The Price of Magic

by Wesley Allison

  * * * * *

  Consciousness came slowly to Tokkenoht. First she heard sounds that she didn’t recognize. Then she felt the chill of the air. Finally, she realized that she was awake and slowly opened her eyes. She was lying on her side, with her hands chained in font of her in heavy manacles. The manacles in turn were chained to a spike driven into the ground. She cringed when a human stepped in front of her. She could tell it was a male, because his legs were uncovered. The females covered their legs in voluminous skirts. She couldn’t be sure, but he looked just like the one who had attacked her. He squatted down in front of her and hissed. It took a moment for her to realize that he was talking, or trying to. He was speaking her language, but between it being a northern dialect and his poor pronunciation, she could barely make out the words.

  “Something, something important witch-doctor something something.”

  “My name is Tokkenohnt,” she said. She really couldn’t think of anything else to say.

  “Something.” He held out a container of some kind. Water? Had he just asked her if she wanted water? She hissed the affirmative and the soft-skin jumped back.

  “Yes, yes. Water,” she said slowly.

  The human stretched out his arm. He seemed to be trying to hand the container to her while keeping his body as far away from her as possible. She blinked in understanding. He was afraid of her. For all the humans’ power, their suuwasuu, they were actually quite delicate. She slowly put her clawed hands forward until she could grasp the container, and then pulled it back to her and poured its contents into her mouth. Once it was empty, she tossed it back toward the human.

  “Sleep,” he said.

  Tokkenoht was not inclined to take orders from a human, but after a short time watching the soft-skins set up fires for the night, and chatter at each other in their peculiarly lyrical language, sleep took her. She woke up when she felt something tugging her arms. It was early morning, just before dawn. She had been unfastened from the spike in the ground and a human was tugging on her chains. When she looked at him, he signaled that she should stand. She thought it was a different human, and it was confirmed when he spoke.

  “You will come with me. Remain docile and you will not be hurt.” The human had a much better grasp of her language than the other had.

  “I am Tokkenoht,” she said. “What is your name?”

  He told her.

  “Azkhantice,” she repeated. “It sounds like one of our names.”

  “Out of your mouth it does.”

  “Are any of my warriors alive?” she asked.

  “There are six others, but they won’t be going with us.”

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “To… um, city. I don’t know all your words. You will not be hurt. You are a valuable… um control?”

  “Prisoner,” she said. “The word is prisoner.”

  * * * * *

  Iolana was half asleep, lulled into a drowsy state by the back and forth rocking of the crawler as it made its way through the forest. Between the buzzing of the saw, the rattling of the equipment and the chug of the steam engines, it was impossible to get any real sleep. Then suddenly, even the dull lethargy disappeared as the compartment door behind which she was ensconced, opened.

  “Kafira Kristos!” shouted the militiaman looking in. “What the hell are you doing in there? You scared the piss out of me!”

  He grabbed her by the shoulder and dragged her out into the narrow hallway, pushing her against the wall. Her pith helmet fell off, clanged on the floor, and bounced away. Her long hair fell down over her face.

  “Lieutenant!” called the soldier. “We’ve got a stowaway, and I think it’s a girl!”

  “Oh, well spotted,” she said.

  Iolana heard the approaching clang of heavy boots on the metal floor.

  “Well, Stahwasuwasu Zrant.”

  Iolana reached up and parted the curtain of golden locks in front of her face, peering out at the face of Tiber Stephenson.

  “Um, hi.”

  “You know her?” asked the militiaman.

  “Of course I know her, you idiot. That’s Lady Iolana Staff.”

  “Bloody hell! We’ve got to turn around and take her back.”

  “We can’t go back. We’re laying a telegraph line.” Tiber looked at Iolana. “I suspect you knew as much.”

  Still holding her hair out of her face, she shrugged.

  “It doesn’t matter. Inside this machine is the safest place you could be.” He turned to the man. “Get that case of ammo up to gun five.”

