City of Broken Magic

by Mirah Bolender

  They walked back along the floor strewn with debris, and down the stairs. The Bijou still spat fitfully on the ground and rolled after them as Clae messed with the door’s multiple locks. He got the first two open, but the third one gave him some trouble and he ended up breaking it and kicking the door open.

  The sunlight was bright, and even with goggles her eyes squinted in reaction. She tottered out of the house, nearly tripping down the stairs. She kept Clae’s coat directly in front of her as her eyes adjusted.

  Broken glass crunched underfoot as they exited through the gate. The cleaning robot was exactly where they’d left it, and beyond it down the street remained that crowd of policemen. Clae made a beeline for Baxter, who hurried to meet them.

  “Are you all right?” He looked so terribly concerned Laura felt like a child. “It sounded terrible! That thing didn’t hurt you, did it? I—”

  “We’re fine,” Clae butted in. “Where’s that chief of yours?”

  “I’m right here.”

  Laura looked around to see Albright approaching, a stack of papers in her hand.

  “Clay Sinclair.” She glanced down at the top page. “You—”

  “Clae,” Clae interrupted again. “Clae. Like ‘Clyde.’ Ends like ‘Amicae.’ We’ve been over this before.”

  “Clae, then,” the policewoman corrected herself, brows furrowed in irritation. “I wouldn’t do so otherwise, but with the increase in infestations lately, I had someone look up your file. You’ve got quite a record of incidents. More than any of your predecessors.”

  Clae sneered. “Not my fault you’re not getting warnings out.”

  “You’re the only one who gains anything from these things.” The accusing edge to Albright’s voice made Laura bristle.

  “Gain?” Clae quirked an eyebrow and jabbed a finger back at the damaged house. “You think I like that shit? No. Whatever you’re trying to accuse me of, it’s your own fault. I’m just the cleanup.”

  Before she could say anything else, he held out the little box and kept talking.

  “I’ve got the amulet right here. The infestation’s been exterminated. It took root in the back of a closet on the second floor, the room with all the pink. Can’t miss it. You’ll have to burn that closet and everything in it. Taint isn’t usually a health issue, but this one’s not salvageable.”

  The policewoman frowned. “Mr. Sinclair, I think you’re misunderstanding me. I just need to be sure that the appropriate steps are taken to—”

  “Appropriate steps?” he laughed. “As if you care what’s appropriate.”

  “I’m not the one who set these regulations in place. I’m just the one who has to carry them out.”

  “Then don’t ask me questions you don’t want answers to.”

  Clae turned around, dismissing her entirely. He picked out another police officer and pointed at her. “You. Make yourself useful and get my case off the roof. Don’t look at me like that, I killed the thing already. Go on.”

  He walked off. Laura hurried right after him—Albright looked ready to explode. Clae meanwhile had managed to harass the other officer into retrieving his briefcase. As the poor woman clambered up the bot, Laura asked, “Should you really have talked to the chief of police like that?”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Because she’s the chief of police. Couldn’t she throw you in jail for spite?” He only gave her a raised brow, and she amended, “She could make your life miserable.”

  “As if she doesn’t do that already.”

  “Excuse me,” came a voice from behind them. The same policewoman Laura had talked to earlier now stood next to them, a notepad and pencil clenched in her hands. Clae eyed these reluctantly.

  “That’s not much to make a report with.”

  “It’s not for a report. Or at least, not a police one,” said the woman. “I’m not actually one of the police. My coworker said this was the only way to get to the truth.”

  “Coworker?” Laura echoed, but she had an idea of what this was.

  “I’m a reporter,” said the woman. “I’ve been following the so-called MARU testimonials over the past year, and it just—None of it made sense. I wanted to tag along on one of your actual jobs and figure it out, and between what just happened and the way you spoke to the chief … This wasn’t a mob hit at all, was it?”

  Laura wanted very much to say, Yes, of course, finally someone’s figured it out, but instead gritted her teeth.

