The Steampunk Megapack

by Jay Lake

  Such was my dedication, in fact, that regrettably my academic work began to suffer. Letters from my father accumulated, at first remonstrative, later incensed, and finally coldly dismissive. Letters from my mother also arrived, some apologizing for my father’s temper, others scolding me for disgracing the family name. Not one letter asked what it was that had sparked my interest, or why I felt so compelled to pursue it. When the final letter arrived containing a small sum and words to the effect that I had been disowned, at least until such time as I could conduct myself as a reasonable gentleman, it was hurtful but sadly not a terrible surprise.

  As my research deepened and the rift with my family widened, I took leave from university, only to be told after four months’ absence that I had been officially expelled for, among other reasons, “an unseemly pursuit of foolishness.” Unlike the missives I received from my parents, I have kept that letter—I consider it something of a justification for all my actions since.

  Youthful bravado aside, however, I must confess that I came very near to ruin before my studies of the Art at last bore fruit. The very night of my successful Transfiguration, I was living in a small rented room in a highly disreputable area of Shoreditch, where I owed six months’ back rent to one Louis Moreau, the drunken Frenchman who owned the establishment.

  I can recall the very moment the last piece fell into place. The candle—my last candle as it happened—was burning low on my rickety reading desk, filling the room with greasy smoke from the cheap wax, when suddenly I bolted to my feet, the force of my epiphany nearly flinging me across the room like a cannon shot. It was sheer simplicity: The reason the Art had never functioned coherently was because the various theories and experts that informed it were always viewed as in competition, each striving not only to present its case but also to prove all the others incorrect.

  Taken together, however, and ignoring the individual prejudices of their supporters, it was soon evident that they formed a ragged but increasingly coherent whole. A missing piece in Italian theory was supplied by a well-known truth in German treatises, while an error in calculation made by the Greeks was corrected by proper application of an obscure principle from the manuscripts of The Black Bruce, the reclusive and persnickety Scotsman who’d supposedly lost his head to the king’s witch hunters. Twice, if legend is to be believed.

  As the knowledge took shape in my head, the glyphs and materials swirling like an illustrated whirlwind, an understanding at once surprising and utterly absolute came over as well: I had to do something with this newfound potential. Something astonishing. Something marvelous. Something that could never be questioned as mere charlatanism. Something the world had never seen before, and quite possibly never would again. But what?

  Lead into gold? Too ordinary. I’d never have anyone think it was more than just a clever trick. Besides, was the sum of my ambition and talent to be a mere demonstration of the creation of wealth? Unsuitable.

  Eternal youth? Too many troubling questions. Also, how was I supposed to prove that it worked? Summon the requisite experts and worthies to watch closely as I…didn’t age? I was a young man, and likely they would not be satisfied until decades had passed with no sign, and even then I would like as not be accused of some form of cosmetic trickery. Not at all what I needed.

  True immortality? Too many far-reaching implications for success, let alone any possible mistakes or miscalculations. Also, I liked the possible tests even less than those for a youth serum. Visions of repeated stabbings, beatings, drownings and worse swam before my eyes. No. Not that one either.

  Dozens more followed, each a less likely candidate than the last. Many were discarded for lack of suitability, while others for want of the necessary materials. Just as my frustration bordered on unbearable, fate intervened and I spied a slim volume that had been hidden away at the bottom of the stack. Waterston’s World of Wonders, my first and most favorite childhood book of magic, its cheerful illustration of the dapper magician producing a rabbit from his fine top hot worn from travel and the grip of delighted young hands.

  I saw that rabbit and I thought of my childhood dreams, how they had met such a disappointing end, and I knew at once what I had to do.

  From that moment it was simple. There was no formulae for what I wanted to enact, exactly, but with the lunatic confidence of newfound wisdom I simply chose two formulae whose combination could theoretically produce the effect I desired, and set about making the adjustments almost instinctively. When the ink dried, I checked the formulae one last time, took a deep breath, and changed myself and the world with six minutes, seven symbols and surety of purpose.