  Once he had gone, the young lieutenant took three steps and retrieved Iolana’s helmet. Placing it on her head, he said, “So, it looks like you get to see all the action up close.”

  Then he kissed her on the lips. Iolana’s eyes opened wide, but she felt powerless to move as his warm lips pressed against hers.

  Chapter Sixteen: The Mystery of Wizard Bell

  Peter Bassington didn’t even notice that it was dark until it became impossible to read the book in front of him. He looked up at the clock on the wall and felt his neck complain. He had been bent over the books for almost five hours, and now his head was swimming with almost maddening thoughts. He glanced back at the text he had just finished.

  She floated down from the sky, her huge, feathered wings outstretched. They were twelve feet from tip to tip and as white as the clouds, as white as newly fallen snow, as white as faith and hope. The rest of her body was smooth and supple and sublime and beautiful and naked. Her tiny feet came gently to rest in the soil beside the bizarre purple flowers, each of which looked up at her with a large eyeball in the center. Her face was beauty incarnate and her body was bliss. Long blond hair cascaded down her shoulders, impossibly thick, almost to her waist. Her eyes were spaced wide above her prominent cheekbones and small but perfectly formed nose. Her full lips smiled crookedly exposing straight teeth as white as her wings.

  It was here, in this endless field of loathsome purple flowers, where she waited for them. And they came. They came to her. They retreated here from the world, when they rubbed the See Spice into their eyes. And here she took care of them; took away all their cares, took away all their fears, took away all their pain. She also took away their love, and their desire, and their sense of self. She left them the empty husks of what they had been and would never more be. They called her angel, and they willingly gave themselves to her, and she feasted on their insides like they were her own personal drinking gourds. But she wanted something more. She wanted to leave the endless nothingness of that place and come to the real world, where she would feast on the marrow of all that is good and pure and true.

  The passage didn’t mention a name, but Peter knew to whom it was referring. Her name was Pantagria. She was an angel or demon that those addicted to white opthalium saw when they used their drug. He had heard her name uttered once or twice by addicts on the street or in opthalium dens. But most of what he knew came from Senta. Two and a half years earlier, while they were journeying to Birmisia from Brechalon, an addict, one of Pantagria’s minions here in the real world, had thrown white opthalium into Senta’s eyes. This transported her to that other world, where Pantagria had begged her to use her art to bring the angel to the real world. Senta had managed to escape.

  The whole story had sounded like a fairy tale and Senta wasn’t above a bit of self-aggrandizement on occasion, so Peter hadn’t been too sure of the authenticity of every detail, but here it seemed to be verified in black and white—in a book written almost two hundred years earlier by a man named Viner. And there were other mentions of Pantagria going back a thousand years. Then there was the note scrawled in the margins of the Viner text “Nom 2:3-4”.

  Peter pulled himself to his feet and walked from the dining room, through the parlor, and down the hallway to the library. It was so dark in the room, he had to feel around for the gas light sconce on the wall. Pulling a match from his pocket and striking it, he turned the knob, and the his
sing gas burst into bright yellow flame, illuminating one side of the room, and throwing shadows of chairs and tables on the other. The young wizard retrieved a pristine copy of the Holy Scriptures from the bookcase and flipped it open.

  “Bother,” he said. There were three books of Nom: The Writings of Nom, The Letter of Nom, and The Children of Nom.”

  Looking at The Writings of Nom, chapter 2, verse 3, he found “I have need of you,” so saith the Lord. “I have need that you will sacrifice of yourself.” Not particularly inspiring or helpful. He turned to The Letter of Nom, chapter 2, verse 3. One thing I ask of the Lord only, and I hope with all my heart that he will grant my prayer: that I may dwell in the house of the Lord all the days of my life. Finally he turned to The Children of Nom and as he read, he felt ice filling his belly.

  2. The Lord came unto the feathered one and the Lord said, “From whence comest thou?” And the beast answered the Lord, and said, “You know from whence I come. From going to and fro within my prison among the seeing weeds.”