  The situation of Amicae was the laughingstock of any proper Sweeper operation. The country was carved as it was because of infestations, Amicae’s fortress of a city built exactly as it was because of infestations, but almost a hundred years ago Amicae’s Council had claimed they were impervious to such creatures. Nothing gets past these walls, the councilors even now were happy to declare. The truth of the matter was that infestations had gone dormant or targeted other locations, so Amicae went through a brief period of peace. It was very brief. Infestations came back with a vengeance, but by then the damage had been done. Propaganda was spread, and the Council was loath to admit they’d been wrong, or that Amicae could possibly be vulnerable.

  We, the friendly city, are the safest place in all of Orien, they boasted.

  There’s no need for alarm—there’s no such thing as an infestation in the city.

  There’s nothing to be afraid of.

  But there were many things to be afraid of, just as many if not more than there had been before the claim was made, and the Sweepers were woefully unprepared. It didn’t seem like something Clae would allow to go unchallenged, but he sat in his shop and stewed in his anger. Other Sinclair Sweepers had tried challenging it in the past. They’d been charged as traitors to the city, labeled terrorists by every newspaper, and sent to rot in jail. If Clae was gone, his duties would be passed on to some clueless policeman to be utterly botched, and that was something Clae Sinclair wouldn’t allow. Besides, he said, it’s been too long. It’d be like trying to convince people the sky isn’t blue. Instead he continued challenging behind closed doors, sending nasty letters detailing specific jobs to the councilors and hounding their offices on the rare occasion he had off; Laura had helped write a few of these, and in return had gotten a brief form-letter reply telling her to “stop talking about things you know nothing about.”

  The Council knew its claims but it had some ties to reality. They kept the Sweepers—even if the office was enormously downsized—and gave these workers huge benefits, all under the condition that they never share information about infestations with anyone. To the public they said that Sweepers were a practically defunct section of the police force, the last scraps of the once-great Mob Action Resolution Unit, only revived because the mobs had learned how to breed infestations and used these rare beasts in mob wars.

  If Amicae actually knew about infestations and how they worked, countless people would still be alive. The little girl in this latest house could’ve been out playing hopscotch with the other neighborhood kids, but no, her house was ripped apart, her family dead, and all the neighbors packed away neatly so as not to witness something that shouldn’t exist.

  Laura absolutely hated it.

  “Mobs are ever elusive,” Clae said at this moment, but he had the look of annoyance in his eyes too.

  “Just say yes or no, whether this was a mob attack,” said the reporter.

  “Where do you get the idea it wasn’t?” said Laura.

  “It makes no sense! I asked the neighbors about this family, even the aunt about this family, but nothing links to the mobs. Besides, mobsters are all about finesse. Doesn’t this place stink?”

  “All infestations stink,” said Laura. “It’s part of the job.”

  “Not literally, but—” The reporter paused. “You can’t say.” And they didn’t; Laura pretended to watch the robot and Clae observed his pocket watch. “Is it the audience? If I can make an appointment—”

  “I only make appointments with clients,” sa
id Clae.

  “You must have a lot of them, if it takes up all your time.”

  “I wonder.”

  “Got it!” came a triumphant cry from the roof.

  Clae walked over to the gate and called, “Toss it down!”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Just do it already.”

  After a little hesitation, the briefcase came sailing through the air. Clae leaned forward enough that it looked like he’d topple over the fence, but managed to catch it. He opened it, checking inside as if to make sure nothing was stolen. “Job’s done. Let’s go.”

  “If you can’t talk, who can?” said the reporter, following. “If people are in danger—”

  “We’re really not the people you need to—” Laura broke off. The crowd of police was approaching, and something about their expressions made her think that maybe the reporter’s disguise wasn’t as good as she’d thought. “I think they’ve figured you out.”

  The reporter glanced back and bit her lip. “Are you sure there’s nothing you can tell me?”

  “If you want to know the exact details of all infestations we deal with, you’ll want to speak with the Council,” said Clae. “They get reports of all monsters we’re called out for. I’d recommend talking to Victoria Douglas.”

