by Trish Telep
Toby tottered on the brink of the hatch. He stared downwards.
"Like my old Mum always said, it's better to be born lucky than rich!" he declared, grinning as he looked back at her. "Can you swim, Silka?" The wind tore at his words, shredding them so she could hardly understand what he was saying.
She stared downwards. The airship was cruising above the Thames River, the thick body of slow-moving water winding like a dour black snake between the teeming buildings of London Town.
"I don't know," she shouted back.
"Neither do I," Toby howled. "What say we find out?"
She nodded and hand in hand they launched themselves into the shrieking air.
The wind of their fall tore at Silka's clothes and sent her hair upwards in a fountain. She clung hard to Toby's hand, vaguely aware that he was yelling as they plummeted.
The black river came racing up to meet them. Scenes from Silka's short, strange life flashed in front of her eyes like Teslagraph: her father dead upon the cottage floor. Royston Hoof's treacherous smile. Bodies hung smoking over wood-fires. Toby's smiling face--the face of her only true friend. How sad that she should not live to know him better. But there was comfort in the knowledge that they would perish together. Assailed by these thoughts, her eyes dazzled by the whirling blades of a hundred beckoning Teslagraphs, she gripped Toby's hand all the tighter and prepared herself for oblivion.
She knifed into the river, sending up a great white fluke of water. She sank like a stone, blinded by bubbles, surrounded by the swirl and churn of black river water. There was a moment of intense, biting cold, then suddenly all her fear and trepidation were gone.
As they plunged into the river, she had lost grip of Toby's hand. Fearful for him, she opened her eyes and found she could see perfectly well under the dark tide.
Toby was beneath her, dropping away into the deeps, his pale face turned up toward her, his eyes blank, his arms hanging as though already lifeless.
She twisted lithely in the water and swam down toward him. Snatching hold of his collar, she flipped her legs under her and made for the surface.
She trod water as she held his face to the air. He gasped and gulped and choked and floundered.
"Stop your panicking!" she told him. "I've got you."
And she did have him. It was the strangest sensation. She felt completely at ease in the water, able to move naturally in it, almost as though it was her native element.
"Hold onto me," she commanded. He looped his arms around her neck and she swam fish-swift for the shadows of a nearby bridge. She held him up till he caught his breath and was able to support himself in the water by clinging to gaps between the brickwork.
"You said ... you didn't ... know whether ... you ... could swim ..." he panted.
"I didn't." Silka declared. "It seems I can!" She swam away from him, diving deep, twisting and turning in the water like an aquatic dancer, instinctively knowing how to shift her limbs and arch her back to send her down to the deep or to bring her exultantly to the surface.
She knew it in every fibre of her body; she knew it to the deep places of her soul. Her true home was in the water.
She surfaced, grinning like a shark.
"You're a mermaid!" Toby cried. "For sure, you're a mermaid!"
"A half-mermaid, at least," Silka replied.
"You would make a fine addition to Monsewer Pierre's Caravan of Marvels." Toby said. "You would be the star."
"And where would we find Monsewer Pierre?" Silka asked.
"Last I saw him, they were heading for France on a grand tour of Europe and the Russias."
"Can we get to France by water?" asked Silka, frolicking and sporting and laughing in the delightful embrace of the river.
"Eventually, I imagine," said Toby. "But you will need to help me a great deal if I'm to get there alive."
"Show me the way," said Silka. "I will teach you to swim as we go."
Toby grinned, pointing under the dark arch of the bridge and away into the watery east. They waved a brief farewell to the Beadle's airship, hovering impotently far above them, and then they struck out together down the sinuous throat of the mighty River Thames and were never seen in London Town again.
And that is the story of how Silka MacAlindon found her true love, but whether that true love was a stinky but loyal London Mudlark or the deep and all-encompassing bosom of the eternal and maternal oceans of the world, you will have to decide for yourself.
