“Excuse me, but would you like a refreshment?” the butler asked, looking at Mary.
She glanced over to Laura, then replied, “No, I think not. Our guests were promised breakfast and it would be rude to leave them unattended. I’ll have something then.”
“That would be now.” Clae stormed back over to them, and Laura hopped up in response.
“That was fast,” she observed.
“Mr. Sinclair doesn’t have his father’s patience,” Frank chortled, walking past them and pausing in the doorway once more. “I’ll be in touch later.”
“Call the Council. It’s city property,” Clae retorted.
“Of course it is. Well, go ahead and eat something. You have no other business here, so after that, leave.”
Frank vanished into the hallway. Clae simmered in silence while Mary stood and tried to calm the tension. “My father-in-law may seem unkind, but he really is a great man.” Her stutter undermined her statement. “Please don’t mind him. Here, I’ll take you to the dining room. Your food should be ready.”
Laura followed, eager to leave the tainted parlor behind. Mary led them out and down the hallway, where more paintings and unnecessary objects cluttered the walls. They walked into a large dining room. The table itself stretched what looked twenty feet long, heavily ornate with a grand set of matching chairs. Windows let in shafts of light around two walls, and expensive china glinted on the table. Two servants stood along the longer, painting-covered wall next to another door. At the head of the table sat a man who looked about thirty, with mousy-colored hair and the same eyes as Frank Sullivan. Between those eyes, his clothes, and the way he sprawled across the chair as if he owned the place, Laura guessed this was Mary’s husband. Mary didn’t look overly pleased to see him, oddly enough.
“Good morning,” he greeted, lowering his newspaper. “And you are…?”
“This is Mr. Sinclair and his assistant. They’re here to check up on the house.” Mary walked to his side and took the nearest seat. “Mr. Sinclair, this is my husband, Henry Sullivan.”
Henry straightened up in his chair, in the manner of a prideful king on his throne.
“Sinclair? I’ve heard that name before. You’re the Sweepers, aren’t you?”
“That’s correct.”
“Of course!” the man laughed. “Sit down, sit down! You must be a psychic, sir. My father was going to call to speak to you today.”
“He already did,” Clae sneered.
Laura gave him a wary look, but the butler gestured them to the seats halfway down the table, so they slowly sat down. Mary motioned at the other two servants, and they left through the other door. Henry paid them no attention.
“Still, it’s perfect timing. I’m sure my father has already explained the situation. Could you be convinced to redirect the path of that—”
“No.”
The word was loud and sharp. Henry paused. Mary looked embarrassed that this was happening again; she turned her head away from Henry and raised one hand so he couldn’t see her wince.
“Are you sure? It’s a rather large structure in a rather bad place.”
“The Pits were constructed long before your pipes, and they will stay long after,” Clae growled.
Henry laughed again, but this time it held some malice. “Look, sir, it’s true this thing’s been around for a long time, but that’s just it. It was constructed before the larger boom of industry. The people who made it didn’t anticipate the needs of today. The Pit is blocking space that could be used for countless other needs of our city.”
“The Pits cannot be moved,” Clae insisted, and Laura wondered if this was the exact same argument he’d just had with Frank. “You can’t just pick one up and put it somewhere else. You can’t redirect its course. You do that and you screw up the entire system. And then this city won’t have needs. We’ll all be dead.”
“Don’t you think you’re overreacting?”
“No, you’re just stupid.”
Laura resisted the urge to bury her face and cry, because damn, Clae was stupid. Getting big wealthy businessmen to hate them was a bad, bad idea.
“Sir, I do my research—”
“Obviously not, if you think the system can be tinkered with. It’s very specialized, and too much has been removed from it already for damnable industry. The only remaining components are the critically necessary. You will not touch them.”
“Amulets aren’t that much trouble,” Henry grumbled. “There hasn’t even been a regular infestation in Amicae for a hundred years. So long as you keep the mobsters out, what’s the point?”
Clae’s lip curled. “You’re saying that because you don’t know shit.”
“Excuse me?”
“People have been killed by amulets. Sweepers have been killed by amulets. People have tried to kill you with amulets. If you can talk about them so casually, you’re obviously ignorant.”
Henry sat back in his chair, face thunderous. “You’re right. Attempts have been made on my family’s lives with amulets. But we’re still here. How do you explain that?”
“Sheer dumb luck.”
“Not luck. Skill and knowledge.”
“Bullshit.”
“You’re not the only one with access to records of these incidents. I’ve gone through them and—”
“If you’re so well versed, why was I hired to inspect your house for more infected amulets?”
Mary made a small, sharp gesture that clearly meant shut up, and Henry looked at her angrily.
“They’ve been hired to what?”
Mary looked frazzled for a moment, but sat up properly and folded her hands, head held high. “After so many attempts on your life with the same technique, I believed it best to do a thorough check.”
“Unnecessary. Completely unnecessary.” He gave Clae a dirty look.
