City of Broken Magic

by Mirah Bolender

  Laura felt her ears move in response. She thought if she were a cat, they’d be flat against her head.

  The man walked ahead, onto the closest metal walkway. The thin railings only came up to the bottom of Laura’s rib cage and she didn’t put much faith in them, so she was pleased that it was only wide enough for two men shoulder to shoulder, not two people and a trunk. They walked single file, Clae leading, and Laura could walk down the middle of the path.

  They passed two workers, who had to squeeze past them. One ignored them completely, but the other must’ve been new, because he ogled them in their cleaner clothes and nearly tripped over his own feet. Sweepers came through here three days of the week, Monday and Wednesday and Friday, so veterans were used to them. They openly stared the first two weeks Laura appeared, but by now Sweepers were old news. They passed either unnoticed or unimportant.

  Their group turned left onto a branching walkway through a cloud of smoke. Laura walked through the cloud with eyes closed and breath held, led by the jerking trunk. At the end of the walkway was another caged area, this one built around a shaft. Inside she could see cables moving. The man leading them hit a button on the panel to the side, and they stood out of the way to wait.

  The elevator arrived with a loud, rumbling, clanking noise. Laura could see through the grilles that it was packed with men from the mining area. The grilles rattled open and men filtered out, too tired to talk as they shambled toward the nearest tavern. Clae and Laura boarded the elevator, and the man gave them a short wave.

  “See ya later, son. You know how ta get down. Just don’t take too long, or my supervisor’ll pitch a fit.”

  Clae exhaled slowly. The man took this as a response and hit the button again. The grilles rattled shut and the elevator jerked upward. Laura looked out at the view, the workers and walkways and machines, then turned to Clae. “What’s that man’s name? I’ve never asked.”

  “Does it matter?”

  “I’d feel better knowing his name.”

  “Why? Does he know yours?”

  As far as Laura knew, that man just knew her as Sweeper Number Two or something. She frowned at the thought and adjusted her grip on the trunk once more.

  “I’ve been doing this for twenty years and he doesn’t call me anything but ‘Sweeper’ or ‘son.’” Clae shrugged. “Why bother?”

  “You’ve been Sweeping since you were five?”

  Clae glanced at her again, and she couldn’t tell if it was in exasperation or acknowledgment.

  There was a whooshing sound as the elevator entered an enclosed shaft, this one solid wall instead of grated metal, so the light cut out. Other sounds were harder to hear, but the elevator’s noise rumbled and echoed louder than ever. There was no point in talking now. It was too loud to hear voices, and this part would be over soon enough. Laura kept her mouth shut for another two minutes, and the elevator emerged into sunlight. It jerked awkwardly as it reached its highest point and stopped. The grilles opened once more. Laura had to be careful to step down—the elevator stopped three inches higher than the ground.

  They were, essentially, on top of the world. Or Amicae, at least.

  Before them spread a sea of soaring roofs and grand architecture, the First Quarter. It was bright, clean, and even from this vantage point the buildings were ornate. Even the walkway they stood on was decorated like an over-the-top version of the old aqueducts: built more like a bridge, thick and tall, made of the same material as the yellowish wall, but with great wide arches that made it delicate and beautiful enough to match the Quarter it belonged to, letting in more light than it blocked.

  The breeze blew Laura’s hair about, but she didn’t mind the respite from the heat.

  Clae led her left. The path spread wide enough for them to walk abreast of each other, with a good amount of room between their feet and the railed edge. On the side of the pathway ahead was a large round area, an external supporting pillar that followed the wall and disappeared into the ground of the Second Quarter. On the top surface a circle that looked like copper stuck up, the raised rim stretching to accommodate a five-foot opening currently covered with multiple metal slats, all curved triangles whose points met in the middle.

  They set down the trunk. Laura sat on it while Clae moved off to the side of this circle. What looked like a handle for a valve jutted up there, a foot off the ground. He grabbed the wheel and started turning it counterclockwise. It squealed in protest with every twist. As it moved, so did the slats in the circle; slowly they inched apart, retreating out of sight. With not enough room for two people to turn the handle, Laura watched. In the meantime she shook her hands, trying to get some feeling back into her fingers.

  “Why don’t you want to know that man’s name?” she asked, lacking anything better to talk about.

  “Because I don’t care.”

  “Not at all?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Why not? He’s there every day we come through here.”

  “He may not be next time, you know.” He finished with the wheel and sat back on his haunches, looked back at her. “Besides. Should I know the name of every machine I walk past in the morning?”

  Cold.

  Laura sniffed angrily, but said nothing. She slid off the trunk and opened the lock. With the lid lifted, their load caught the light. It looked like one of the regular Eggs, but the size of a watermelon, with handles on either end and on the metal framework of the middle. Clae helped her pry the object out of its cushion. They grabbed it by the ends and hauled it closer to the metal ring.

  The slats had gone from view, leaving a gaping hole with metal sides. It descended into blackness, the contents and bottom far, far out of sight. This was one of the three Pits in Amicae. The workers below called them chimneys for some reason—Laura knew this because her father was a miner—and they went farther down than any of the machinery. It was where they put broken amulets, so they were easier to take care of. There was no way to stop infestations from forming, so containment and monitoring was the best they could do.