Wild Magic
BY ANN AGUIRRE
ONE
I CAME TO the artists' promenade every second Friday, no matter the weather. Today threatened snow, the sky gray as my father's eyes, darker than my own. Against the bitter winter wind, those who could afford it bundled in cashmere cloaks and fine wool jackets. The unfortunates who could not, made do with ragged layers of lesser fabrics. Along this busy avenue, house bondsmen and paid lackeys hurried, heads down, running other people's errands.
I sympathized. As a scion of House Magnus, my time was heavily committed--lessons in dancing, comportment, and languages (my father felt that a true lady must be fluent in Old Ferisher) as well as the arts and sciences. He respected history, but not magic; studying the dead language was mere lip service to the old ways.
They hadn't wanted me studying Atreides' infernal devices either, but as I hadn't balked at anything demanded of me, my father permitted the unwomanly pursuits. Atreides was the greatest inventor of our day, responsible for the steam-puffing carriages, clockwork mechanisms, and other technical wonders. He had harnessed the magic powering the mirrors that permitted messages to be sent through the ether to government buildings and the great houses. Since possession of a mirror merely required an exorbitant licensing fee, they weren't illegal for others to possess, just out of reach for financial reasons. I studied his work because the puzzles fascinated me, even if they were not thought suitable for a fragile female mind.
In any event, my brother Viktor occupied most of our sire's attention, as he wasn't interested in being a good heir for various reasons. Which meant my parents appreciated my dutiful behavior and chose to overlook my small rebellions ... such as spending an icy-bright winter afternoon on the artists' promenade.
Even wearing my least expensive cloak, sewn of simple black velvet and no fur trim at all, I still drew the eye; it was the distinctive silver-blond Magnus hair and the equally identifiable nose. The bridge of mine had more of an arch than most, leading my peers to judge me supercilious and unfriendly before I'd spoken a word to them. At this juncture, it was unlikely I ever would.
I preferred it here anyway. As I strolled, I marveled at the artists' stalls. That was why I came--to admire the talents of those who did what I could not. I admired beauty but had no flair for its creation. Some might argue that my lineage offered the only gifts I needed. Like any scion of a great house, I could trace my bloodline back to the original ten princes and princesses, those who sacrificed themselves for the greater good and married into the barbarian families who came from across the seas, through the mists, and into our green hills. With that pedigree, came responsibility and, sometimes, actual power. In my family, I was the first in three generations who could do more than cast a faint glamour--and the horde of official Magnus tutors didn't know what to do with me. Most days, I didn't either.
The great houses frowned on such abilities, preferring to rely on technology instead. They considered magic barbarous and uncivilized, a throwback to primitive days. They didn't like the reminder that they'd come as invaders to this land and had been forced to intermarry as a means of survival.
I might like being different, if that meant I fit somewhere. Unfortunately, I didn't; there was no special school for unexpectedly powerful scions. My father just had to keep the rumors about me to a minimum while he attempted to contract an advantageous marriage. That would be years off yet, of course, presuming we could settle upon a mutually agreeable candidate. There would be contracts to negotiate and counteroffers to r
un past our elite cadre of legal advisors. This might occur before I got so much as a glimpse of my intended; I'd heard of girls who married without ever spending a moment alone with their betrothed. I didn't look forward to that future, but it was the one fate had granted me.
Smothering a sigh, I stopped before a display of cut-crystal and clockwork gears. In the most cunning fashion, the artist had married science and splendor to create a dancing couple that caught the wan winter light with each studied pirouette. The vendor was no more than eighteen, certainly. Although with my pale face and funereal attire, I doubtless looked older than sixteen to her. She smiled at me as I paused, an anxious will you buy it, so we can eat sort of look. It was a useless thing, prone to appeal only to someone like me, who had empty rooms in want of filling.
"How much?" I asked.
She named a sum that made me laugh. It appeared she had correctly judged my house, but I wasn't a fool. We dickered amiably until we reached the center, which was what she'd wanted for the piece all along. I paid that without complaint and pretended I didn't see my watcher on the opposite corner, monitoring my activities. Even my little "freedoms" came with a hidden thorn to prick the flesh and leave it tenderly torn.