  It was over so fast I hardly noticed the formulae was complete at first. There was no pain, only a kind of curious tingling that ran through my body like a shiver brought on by placing a toe in cold water, then nothing. I was momentarily shattered; had I, burdened by insomnia and a desire to prove myself, simply imagined the whole thing? I slammed my hand down on my desk and gave a yell as I saw its neat white fur coat. Transfixed, I brought my hands up before my eyes and found them identically furred; with just a touch of hesitation, I reached for the mirror on my night table and held it up to the light. Looking back at me was a curious amalgam of man and rabbit: familiar human eyes set between long ears possessed of the same delicate white coat I’d seen on my hands, set off by a wet, twitching nose at the end of an ever-so-slight muzzle.

  I was right. The Art was real, and I’d found a way to unlock its secrets.

  I could not help it—I began to laugh, at first suppressed giggles, then outright chuckles, and finally peals of what must have sounded like positively lunatic hysteria. Walls thudded and voices hollered as my merriment roused my neighbors one by one, but I paid no heed to their threats and curses. I simply continued to laugh until it felt like my whole body would shake itself apart from sheer excess of humor. I was, quite simply, overwhelmed by joy.

  At last there came the familiar dragging shuffle followed by the triple knock on my door, signifying the arrival of my landlord, no doubt summoned from a stupor by the complaints of the other tenants. I rose to answer, only to freeze two steps from the door. How would he react? What would I say? Would I soon find myself confronted by an angry mob? What had I really done?

  Just as quickly, however, I rallied my courage. I had sought marvel and spectacle, after all, and that meant I was going to have to reveal myself sooner or later. Best to take that first step now, while the fires still burned bright. I collected myself, adjusted my ears to a more dignified position, and swung the door wide open. Sure enough, Monsieur Moreau was waiting in the hall, the odor of strong wine, sharp cheese and stale bread hanging about him as usual.

  “Is something wrong, sir?” I said as calmly as I could mange.

  “Some noise, only,” my landlord said with a dismissive wave of his hand. His required warning delivered, he was already half-turning away before he stopped and turned on his heel with almost comic sluggishness. Monsieur Moreau slowly looked me over from head to foot, once, twice, the inscrutable expression that drink lends to some concealing any trace of surprise or alarm, and all the while swaying ever-so-slightly back and forth, like a boat tied up at harbor. “Are you…?” he began, only to trail off into a bleary stare.

  “Yes?” I prompted, surprised to find I was actually faintly offended by his lack of reaction to my new state. “Can I help you, Monsieur Moreau?”

  “Eh…non, non.” Moreau waved his hand dismissively again. Quite unbelievably, he turned and headed back to the stairs, occasionally leaning on the wall for support. When he reached the top, he called out to me, still not looking back. “Bon soir, Monsieur Lapin.”

  “Bon soir, Monsieur Moreau,” I replied rather incredulously, shutting the door and beginning preparation for what I quite rightly expected would be the longest day of my life to that point and some time past it. As I packed my meager belongings, I found myself smiling again. In vino veritas, as the saying goes, and indeed my imperturbabl
e landlord had neatly if quite inadvertently provided me with the final touch for my Transfiguration. A nom d’Art, as it were, a new identity for a disowned man. As names go, its origin is impossible, its meaning simplistic, its implications ridiculous, its relevance at once all too obvious and yet also perfectly descriptive.

  Of course I fell in love with it.

  IN THE COURT OF WOLVES

  In which Her Majesty brings word of curious deeds afoot.

  It should come as no surprise to students of politics that Her Majesty was an avid, if discreet, breeder of exceedingly clever wolves. After all, it simply wouldn’t do for Her Majesty to throw her detractors and other enemies of the Crown to doltish or laggardly creatures. I waited at the edge of the garden, watching her feed long strips of bloody steak to the circling animals, feeling my nose twitching ever so slightly. It is an unbearably obvious display of anxiety, but given my unique nature, I think I can be forgiven a case of nerves in such predatory company.

