling button-buster.”
“I do not understand,” William frowned. “It seems foolish not to just go ask him.”
“And how would you proceed? Mr. Gasparini, welcome! Do you like our colony? I do hope so. And tell me, please—was that business with the watermelons just a trick, or was it dark magic? Can you throw fiery sparks with your hands like my father has learned to do?”
“Surely discretion offers more options than those,” William rejoined. When distracted and flustered, his father could become a most unkind person.
The elder Franklin thought for a moment. Why was he so hesitant to approach the wandering magician? In place of his usual clarity of thought he found nothing but muddle, and an unexplainable urgency to be as far from the Plumstead Warehouse as possible.
Meeting his son’s eye, he said “Perhaps. The thought that intrudes upon my process is that we would risk being spoken of poorly by our peers, though I know this is not true.”
“Then you have no reason.”
“No reason I can yet name . . . which does not reduce my certainty. Until I know more, we will avoid this man.”
William was taken aback. He has never known his father to be anything other than fearless and inquisitive. This sudden reticence shook him . . . but taking in his father’s expression, he nodded and acquiesced.
The two Franklins walked in complex silence through the Philadelphia streets until they parted company at Society Hill. Ben continued towards home, lost in thought, while William left for an evening of drinking and merry distraction with his friends.
They did not speak again upon the topic for weeks.
The
Blue Anchor Tavern
Philadelphia,
Pennsylvania Colony
November 28th
8
The Hands of Our Enemies
Jane Loxley wore a full-covering cloak, overdress, and low-heeled buckleless shoes identical to those she had purchased for her maid earlier in the season. With the hood of her cloak pulled up against the snow and wind, and a covered basket in hand, she was able to pass through the afternoon streets as unnoticed as any servant. Not that recognition was so great a risk, but when engaged in the Society’s business, it was always better to exhibit care.
At the Blue Anchor Tavern, she found her Lord waiting at the back door. He opened it for her without a word, and they entered together. Inside, the goodwife and her two helpers scurried about the kitchen, tending to multiple stews, warm cider pots, and a bank of meat pies that were being prepared for the evening rush.
The tavern staff took no notice of the two cloaked intruders, or of the sudden gust of chill November wind that accompanied their entry. Jane, seeing this, understood that they were glamoured and chose to stay silent. The very first time she met her Lord she had tried to make conversation with him in a similar situation, and her voice had broken the spell, revealing their presence to those passing by. That was how she had learned all acts of magic have their limits. Even his.
A few moments later they stepped into his room at the top of the stairs.
“Thank you, Lord—”
He stopped her with a look. “No formal titles—or especially numbers—please. I am ‘Signore Gasparini’ here, merely a traveling entertainer; as you are simply ‘Mrs. Loxley.’ I have raised wards against interruption, but they rely upon convention and appearances.”
“Yes, Signore.” Jane acknowledged his instruction with a swift nod. “What do you command? I would not wish Mr. Franklin harm—in fact, he is a dear friend of my husband’s—but he is not one to limit the bounds of his curiosity. There is no telling where the exploration of his accidental discovery will take him.”
“Indeed. The man attended my show five times during our performances here, and he was clearly studying me in a way his fellows were not. He sees and feels more than they do.”
“He always has.”
“Not like this, I wager. Somehow, something has opened his senses—something more than mere proximity to the star metal. I sought to tempt him to come to me by using more real magic and less illusion each time he watched, but it did not work. Indeed, I may have driven him away. On the last attempt he left the audience mid-show and never subsequently returned.”
“If Mr. Franklin is so gifted, perhaps he should be brought into the fold? Our numbers are small, and few of us have actual skill, despite our knowledge.”
Gasparini shook his head. “He does not sound like one to be ‘folded in’ to me. I am planning to discourage him, as I am able, after I learn exactly what he has and what he does or does not know.”