The girl wrapped my purchase and handed me the dancing clockwork couple; they would occupy a place of honor on my dresser, along with the gilt hairbrushes and expensive perfumes. I had so many luxuries and wanted so few. But this one, I did. I'd chosen it for myself, after all.
As I moved on, my minder followed me, discreetly, of course. With a quirk of mischief, I swept the hem of my skirt away from the melting snow and crossed toward the painters, leaving his line of sight. A broad-shouldered fellow like Bertram would find it difficult to pass where I had.
Most of the canvases depicted scenes in the popular style--romantic realism, with women poised before mirrors in a cloud of glamour, faces half-obscured by the drape of a gauze veil. Woman in a White Hat had been inspiring imitations for the past two years and these were lackluster at best. Artists occasionally glamoured their works to charm a patron's eye; this was one reason my parents distrusted my affinity for the promenade.
Of course, the consequences for that magic use could be dire. Even four stalls away, I saw the gentle glow, almost an echo of my thoughts. And if I noticed, others would too, including those committed to enforcing the law.
Don't do that. It's not worth it.
But the artisan couldn't hear my silent warning, and across the way, two blue-breasted constables pounced. He called to his neighbors for help, but they turned their faces away. Bully boys came with clubs to smash all of his tainted merchandise, and then they hauled him away. I couldn't catch my breath.
That could so easily be me.
The lower-classed Ferishers who made their way with charms and glamours had been at odds with the great houses for a long while. I saw them on street corners sometimes, scraping a living of odds and ends. Sometimes they didn't look altogether human, and civilized folk muttered they ought to be ashamed and restrict themselves to back alleys. But like anyone else, they only wanted to live as best they could.
With some effort, I put the grim spectacle from my mind and continued shopping.
At the next stall, a small portrait caught my eye. Unlike its neighbors it had been rendered with bold, religiously faithful detail. There was no hint of magic, nothing but the face of this young man with angry eyes and sullen mouth. He had a shock of dark hair, a thin face, sharply pointed chin, and a cruelly beautiful mouth. But his patchwork velvet jacket, all black and gray squares, captivated me as much as his aspect; he looked dangerous and disreputable, not someone I would ever meet.
"How much?" I asked the dealer, though it was rare for me to make two purchases in one outing.
She studied me as if looking for something specific, and then answered, "Thirty talons."
A small price, in all honesty. I felt uneasy with her scrutiny, but I had the coin, and so why not? If only I'd known.
I bought the painting without haggling then because I was in a hurry to take it home to see how it looked on my bedroom wall ... and whether those icy-starlight eyes would seem to follow me, even in my private sanctuary. As I tucked the parcel beneath my arm, I had the uncanny sense I was being watched.
Well, of course. My minder was never far away. As I strolled along the promenade, the crowd thinned. Bertram should have been visible--a tall, hulking figure in House Magnus colors. I turned in a slow circle, expecting to spot him, but I'd apparently lost him as I took the shortcut through the stalls. For the first time in my life, I was completely alone in the crowd. Bodies surged around me, jostling me; somehow, somewhere along the way, I had lost my untouchable Magnus air. The prospect was both exhilarating and terrifying. I had been trying to achieve some privacy on these outings for two years, but this was the first time I'd succeeded.
I was supposed to meet the family hansom one block away, but the driver might well report me to my father if I arrived without Bertram at my back. Still, I had no more business on the promenade, so I took my two small packages and picked a path across the square toward the busier thoroughfare where my coach waited.
But before I got there, as I passed twin brick buildings with a gap too narrow between them to qualify as a proper alley, a boy sprang out in front of me. Instinctively, I clutched my purchases to my chest, but that left my beaded purse hanging free over the crook of my arm. I expected him to cut the strings and run, but instead, he only studied me with a mocking lift of his brows.
"So you bought me, did you, House Magnus?"