  “Victoria Douglas,” the reporter breathed, scribbling this down. “Thank you.”

  “Thank you for paying attention,” Laura muttered.

  “Mr. Sinclair, what are you talking about over there?” Albright demanded.

  “It’s your policewoman, isn’t it?” Clae called. He turned back to the reporter and said, “Might want to run for it now.”

  And she did. With a shout, a few policemen ran after her.

  “Godspeed, reporter lady,” said Laura.

  “Godspeed, us,” Clae hissed, pushing her toward the trolley stop, and she realized that the other police were moving to head them off. They hightailed it.

  The trolley itself was only just leaving, slow enough that Clae and Laura hopped up onto the back of the car and squeezed inside. There were more people this time, all startled by their presence. It didn’t help that there were shouts behind them. Clae dusted himself off and grabbed the rail overhead as he had before, as if nothing was wrong; Laura decided to act the same.

  “Laura.”

  “What?”

  “It’s a Tuesday. You can go home early.”

  Laura wasn’t sure whether to rejoice or be suspicious. “Are you sure?”

  “They’ll be coming by the shop soon to interrogate me on what I said. It’s not like they can fault me for saying ‘ask the Council,’ but I doubt they’ll be polite about it.”

  “I was there too,” she pointed out. “They’ll want to hear my end of it too, I’m assuming? May as well get it all over with at the same time.”

  “You haven’t been a Sweeper long, so they’ll probably skim right over you.”

  “I’ve been a Sweeper for months.”

  “They don’t know that.”

  “What?”

  “I delayed telling them.”

  That explained why it took two full months for her to be summoned to the police station and lectured on the situation.

  “They probably think you’re a real pain,” she said.

  “Better a pain than a comfort,” he shot back.

  “But you’re sure you don’t want someone else there?”

  “No. Besides, I’ll be starting up the Kin again. If you think it’s hot in there now, you’re in for a surprise.”

  “You could teach me how to use it.”

  He barked out a laugh. “Try again in three more years. I’m not trusting you with something that big yet.”

  * * *

  Acis Road played home to theaters (musical, cinema, or otherwise), business offices, churches, and other important buildings Laura had never bothered to investigate. It traveled in a big circuit throughout the Third Quarter, but the stretch with the Sweeper shop sat away from all of them—in fact, this was the least busy part of the loop. For a stretch of a little over three miles there was nothing special, and the Sweeper shop sat smack dab in the middle. The same block contained an old bookstore, a bakery, a pharmacy, and a boarded-up pawnshop. All the buildings shared the same styled front: one large door sunk to be cast in shadow, with a little window right above it and two big windows protruding to display the goods inside. Smaller windows dotted the second floors, which served either as more shop/storage space, or, in Clae’s case, the owner’s home. The bakery swelled twice as wide as any of the others, but apart from that only different colors and wooden signs over the doorways set them apart.

  The Sweeper shop was a dark forest-green color, discolored and peeling in places. The sign overhead read, in faint yellow lettering, SINCLAIR: AMICAE SWEEPERS.

  Clae unlocked the door with a big old key, and the two stepped inside.

  “Hang on.”

  Laura lingered while Clae walked behind the counter and searched beneath it.

  “Here.” He held out two Eggs. “Now get out.”

  Polite as ever.

  Laura made a face but took them anyway. She stuffed them in her bag, grabbed the bicycle, and wheeled it to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Clae waved his hand, already back to inspecting the Kin. Laura had gotten used to being dismissed like this. The door creaked open and the bicycle tires bumped down the three steps. She brought it down to the sidewalk and was about to get on when she noticed Mr. Brecht.

  A skinny man whose hair had gone gray and thin, he wore a small pair of glasses on an enormously hooked nose. He ran the bookstore in the dull black building to the right of the Sweeper shop, and people generally considered him a touch insane. Some claimed that his desk and chair were up against the wall only a foot or so away from that room behind the curtains, and that his occasional madness stemmed from whatever was hidden there. Laura highly doubted it, but it was a popular theory. Today must’ve been one of his clear days, as his movement seemed more cautious than prowling.