  3. And the Lord said, “And there you must stay lest man should weep and all our works should turn to dust.”

  Bloody hell. That was the Grand Scriptures too. They were, what? Three thousand years old? It was too big—too much to think about. He turned out the light and felt his way back to the parlor. Then he climbed the stairs and slipped into his bedroom. Peeling off his clothes, he dropped down onto his bed and passed into a fitful sleep.

  The next morning, Peter, as usual, found Baxter and Sen at the table having breakfast. The girl had a toast soldier in one hand and her wooden dinosaur in the other. The man was sipping a cup of tea while reading from a small paperback book.

  “What are you reading?”

  “Attack of the Zombie Women,” Baxter replied, turning the book to display a luridly illustrated cover picture, then he pointed at the occasional table against the wall. “I put your books all over there. I left them open to your pages.”

  “Thank you. Did you read any of them?”

  “No. What would you like for breakfast. Cook has some kippers.”

  “All right. Do we have any potatoes?”

  “Potatoes yes, tomatoes no.” Baxter turned toward the kitchen and called, “Kippers and fried potatoes for Mr. Bassington!”

  “So, you didn’t read any of my books?” asked Peter.

  “I said I didn’t. Why? Should I have?”

  “Probably,” he muttered, glancing at his three-year-old niece.

  “Rassy!” called Baxter. “Take the child up and get her dressed.”

  The lizzie nursemaid hurried into the room and scooped up the child.

  “I’m not finished with my toast!” shouted the girl.

  “I’ve been watching you, young lady!” Baxter called back. “You haven’t taken a bite in ten minutes. Playing with it is not eating. Now go get dressed.”

  Sen, carried by the lizzie, exited into the parlor.

  Baxter looked at Peter expectantly.

  “What do you know about Pantagria?” asked the young wizard.

  “About what anybody knows. She’s a shared illusion that drug addicts experience.”

  “What if she isn’t an illusion? What if she’s a real thing, a really dangerous thing, a monster that somehow exists on another plane of existence.”

  “That’s all too much for me,” said Baxter. “All this magic talk doesn’t make any sense. I’ll stick with something more believable, like attacking zombie women.”

  “But you know magic exists,” said Peter. “You’ve seen magic a thousand times. You live in the same house with Senta Bly, the Drache Girl!”

  “I didn’t say I didn’t believe it. I just don’t understand it. If you say this Pantagria is alive in some fairy tale world, I say fine, let her stay there. It’s got nothing to do with me.”

  “What if she didn’t stay there? What if she found a way to come to our world?”

  “Then there would be one more attractive woman in the world,” said Baxter. “Those nutters on spice are always going on about how beautiful she is. Can’t see that it’s really a problem.”

  “But she’s not a woman, don’t you see? She’s a demon that corrupts people with that poison. If she came to our world, she might have powers that we can’t even imagine.”

  Baxter took a sip of his tea. “Look, I see you’re upset about this. Put it in terms I can understand. What’s got you so worked up?”

  “Pantagria is a monster, and she’s been trying for a long time, maybe thousands of years to get to our world.” Baxter started to say something, but Peter raised his hand. “I know what you’ll say—thousands of years and she’s still not out. But something has changed. I’ve contacted some people I know in Mallontah, and the addicts there are acting strange. And here in Birmisia, they’ve stopped using the drug altogether. Then there’s Wizard Bell. You know I’ve been having him watched, and he is definitely up to something.”

  “You think that Bell’s trying to free her? Bring her here?”

  “I do. He’s spent a lot of time around the Result Mechanism. He had almost free access to it in the two years my sister squabbled with the governor over it. He may have used it to craft a spell powerful enough to bring Pantagria here.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t even need the machine,” suggested Baxter. “Didn’t I hear Senta say that the building it was in was soaked in magic?”

  “Yes.”