  They set the giant Egg down very gingerly by the lip, and Clae dug through his pockets. He pulled out the little box from yesterday, opened it, and upended it over the hole. The broken amulet tumbled out, soon swallowed by darkness. That done, he shoved the box back into his pocket and returned to the Egg. Laura helped him roll it so he had one end propped up. She held the Egg steady as he twisted the end off, careful not to spill any of the contents. He set the cap aside, grabbed the handles on his side, and looked up at Laura. Their eyes met and she nodded.

  “Three,” he counted, tipping the glass. “Two, one.”

  On “one,” the Egg tipped far enough that its contents spilled over into the Pit. They slowly kept it pouring, tilting gently so the liquid went at a steady speed.

  The liquid seemed to defy gravity. It first slid down the wall closest to them, but then a ripple went through it and the mass changed course, veering sideways and up like a crashing wave, then surging back down before seemingly hitting something and splashing around it. It kept going like that, frothing and wheeling down in a golden spiral with a noise that sounded like faint laughter.

  Once all the liquid was out, they pulled the case back into an upright position. Laura peeked down the Pit again to see the liquid shining far below, like fire from deep inside the earth.

  “Put this back in the trunk,” ordered Clae, straightening up and going to the knob again.

  The empty Egg being much lighter, Laura carried it back and settled it in with no trouble. She shut and locked the trunk while Clae closed the Pit. A hissing sound escaped the dark, like the deep breath of a beast. That meant an infestation had begun over the last week. Good thing they were on a routine. Clae paid it no mind, and the metal slats closed over the Pit completely.

  “Right.” Clae wiped his hands on his pants. “Let’s get going.”

  Job done, they picked up the trunk between them again and went back to the elevator. Clae
pressed the button, and while they stood to wait, Laura used one hand to dig in her vest pocket, pulling out a beat-up pocket watch with initials that weren’t hers. She checked the time: ten forty-three.

  “It’s getting close to lunchtime,” she hinted.

  Clae’s attention was completely absorbed by the elevator button.

  “Maybe we should stop for lunch on the way back,” Laura pressed.

  “Hm.” Clae scratched at his neck.

  “Maybe we can find lasagna?”

  Clae had no life outside of Sweeping and hunting for a good lasagna; Laura had tagged along with him on a few of these lasagna-inspired trips, and decided that he hadn’t eaten any in years because he turned his nose up at all they came across. He didn’t seem interested in the idea at the moment either. She sighed and looked away. The breeze had vanished, the heat from yesterday returning. She wished it would rain.

  The elevator arrived with a retort, smacking against the top of the shaft. They walked in and the grille closed behind them. Clae reached through the grille and hit the button again, pulling his arm back fast as the elevator began to rattle down.

  The bearded man waited at their stop.

  “Done, huh?” He grinned. “Doesn’t seem like it was too bad.”

  Clae grunted as they stepped onto the walkway.

  “It was fine,” said Laura.

  The man smiled wider. “Good, good! I’d hope a young lady wouldn’t have too much trouble.”

  He probably thought he was being polite, but Laura’s mind went back to Morgan, You could convince Charlie to help—Her smile froze.

  “It’s no trouble at all.”

  “I suppose not! You’ve got this fine ‘gentleman’ here ta help!” The man laughed, clapping Clae on the back.

  It was almost worth the sting to see Clae stumble forward, shock and displeasure on his face clear as day.

  “Touch me again and you will regret it,” he hissed, and the man stepped back in surprise.

  Clae’s step quickened and Laura hurried to keep up, fighting a smirk. The man followed close behind.

  “Sorry, didn’t realize ya weren’t the touchy type. No offense meant.”

  Clae gave off a peeved aura even while his face had reverted back to neutrality. He stood stiffly by the door to the outside and refused to speak until the man opened it. Laura blinked rapidly at the sunlight.

  “Have a nice day!” the man called after them.

  “I hope he has some fine gentlemen to help him, too,” Laura grumbled. “If anyone needs help carrying shit, it’s not me.”

  Clae eyed her shrewdly. “Not in the forgiving mood today?”

  She’d half hoped he hadn’t heard that, and tried to wave it off. “It’s not important. Just touched a nerve. Where are we going next?”

  Clae huffed but he walked to the right, not straight, the wrong direction for the shop. Laura felt victorious. She swung the lighter trunk, a broad smile on her face as she pondered where they’d eat. Maybe the diner on the west side, or the Averill family restaurant. Probably the Averills. That was closer to the shop.

  Clae led her straight to the Averills’ restaurant. He pushed the door open with more force than necessary. The Averills were used to his moods, even if some customers looked up in surprise. The restaurant’s single room looked much smaller than it really was, the long bar on the left doing little to help the illusion even with the number of cushioned metal barstools bolted down before it. Wooden tables and chairs jumbled on the right, crowding up the rest of the space. The walls were a warm woody brown color, changing a foot from the ceiling into bright designs dotted with painted birds. All the other customers sat around tables while Peggy Averill wove between them, notepad in hand, and Dan Averill lounged behind the bar.

