City of Broken Magic

by Mirah Bolender

  Amicae sheltered its citizens from far more than infestations: anything that came from another city was a potential threat, since other cities knew and appreciated the dangers of monsters. Many foreign films featured them even as a background detail—in a city! Amicae bemoaned, as if the idea were ludicrous. They couldn’t very well cut out entire scenes of films to preserve Amicae’s delicate sensibilities (other cities were outraged at the very idea), so most pictures here were filmed on-site or made a big deal of the infestations being in the wilds and staying in the wilds. An entire committee had been set up to vet their quality before allowing films, books, souvenirs, or any other materials to enter. As a result most people had no idea what other cities were like. Laura was an avid cinemagoer (number one drain on her budget), and even she had difficulty picking out the most famous landmarks of other cities. She knew pieces of Coronae thanks to a book she’d clung to since childhood, but Carmen came next on the list, since it produced such a glut of films; it made sense that out of fifty candidates a year, Amicae could allow one or two. One of the posters here was from Carmen, and she was thrilled to recognize the skyline behind the illustrated protagonist. Some careful scraping, even more careful peeling, and she had a city in her hands. Beside the film posters were smaller pieces advertising local events, spanning all the way from mid-Fourth to outer Second Quarters; she made mental note of a few—particularly the one about bicycle races and the outdoor theater on the east side—before returning to the brighter, flashier pieces. She hadn’t found such a variety since the time she’d ventured into the upper Quarters, but the last time she’d tried that people had chased her off for vandalism. Upper Quarters always seemed fussy when the “bottom dwellers” came to check things out. Once she got these pieces in more or less decent shape, she put them between the pages of a large book in her bag—something she carried around for such occasions—and got back on the bike, quietly thanking Mr. Brecht and his eagle eyes.

  * * *

  At nearly four o’clock on the dot, Laura turned onto her street. It was called Cynder Avenue, named for the Cynder block of apartments where she lived.

  The bumpy road was full of potholes, but no cars came by this part of the Quarter to be bothered by it; no one was wealthy enough to own or ride in one. Laura rode her bike on the sidewalk, which was also cracked and uneven, but much easier to navigate on wheels—good news for the old bike. She disliked riding it over cobblestones and uneven pavement, but it was faster than walking, and the trolleys never quite synched up with her schedule, despite them being free if she showed off the Sweeper ring on her right hand. So bike it was.

  She arrived alongside the hulking, dark Cynder building and hopped off her bike, wheeling it to the door of the first apartment so she could knock. Old Mrs. Haskell made a habit of keeping other people’s bicycles in her apartment, as there was no other place to park them in this area where they wouldn’t be stolen and people weren’t keen on dragging even lightweight bikes up multiple flights of stairs. Laura lived on the top floor, so she was very grateful for the old woman’s kindness. Though that kindness only seemed to go out to those with jobs or seeking employment. Mrs. Haskell didn’t like deadbeats. It didn’t take long for Mrs. Haskell to come to the door, stutter through her daily greeting, and take the bike. That done, Laura headed up. The stairs were dirty. Dust and litter gathered in the corners, and scuffs showed where people had walked. Cracks and flaked paint crisscrossed the walls and floor, but it was still in much better shape than the road. Laura took the steps two at a time. One step. Two. Three. Four. Landing. Turn. One two three four. Second floor. Turn. She kept going until the fifth floor before resorting to one step at a time, all the way to the eighth floor. She took a left, following the hallway down two doors, and tested the third’s doorknob. The door swung open for her and she leaned in.

  “I’m home!”

  “Laura?” came a startled response from inside. Her aunt Morgan entered the hallway, blond hair a mess and brow furrowed in worry. “You’re home early.”

  Laura stepped inside and shut the door, reaching down to undo the buttons on her boots. “We had a bigger job today, so after that Clae sent me home.”

  “But he’s not laying you off?”

  “No. Seriously, who else would he hire? Everyone else would quit.”

  She set her boots aside and stepped up into the main part of the apartment. Morgan moved aside to let her through, and Laura slinked to the living room to sit down and pull out her book of poster scraps. A piece of Vir’s Arc of Valerian slipped out and she had to fish it back from under the couch; she’d completely forgotten it before. In any case, Morgan seemed happy to have company again.