  “Could he cast a spell there to make it more potent?”

  “Maybe,” said Peter with a frown. “I’m having both the building and Bell watched.”

  “Then I suppose you’re doing all you can do for the moment,” said Baxter, getting to his feet. “Keep up the good work and let Senta figure it out when she gets back.”

  The older man left the room, just as the lizzie was bringing out Peter’s breakfast. The young wizard was so lost in thought as he ate that he almost choked on a fish bone. Just as he was finishing, Cheery entered and stopped next to him.

  “Young lady for you,” said the lizzie.

  Peter got up and followed the reptilian into the parlor to find Abigail dressed in a bright white day dress with pink bows.

  “How appropriate,” he said, stepping close to her and kissing her on the cheek.

  “What is that?” wondered Abby.

  “Here you are with bows on, and I was just thinking that you were as pretty as a present.”

  “Flatterer!”

  “Not a bit, though I confess I’m not of sound mind.”

  “No?” she asked.

  “No, I’m so in love I’ve gone addlepated.”

  “Perhaps you were addlepated before,” she offered. “I suppose I should put in as your legal guardian as well as your wife.”

  “A wise plan,” he said. “Let’s sit and relax and I’ll tell you again and again how beautiful you are.”

  He sat down on the loveseat and pulled her down next to him.

  She giggled. “That is my favorite pastime.”

  At that moment, Cheery slipped a small note into the wizard’s hand. It contained only three words: Bell at home.

  “Fine, fine,” said Peter, crumpling up the paper and turning all his attention to his fiancé.

  As he spent the next two hours talking with Abigail, Peter wondered over and over again at his good fortune. Never in his life had he found someone with whom he could simply talk, without a goal and without artifice. It felt wonderful.

  “So, did you hire a rickshaw?” he asked as the conversation finally started to wane.

  “As a matter of fact, I drove.”

  “What?” he said, sitting up a bit straighter.

  “That’s right. I drove over in Kaspar’s car.”

  “Your brother-in-law let you use his car?”

  “Well, actually it was Gabby. Kaspar is at sea. He’s going to be gone for the next two months. He’s making a run to Novo Brabant.”

  “That must be tough on your sister.”

  “Oh, she’l
l be fine,” said Abby, rolling her eyes. “She has plenty to keep her busy. Mind you, she should get started on a family. Then she wouldn’t have time to miss him. Would you like to go for a drive?”

  “Certainly.”

  They put on their coats and stepped outside to find Kaspar Drake’s green Finson Model B, steaming away. Abby climbed into the driver’s seat while Peter stepped behind and added coal the firebox. Then he walked around and hoisted himself into the passenger seat.

  “You don’t want to drive, do you?” asked Abigail.

  “I’m a thoroughly modern man,” he said, looking at the confusing array of controls. “I’m not ashamed to be driven around by a lady.”

  Abby beamed and threw it into gear, causing the vehicle to lurch forward. They drove from one end of town to the other, passing through Zaerietown and driving by the new houses under construction by BB&C. Then they turned south and circled the new militia base, which had replaced the old base on the peninsula, now used as temporary housing for indigent new arrivals. Finally they drove west and turned north on Terrence Dechantagne Boulevard.

  “I’m feeling a bit peckish,” said Abigail.

  “It’s actually past lunch,” replied Peter, pulling out his watch. “It’s early for tea, but what do we care? Let’s stop and eat somewhere.”

  “All right. But we’re not eating anyplace expensive. You’re going to be a family man, so you need to start saving your money.”

  “Already cracking the whip,” he said, smiling.

  Abby pulled up to the curb.

  “We’ll eat here at the beanery,” she said.

  There were four eating establishments in Port Dechantagne called beaneries. This one was the original. A single square building served as kitchen, diners eating out front on long wooden tables beneath a large colorful awning. Peter hurried around to help his fiancé down and they entered the establishment, finding plenty of seats. A lizzie approached and set down two cups of steaming tea.