  Dan’s eyes followed them as they walked over to one of the nearest tables. Laura sighed as she finally set the trunk down. She knew the menu by heart at this point, but picked it up to scan anyway.

  “Hey, you two!” Peggy Averill stepped around the trunk to reach their table. “What do you feel like today?”

  “Cocoal,” said Laura.

  “Okay then!” Peggy’s freckled face broke into a smile. She didn’t bother writing it down; it was the usual order. “And you, Mr. Sinclair?”

  “Water.”

  “As usual. You going to finally try our lasagna?” Clae’s strange hunt for lasagna was as much a secret as his drapes: not known to the majority of the populace, but within the two-mile radius of his shop, the subject of much gossip and speculation.

  Clae’s nose wrinkled imperceptibly. The previous few occasions they were here he spotted other customers eating the lasagna and came to the conclusion that it must be terrible, just from one glance.

  “Teccinia.” He held out the menu.

  Peggy’s mouth twisted but still smiled. Like she was trying not to laugh at a stubborn child. “Should’ve known.”

  “I’ll try the lasagna,” Laura offered. “Who knows, maybe if he sees it up close he’ll change his mind.”

  “Doubtful.”

  “It could happen.”

  “Counting on it,” Peggy laughed, scribbling down their order. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  She took Laura’s menu and walked away. Again, much like the situation with the drapes, the nearby store owners had bets on where Clae would finally eat lasagna. The drape bets had died down, since there was no way to know what was back there, but lasagna bets were safe and much easier to find out about. Peggy had admitted that Dan placed quite a bit of money claiming that the Averills’ lasagna would finally win him over. Laura leaned over the table and whispered, “You do know about the wagers they have going, right?”

  As if he could possibly be in the dark. He sniffed disdainfully, but his mouth quirked in what she’d pinpointed as a really small smile. “What of it?”

  “At this point I’m convinced you don’t even like lasagna. You just like seeing them trip over themselves, don’t you?”

  The smile widened. “Again, what of it?”

  “You realize that you can determine the winner at any moment?”

  “Something I’m not inclined to do today.”

  “Of course not. I’m just not above helping things along. I may not have bet anything, but I like the idea of an Averill win.”

  “I’ll probably choose somewhere else out of spite.”

  “Do what you want. My only requirement is that you tell me beforehand, because I need to be there to see it. I’m pretty sure tears will be shed.”

  And that smile actually showed teeth. She was getting better at this.

  Peggy returned quickly. She put two glasses down before them, one full of water, the other with dark, froth-covered cocoal. Cocoal was typically a children’s drink, but Laura liked sweet things.

  “The food won’t take long,” Peggy informed them before retreating once more.

  Laura used her straw to prod the cocoal foam. At the movement the foam fizzed angrily and turned from brick brown to off-white, and for some reason she was thrilled.

  The door opened behind her, but she didn’t pay attention until a shadow fell over the table. Mrs. Keedler had arrived. She was one of the owners of the bakery on Acis Road, a heavyset woman who towered a foot above her baker husband, with a ruddy round face, red hair, and kind gray eyes. Laura didn’t see her much these days, but they’d crossed paths enough to know each other’s names and be friendly. If anything, Mrs. Keedler was a bit motherly.

  “There you are. I should’ve known you’d be here.” She spoke with none of the wariness most people tended to use around Clae. If anything, she sounded angry. Clae looked up at her.

  “Did you want something?”

  “There’s a woman by your shop. Been there at least forty minutes. I wouldn’t mind, but she’s very adamant about seeing you. Keeps walking up and down the street and badgering the other shops, like we’re hiding you in the storeroom or something.”

  Clae looked at her for a while,
contemplating. “Who is she?”

  “Some gentlewoman from the First Quarter. Didn’t see fit to give us her name.” Mrs. Keedler’s face grew thunderous. Whoever this “gentlewoman” was, she must’ve been really rude to get her this annoyed.

  “Have you tried telling her off?”

  Mrs. Keedler gave him a look that could dissolve the foam in Laura’s cocoal.

  “Apparently,” Clae grumbled.

  “I’ll give her one thing, she’s persistent,” Mrs. Keedler muttered. “When are you going to be back? So I can get her to leave.”

  “I’ll be back soon enough.”

  “But when?”

  “After I eat.”

  “I don’t think you understand—”

  “Oh, I understand perfectly. But if this woman’s as spoiled as you make her sound, I’m not about to cater to her whims. Let her stew awhile.”

  “Clae Sinclair, you’ve known me for more than ten years, and you know I am above petty rudeness, but today I am tempted.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll pick up your slack and be extra rude when I get back,” Clae assured her.

  Mrs. Keedler rolled her eyes. “You’ll be the death of me.”

  “So you’ve said, yet here you are, ten years later.”

  Peggy Averill returned, supporting a tray with two plates. She skirted Mrs. Keedler, who watched with some irritation that melted into intrigue.