  “Did anything exciting happen today?” she asked as she headed back for the kitchen and the smell of her newest culinary experiment.

  Laura laughed. “You have no idea. We had to go down a chimney today.”

  “You what?”

  Wait. No, she shouldn’t have said that. Laura sat up straight again, mind racing.

  “It’s okay! We had equipment, we weren’t in any danger. We just had to climb down and grab an amulet before anything happened to it. Nothing big.”

  Morgan didn’t look convinced, but backed down. “If you say so.”

  Laura didn’t like lying to her aunt, but the alternative was a nervous breakdown she didn’t want to experience. She also doubted Clae would appreciate some strange woman barging into his shop to yell at him. As far as Morgan knew, Sweepers led boring lives of gathering inventory and bringing amulets to be recycled. The contract of “tell no one” extended to family members, but even if it didn’t, Laura would’ve avoided the subject. She’d steered Morgan away from the story that they handled mobsters, let alone all infestations. She dreaded mentioning the hefty compensation for families if Sweepers were killed. The simple fact that existed would be enough to send her aunt swooning. Morgan kept dropping hints for Laura to quit the job even now—learning the magnitude of the work would catapult that into all-out harassment.

  Before Morgan could say anything else, another voice interrupted.

  “Mommy?” Her cousin, Cheryl, stood in the doorway of one of the bedrooms, blue eyes wide and a sodden colored paper in hand. “Mom, I spilled the paint.”

  Morgan hurried over, taking the paper and motioning for Cheryl to show her the mess. Laura breathed a sigh of relief. She picked up her book and headed for her room before she could regain attention.

  Her room wasn’t big, but it wasn’t small either. It had space for her thin bed, desk, chair, and closet. A big curtained window took up a chunk of the far wall, doubling as a glass door to a thick balcony. The left wall wasn’t a true wall, more of a glorified fabric screen separating her room from her aunt’s. Even now she could hear Morgan chiding Cheryl about the dangers of spilling paint. The rest of the wall space in the room was cluttered with a variety of papers, all stuck to the wall with tacks and adhesives.

  Laura had the habit of collecting discarded papers and sticking them up on her wall. Morgan had never figured out what it all meant, since this grand, ragged collage seemingly had no theme: a tattered monochrome photo of sunset over Amicae hung near her headboard, a colored drawing of an Avis-based opera singer gaped near the closet, and closer to the ceiling sprawled a faded, color-coded guide to trolley routes. In a stroke of middle school inspiration, Laura had dubbed it “Where Am I.” She’d lain on her bed, glared at the pictures while the rest of the family clamored about the apartment, and chosen exactly where she wanted to be. Now, at age twenty, she hadn’t been to any of the other cities and had far fewer escapist fantasies, but the pictures were still intriguing and the other cities existed whether Amicae acknowledged them or not. She felt a little more kinship to them now.

  After fishing tacks and pins from her desk, she knelt on her bed, transport book beside her, and plotted where to put the Carmen skyline. She was debating whether to deconstruct the whole thing and attempt to redo it in actual, directional order wh
en footsteps announced her aunt’s presence.

  “The art vandal strikes again. Where did those come from?”

  “There were some posters on the Tiber Circuit. Can you tell? It’s Carmen.” Laura settled on putting it above a matching Carmen automobile before snapping the carrying book shut. “How bad was Cheryl’s mess?”

  “She’s out of red,” Morgan sighed. “Spilled the entire container. Luckily it was only on the floor, not the sheets.”

  “That’s good. Easy cleanup, right?”

  “She’s still expecting a replacement, though. Could you talk to the lady at the craft shop on your way to work tomorrow? You always seem to get a discount out of her.”

  That mostly being because she bought things off of Clae’s supply list at the same time and claimed Sweeper benefits. She couldn’t bluff that watercolors were part of the job. “She hassles me about pins. I hate to see what kind of fit she’d throw over paint.”

  “Then maybe you could convince Charlie to help out? He’s so bright, I’m sure—”

  “No. Not happening.” Laura shoved the book back into her bag with more force than necessary.

  Morgan sighed and shrugged in defeat. “All right. I’m sure he’d be willing, but I’ll see what I can dig up myself.”