The servants returned bearing plates of food. They walked confidently, but their eyes darted around as if looking for a threat. They probably heard the spat and got skittish. The plates were set in front of Laura and Clae and the servants hurried back through the door, returning only with tea for Mary. Laura—accustomed to eating porridge for breakfast and maybe some fruit or bread with it—thought this must’ve been an early-morning feast. A magnificent omelet sat in the middle of the giant plate, surrounded by a small pile of toast, some bacon, hash browns, and a bowl of diced fruit.
Laura glanced around quickly. Tension hung like a cloud over the table, but her stomach began to growl and she pressed her elbow into it, hoping no one heard it. If they did they made no mention—Clae and Henry seemed to be in a staring contest. After a few more moments, she decided she didn’t care anymore and picked up her fork. The omelet was amazing. Clae picked up his own fork, cut off a piece of his own omelet, and was bringing it to his mouth when Henry spoke again.
“We don’t need your assistance here. If you’re not going to negotiate the situation with the Pit, then you can leave as soon as you’re done.”
Clae’s fork changed direction, stabbing into the omelet with a sharp retort against the plate beneath.
“You made an appointment, and that appointment will be upheld.”
“I did no such thing, and the woman has no authority to schedule anything.” Henry gave Mary a scathing glance.
What kind of husband referred to his wife as “the woman”? Probably men like Charlie, Laura’s mind whispered, and she stabbed at her food with more force than necessary.
“Like it or not, a deal was made. I’ve already wasted far too much time and energy getting here and being harassed by you people. I’m going to do what I came to do.”
“No, you’re not. I want you out of this house.”
“Too bad.”
Henry looked ready to blow a fuse. Clae picked up part of the omelet again, nearly took a bite, but—
“You’re one of the most ill-mannered people I have ever had the displeasure to have in this house.”
Clae’s wrist moved li
ke a hinge, dropping down so the fork pointed straight down and the food fell back onto his plate.
“Thank you,” he deadpanned. “So glad to know I’m properly catering to your whims.”
Laura ate faster in case Henry decided to make good on his word and kick them out.
“You have no sense of class, do you?” the man grumbled.
“I should hope not.”
Clae picked up some food for the third time.
“You—”
Clae looked up and fixed Henry with his blankest look. “How shameful. You won’t even let your guests eat in peace.”
Henry’s face twisted and he gritted his teeth, but he stopped talking. Agitation still hung over them, but not quite as bad. Laura slowed her eating—wolfing down toast as she’d been doing wasn’t exactly ladylike, and she felt pressured by the surroundings to at least pretend to be proper. They managed to eat the rest of their food in relative peace. Laura finished first and sat there awkwardly until Clae was done. He hadn’t even set his fork down before Henry declared, “As I said before, we don’t need you here. You will be escorted back to the door.”
Clae folded his arms but showed no other emotion. Mary squirmed.
“I’ll take them back,” she said. When Henry eyed her like an insect she continued, “I’m the one who called them here, so I feel responsible.”
“Fine. Just get them out.”
Mary stood, and the other two rose to follow her. They were quiet as they walked through the halls, but Mary stopped when they reached the entrance hall.
“Please search the mansion,” she pleaded. “I know Henry is, well, upset, but if they don’t know, it can’t hurt.”
“You do realize they’ve got all the servants to keep watch for them,” Clae pointed out.
“I’ll talk to them. Please, I don’t want my family to get killed because they’re stubborn.”
Clae looked around at Laura as if gauging her interest level. She smoothed her face into blankness and raised her eyebrows. She didn’t know what he was looking for, but it was probably best to look like she was paying attention. Her insides squirmed as he continued to stare, but soon enough he looked back around.
“We’ll stay. But you’ll supply us with food at mealtimes.”
“Fair enough. How long do you think you’ll be here? I’ll have to alert the cook.”
“How the hell should I know? I don’t know how much crap I’ll have to sort through.”
Mary’s mouth quirked in contempt, but she nodded. “Please begin immediately.”
She walked around them, heels still managing to make somewhat threatening sounds even against the floor rug. She vanished back into the dining room, and the two began their search of the mansion without another word.
It was very slow going.
All the rooms were cluttered with objects like statues and ornate clocks and decorative lamps and “things of beauty,” walls almost hidden under pictures both large and small to the point where Laura had to wonder why they bothered with wallpaper if no one could see it under all the heavy frames. A few items turned out to be amulets, but mostly not. She and Clae sifted through every room with their own amulets in hand, waiting to feel a faint pull or hear low humming. There was no other reliable way to find an amulet.
The fantastic problem of amulets lay in their limitations and their so-called intelligence. They came in thousands of different shapes and sizes, their magic hollows too precarious to ever be handled by an assembly line. Instead they were churned out by artisans, who were happy to carve the outsides into the extraordinarily strange and the strangely ordinary. No amulets could be lawfully sold until an inspector surveyed the work, recorded its details for the police, and determined that the magic hollow was properly secure. If an artisan messed up on the hollow, they’d be put out of amulet business permanently. For cheating your customers with shoddy craftsmanship, inspectors claimed. The real reason was because it was prime real estate for a new infestation.