It was only then that I realized--he'd modeled for the portrait. The initial fright had blinded me to the fey sharpness of his features, those unmistakable moonlight eyes and the rakish swathe of midnight hair. Instead of the patchwork velvet jacket, he wore a white shirt with dirty lace at the cuffs and a leather vest that was a little too large. His skin should be blue, dressed so on a winter's day, but perhaps he had enough Ferisher blood to charm the cold away. He sported a leather thong about his neck, strung with beads in thalassic hues, here a glimmer of cerulean, there beryl, shimmers of vert and viridian. Though I had precious gemstones aplenty, I didn't think I'd ever seen anything so lovely as the necklace about his pale throat.
Moreover, I'd never spoken to a boy my father had not vetted and approved prior; I wasn't sure whether I had the nerve ... until I did.
"It's a lovely picture."
"Is it?" He sauntered about me in a slow circle, as though I were livestock he might intend to buy. "Will you hang me on your wall, Magnus?"
Suddenly, fiercely, I hated the reminder of my status and my fate and the subtle disdain he showed for me, as if I had done wrong in coming to the artists' promenade, as if I were a well-bred nothing who ought to remain in marble halls without ever feeling the wind on my face. There were birds, I knew, bred in captivity, who chose the security of bars over any chance at freedom. I did not wish to be such a creature, though I feared I might be; I did not appreciate his mockery. I wanted to say something stern and cutting that would make him sorry.
I didn't.
"My name is Pearl," I said.
"You have the skin for it. Like you've never seen the sun, Lily-pale."
From his tone, I took that for a nickname, and not a kind one. Hurt coiled through me that this boy, whose face I had liked well enough to want to take home, would go out of his way to make sport of me. It shamed me on an instinctive level, and I tried to brush past him. But he caught my elbow, an unspeakable liberty. I felt the heat of his touch clear through my cloak, and gazed up at him, wide-eyed.
"What do you want?" I demanded.
People passed all around us, indifferent to my plight. Someone should care that a house scion was being importuned, but nobody seemed to notice the embroidery of our crest on the hem of my gown. Pretending I felt no fear at all, I stiffened in his grip and stared pointedly at his hand on my arm.
"Will you have me whipped for my temerity? Now the
re's a word, innit?"
"I could."
"But then you'd never discover what I'm after, precious Pearl." The laughter in his voice lost the mocking edge. Then he smiled truly, and it was the most painfully beautiful thing I'd ever seen--painful because it made my heart seize in my chest; it had never behaved that way before.
"A donation," I guessed, "or perhaps patronage."
His approach was unorthodox, but I would recommend him to my father, whatever his trade, so long as he let me go unscathed. I had no desire for my parents to receive of this little adventure by any means.
"A valiant try, but no, my price is much higher. I want your secrets."
A startled laugh escaped me. How ridiculous--I had none. And then I realized he might mean the strength of my wild, untaught magic. But how could a boy I'd found in a painting know that I could make my palms crackle with fire? Neither my father, nor Viktor, did. I eyed him with wariness now, more than when I thought him a simple cutpurse. He could do me great harm, should he so desire.
"Who are you?"
"Pick," he answered.
"That tells me nothing at all."
"A name given means nothing," he corrected. "A name earned means everything, and mine tells you what you need to know ... or at least it will, once you're wise enough to hear it."
Riddles, I thought in disgust.
But it made no matter. He peeled his fingers from my arm with deliberate grace, and stepped back. After bowing low, he sprang away as he'd come, like a storm that takes your breath with its speed and strength. I tried to follow him and found that the buildings now seemed to touch; there was no true passage there at all.
I pressed my fingertips to the brick and found it solid, though it tingled as well, kindling my own magic in response. Someone had spelled the area, but I didn't know what was the illusion--then or now. Either way, I couldn't follow him, as Bertram finally located me, sweat pouring down his red face.
"Please, m'lady, don't run off like that again."
"It was a simple misunderstanding, was it not?" I smiled up at him, willing him to take the excuse I offered. If they replaced him with someone faster and sharper, I might never know another moment's peace. "No one needs to know."