  “You’ll do fine.” Laura glanced back at the screen. Cheryl was probably behind it, working on another “masterpiece” already. Not like she needed the red to begin with.

  3

  (THIS JOB IS) THE PITS

  When Laura was five, her favorite place in the world was an offshoot of the Tiber Circuit. Paglia Road was packed with vendors and their wheeled carts, there on Saturday mornings but gone whenever a policeman sneezed nearby. She hadn’t lived with Morgan at the time but her aunt would take her on little trips, snooping among secondhand fineries and stolen loot. The real reason for the trips was probably the man in the tweed jacket: Morgan’s boss and Cheryl’s father. This was before the times of tears, the pregnancy and banishment. He apparently came here to visit a cousin, a peddler who hadn’t made it so well in the business world. Morgan would arrive, exclaim “What a coincidence!” as if she hadn’t been planning it the whole morning, and lean in to speak with the man with stars in her eyes. He’d comment on little things. Things Laura felt queasy about as she grew older. Morgan’s state of dress, for instance. Compliments on her subservience. A glance at Laura and a mention that “I can see you’d make a great mother.” The whole time his eyes dragged over her, unashamed. Morgan drank it all up.

  Later Laura wondered if the entire series of trips was a way to show off that aspect; that Morgan only tolerated her as a prop in her bid for marriage. At the time Laura just thought that Morgan was the best aunt in the world, made better because tweed-jacket-man’s cousin ran a cart of books. Supposedly he gathered items that fell off trains. Most items were damaged but the price was good. Laura dug through crates bigger than she was, sifting through torn paperbacks and bent covers. Most of the books were meant for other cities, nothing like Amicae’s style and holding far different stories. It was one of these books in its too-big crate that changed her life.

  We Are Coronae, read its title in thick black letters, its cover gone and pages wrinkled by water damage. Coronae, the capital city. Laura was a little girl with a mind full of princesses, knights, and Battle Queen Square. Of course she took the book. She spent afternoons alone in the house flipping through illustrated pages. It detailed life in Coronae’s five Quarters, featuring black-and-white drawings that ruled the pages in (seemingly) epic poses. She’d picked it for the princesses, but found something better.

  To the first heir goes the city’s knights, the book informed. To the second is the merchant guild. To the third the Sweepers. Does that mean they are below the knights and merchants? Far from it! While the knights are the ribs and merchants the organs, the Sweepers create the backbone of our great city: we could not stand without them. Below the text stood a man in ornamental armor, twisted in motion with a sword in one hand and the other raised above his head. He gripped the sun in his fingers. Shadows fled from him, jumbling with the words, None put terror into the fiends of Orien like the Sweepers. While small in numbers, they are the bravest men of Coronae.

  The following story showed the Sweepers attacking a monster in the wilds, and as she kept turning pages she realized the Sweeper was everywhere. Background or forefront, in every important spread he was in the crowd. He was important. Soon her favorite game was Spot the Sweeper. When her friends played cops and robbers she’d squint at the sun, raise her hand as if to seize it, and cry “I’m the Sweeper!” before jumping into the game. The problem was, no child had ever heard of Sweepers. These were days of ignorance, where infestations were only to be mentioned in museums, and the closest thing to Sweepers one could find was the still-operating MARU. Adults kept their mouths shut; who wanted to inspire a little girl to be a mob breaker? Boys kept sniggering and handing her brooms. Years went on and Laura came to the sad conclusion that Sweepers were as foreign to Amicae as the princess; it wasn’t like Sweepers had any enemy to fight in Amicae anyway. That changed in her second year of middle school.

  It was an offhand mention in the paper: Head Sweeper Clae Sinclair led the motion for amulet management reform in the Council chambers last Sunday.

  “Morgan!” she’d screeched, leaping from her chair so fast Morgan jumped and Cheryl started crying. Morgan groaned and fussed over her daughter, back turned as Laura held up the page like a trophy.

  “Look! Sweepers! I told you we had them! I told you they exist!”

  “That’s great, Laura. Grab your bag, we’re going to be late.”