The size and material of an amulet determined “intelligence.” The larger an amulet, the larger its accompanying hollow, and the material involved could increase the amount of wear or allow for more efficient magic conductivity. Gin amulets carried by Sweepers were by far the most efficient, but a close second was made with a pearly white stone called Niveus: hard to find in solid deposits but streamlining magical use to the point that they reacted in an instant and made the same amount of magic last twice as long as any other amulet material. This type they found in abundance here at the Sullivan mansion. Laura found one in the shape of a white horse, one of two flanking a clock above the mantel in the library, and it reacted so easily to her own amulet’s presence that it actually began to sing.
“Cut that out,” Clae snapped from the game table. “The last thing we need is rumors that we’re reprogramming the house.”
Laura ran a finger over the little carved mane, giving a low hum of her own. The Niveus went silent again, but she could feel its energy swirling under the surface, seemingly eager. Clae eyed her but didn’t comment; he’d come to terms with her weird amulet proficiency a while ago.
“How many amulets does your family have?” he’d questioned, during the first week of her employment.
“Zero,” she’d replied, and had no idea why he looked so grumpy about it.
“How many did you grow up with?”
“None? They’re expensive. We’d never be able to afford upkeep.”
He’d rifled through her old résumé, squinted at the list of schools. “These places didn’t have any available to students, did they?”
They hadn’t, she said, and he’d looked at the ceiling as if questioning all existence.
It turned out that amulet “intelligence” only went so far, and how far you could push your amulet was directly tied to earlier experience and imagination. People who grew up with amulets in the home used them so frequently it became second nature, but the drawback was that an amulet needed orders. Installed amulets were usually given only one order, the same as a light switch, and users had trouble accepting that they could use them to do other things. They simply expected. Which wasn’t far from what Laura did. She had trouble differentiating between the viewpoint Clae tried to relate to her and the one she’d slid into by default. She supposed it had something to do with wording. Most people ordered “make me run faster” with most attention placed on the words, as if trying to get wishes out of a genie. Laura merely thought “faster,” and the amulets reacted to the million different connotations of “fast” in her brain.
Of course, each amulet required different handling. Where her own amulets had the feel of an old but loyal dog, the Niveus on the mantelpiece had more the feel of a kitten with toys in sight. She could feel its faint, tugging insistence even as she crossed over the room to peek behind a heavy picture frame.
“Do you ever get the feeling that amulets like you better than their actual owner?” she asked conversationally.
“We’re much more magically saturated. They may think we’re … kin.” He paused at a side table and picked up a drink coaster to hold closer to his ear, but frowned and set it down again. “Magic likes other magic. It’s not smart, but it knows that much.”
“How many have you found so far?”
“Twelve.”
That was twelve more than anyone in the Cynder Block owned. What did these people even need so many for? She asked this aloud, and Clae replied, “Status. Flair. Laziness. God only knows, it’s not like they have a lot of other use judging by the placement of the ones we found.”
“But they have use for others.”
“Wait until you see the kitchen.”
Laura bit back a groan. “Kitchen. Why do I feel like I should dread that?”
Clae gave a light snort that could pass as a laugh as he walked along a shelf, trailing a finger along book spines. He stopped halfway down and tapped a certain title.
“Amulets are usually used in houses for things like heati
ng and lighting,” he mused. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they use amulets in the stove and ovens. Better than coal or gas, won’t give off fumes or smoke, and generally easier to control the heat.”
“How many would they use?”
“One per appliance, I’d guess. For the bakery ovens the Keedlers use six. They claim it bakes everything more evenly.”
Clae grabbed the book and pulled it forward. Despite the force it stayed on the shelf, simply tilting outward. There was a grating sound to the left. Before their eyes a small portion of the wall slid sideways, revealing a narrow hall.
“Is that a secret passageway?” Laura gasped, hurrying over to it.
Clae followed and inspected it. “Not so much secret. Servants probably use it to walk around without being seen, or the owners to escape tedious guests.”
Laura thought it must’ve been the latter. They’d already run into a veritable army’s worth of servants in stereotypical maid dresses and suits, who’d all fled upon seeing them.
“Should we go in there?”
Clae made a humming sound, glancing back at the library. “Might as well. There’s probably no amulet in there, but it might lead us somewhere we couldn’t get otherwise.”
He stepped over the raised threshold. Laura hopped after him. The narrow hallway was constructed of dark wooden paneling, a color that made the already-dim area still gloomier; the scant lighting shone from small naked bulbs on the ceiling, buzzing with electricity. The edges of Clae’s coat billowed as he walked, brushing against either wall. Laura couldn’t see very well around him, so she had no idea how far this hall went.
Every once in a while they stumbled across more thin doors that, when opened, led to rooms they’d searched before. They didn’t linger long with these, just kept moving. As they closed one on an elaborate bathroom, Laura grew tired of the silence.
“Sullivan mentioned your father before. Was he a Sweeper too?”
“The head Sweeper, yes.”
“Oh, that’s—” Impressive, she wanted to say, but then she remembered the distinct lack of other Sweepers currently, the obvious fact that Clae had inherited the title somehow, and winced. “I take it he didn’t retire.”
City of Broken Magic Page 8