  “Hello, Mr. Brecht!” Laura called.

  Mr. Brecht paused, teetering on the last stair as he looked at her.

  “Ah,” he muttered. “Yes … Hello, Miss Kramer. Lovely day. Lovely day.”

  Laura didn’t necessarily agree, but nodded anyway. “Good business today, sir?”

  “A smattering. What of you?” He eyed her disapprovingly. “Looks like you’ve been … ah … ambushed by a chimney sweep.”

  “We jumped down a chimney, so close enough.”

  He seemed completely unfazed by the news. “Hm. Well, bathe.”

  “Right.”

  Laura swung her leg over the bike. She was about to start pedaling down the road when Mr. Brecht squeaked, “Ah, Miss Kramer?”

  “Yes?” She looked back.

  After a moment of hesitation, he mumbled, “I advise the Tiber Circuit.”

  “Oh? Okay then.”

  Mr. Brecht nodded to himself, stared at the other side of the street for a moment, then turned around and headed back inside.

  Generally Laura followed the canal route home, but she’d left early. She could afford to take the long way.

  The Tiber Circuit was one of the bigger roads in the Quarter, but as it was farther from the inner wall, the attractions and shops along it were cheaper and more plentiful. There were also a lot more people. Laura had to slow down and maneuver carefully so she didn’t run over anyone.

  The noontime crowd milled in a conglomeration of earthy and muted colors: coats, vests, and pinstripes most common in various shades of brown. The men wearing these styles sported carefully maintained facial hair, some with handlebar mustaches, some appearing to have small animals glued to their faces, still others who didn’t give a damn at all and ended up with frizzy patched beards. The young man selling papers on the corner had patchy stubble of his own that didn’t fit his boyish face or childishly styled shirt and suspenders—no one over the age of eleven should be al
lowed to wear suspenders with stars on them. The women tended to have brighter styles, but even if the lady who blocked Laura’s path wore a red dress, it was rusty red and didn’t stick out much. Most of the women wore dresses, though some made the same choice that Laura did, donning fitted shirts and vests—still in brighter colors than men—to match pants. “Lady trousers” weren’t extremely popular, but the initial backlash had died away, much to Laura’s relief. She couldn’t imagine riding a bike or doing her Sweeper job in one of those loose dresses. The little girls didn’t seem to mind them, but she figured they’d learn eventually; for now they were stuck in ugly patterned dresses that made them look like pudgy baby dolls.

  Laura was a little frustrated she couldn’t just ride in the street and avoid the crowd altogether, but the problem with the street was exemplified as a little boy steered his bright red bicycle into the road, thick white tires bumping over the curb, and a car screeched to a halt on its own bicycle-shaped wheels. The driver leapt up from his cushioned seat to lean over his windshield and shout, just about ready to fall out onto the green hood of his roadster while the boy looked on in confusion and fright and yet another car swerved, puttering around them. Going out there could easily mean getting run over by one of those boxy automobiles; the best bet was to stay on the sidewalk. Laura looked around, keeping an eye out for whatever reason Mr. Brecht suggested the route.

  She paused a moment in the shadow of the great equestrian statue of Queen Terual XXIII. The open space of Battle Queen Square provided some relief from the crowd, but not by much; she still had to wheel past sightseers vying to get a look at the statue’s plaque. As she dodged a particularly noisy man in a jacket and tie (history scholar, judging by the enthusiasm as he raved about centuries-old military maneuvers), she spotted it. The library rose on the side of Battle Queen Square, all pillars and mismatched stone, and on the side was an assortment of tattered movie posters. They were pasted to the wall, but vandalism had got them in bad shape. Laura coasted up to them and hopped off the bike. She patted herself down, searching, and pulled a pocketknife from her bag. She walked up to the posters and squinted, picking out the untarnished parts she thought best, and scraped them off the wall as best she could. It was a good haul, she thought with pride.