  “It’s just like the book!” Laura flipped through pages but found no pictures so rifled back to the front. “They’re in the Council, so they must be—”

  “Honey, don’t you have some better things to worry about?” Morgan rearranged Cheryl’s scarf and ushered her toward the door, grabbing Laura’s bag as she went.

  “But—”

  “It’s just—It’s too early.”

  Morgan rubbed her head, probably fighting off a migraine from the week of late nights catering. She probably didn’t mean it so badly, but the high spirits fled out of Laura so fast she could feel herself deflate.

  The newspaper joined the book in her cramped closet. She tried to be the kind of person Morgan didn’t get migraines over. Quiet, submissive, all about presentation. It made her feel boxed in tight, but hollow all the same. She hated it. She wanted to run. She wanted to be important. The bravest in all the city. How awful was she to be jealous of a proud drawing, an impossible man with the sun in his hand?

  Later she learned that such men were entirely possible. In fact, they were downright annoying.

  * * *

  On the morning of August 20, 1233, Laura held one of the side handles of a luggage trunk while Clae supported the other side. The trunk itself was faded green, heavily enforced with black metal bars and a large silver lock on the front, collectively the weight of a small child.

  Laura grumbled under her breath and shuffled, switching hands because the metal handle cut circulation to her fingers.

  “I hate these handles,” she stated, for good measure.

  Clae grunted like he was paying attention, but he was busy looking at his pocket watch. It was a nice watch, good quality and well maintained—one of those rare models with a little window and a changing background, like some grandfather clocks; depending on the time of day it rotated to the sun, moon, dawn, or dusk—but it didn’t warrant that kind of attention. Well, she didn’t think so until he pocketed it and growled, “He’s late.”

  “He” being the man who was supposed to let them in for the elevator.

  They stood in front of the inner wall of the Third Quarter. The buildings stopped ten feet from the wall, leaving a cobblestone road following the curve. The wall itself was faintly yellow with a rough stucco texture, a door set in the middle just in front of them: a rusted slab
of reinforced metal. While not the largest of the scattered doors, it was one of the Sweepers’ most frequented ones.

  Through that door lay the inner workings of Amicae—all the big machines and industry, where non-magic energy was created and amulets were recycled, also the best way to reach their destination.

  “Maybe they’re behind schedule?” Laura guessed. “We’re not their biggest priority, are we?”

  Clae huffed. “If they don’t get here in five minutes we’ll climb the ladder.”

  “You really think we can climb a ladder with this?”

  “With determination? Yes.”

  With his face a permanent blank slate, there was no way to tell if he was joking. Luckily Laura didn’t have to fear for long.

  The door squealed. Gears at the top corners turned and the door rattled, moving upward to vanish entirely. For a moment only gloom was visible, but a wiry, middle-aged man with sunken brown eyes and a soot-streaked face came into view.

  “Sorry ’bout that,” he coughed. “Supervisors, ya know.”

  “I don’t know,” Clae said flatly.

  This man was far too used to Clae to be bothered. He was the same one who let them in, three times a week and at each of the three doors, the entire time Laura had worked as a Sweeper. Instead of complaining, the man scratched at his beard, staining the graying whiskers blackish with soot. “Either way, I’m here now. Come on in. I’ll get ya ta the elevator.”

  Laura and Clae shambled in with the trunk between them, Laura taking care not to bump it against her legs. The man closed the door behind them as they stepped farther into the gloom.

  There was a lot of smoke. Not like the smoke from cigarettes, but steam from boilers and black industrial smoke. Vents piped this to the outside, which was why some days Amicae looked like a dying fire. What smoke hadn’t escaped in vents rose through the empty core of the city, sifting through and across walkways and obscuring visibility. What Laura could clearly see was the wall they stood by: a factory making machine parts took up all visible space to her right, and on the left curved a set of stairs, caged and leading off into darkness, while below it lights glowed from a pub for workers, and various walkways branched off into the air until they were obscured by the smoke. Above, the underside of some other establishment jutted out of the wall. The noise was a cacophony: gears and pulleys and machines on the wall turned continuously in squeaks and clacks, exerting force on something far beyond Laura’s view; a droning hum emanated from the vents while elevators clattered and whirred out of sight, footsteps clinked on metal, the boilers growling and coughing and spitting like animals, and faintly, far below, the deep smashing sounds of mining tools.