  “Mister Lapin! A pleasure!” Her Majesty beckoned me over. Around her, the wolves regarded me with inscrutable yellow eyes above bloody jaws, but at least they had the courtesy to refrain from licking their chops. One does not refuse a queen, of course, so I mustered my resolve and crossed the garden. The wolves parted to allow my presence, then resumed circling, shifting their gazes from the bucket of steak, to myself, and back to the bucket of steak with alarming similarity of focus. After dispensing with the required formalities, Her Majesty cut to the heart of the matter directly. “We have been made aware of a very odd situation transpiring in the home of a dear friend.”

  “I am ever in Your Majesty’s service,” I replied. “How may I be of assistance?” As the only legitimate Consulting Transfigurist and perhaps more importantly the most famous odd individual in Britain, I have found that I am now first to be contacted when unusual events occur. So far none of these events had turned out to more than the merely mysterious or misleading surrounded by an air of excited supposition—delightful puzzles to be solved, certainly, but far from the realm of the impossible.

  “Lord Thomas Dare, a most dear friend to us, reported that a prized golden statue has gone missing from his Yorkshire estate.” Her Majesty patted the head of one of the nearby brutes, and it licked her hand like the gentlest of lapdogs. “We would greatly appreciate your invaluable expertise in securing its swift and safe return.”

  “With respect, ma’am, I would scarce tread on the toes of Scotland Yard’s expertise—” I began, but she held up a hand. As it rose, the wolves followed it keenly. Three drops of blood fell to the stones of the garden.

  “Your concern for our constabulary is noted, Mister Lapin, but we are assured on good authority that evidence exists that the statue, to put it plainly, escaped on its own.” Her Majesty fixed me with a level gaze, uncannily mirrored by a dozen pairs of yellow eyes.

  “Animation? True animation?” I could scarce contain my excitement. Tales of such phenomena are found in a number of different texts of the Art, but they were always apocryphal, never instructive. I myself had attempted the feat only once, but to no visible effect. Something in the formulae had been missing, I was quite sure of it, another missing piece in my often still too patchwork discipline. I’d put it out of my mind since then, favoring the more immediate rewards of Transfiguration, but perhaps it was time to revisit the subject.

  With a start, I realized my mind had been wandering, and that the Queen and her court were still watching. “Of course! I shall go at once, ma’am!” Overcome with the joy of the moment, I bowed like a thespian receiving a shower of roses. My ears caught a derisive snort from some distance away, but by the time I looked up, there was no sign of a possible culprit.

  “Superb! Then you shall have use of our carriage to convey you to your dwelling and collect any necessary materials, then depart for the station at once.” The Queen smiled, and I was relieved to see nothing wolf-like in her expression at all. A liveried attendant hastened to her from beyond the ring of trees, and I took some small satisfaction in seeing that his level of discomfort appeared almost equal to my own. At a gesture from the Queen, he handed me a sealed envelope. “A writ containing our full confidence and authority in this matter,” Her Majesty explained. She favored me with another smile.

  “Please be so kind as to avoid misplacing it or its contents, Mister Lapin.”

  A DISTRESSING RESTORATIVE

  In which an unusual injury is revealed, and the nature of the peril becomes clear.

  “So there you have it, Mister Lapin,” Tom finished with a flourish, sipping his scotch and peering intently at me in the flickering firelight. Upon my arrival, I had been pleasantly surprised to find Lord Dare—or Tom, as he insisted “any friend of Her Majesty’s” refer to him—an affable man of athletic stature and apparently as able an intellect. Not one to stand on ceremony, he had ushered me directly into his parlor to explain the source of his distress, lighting a fire to ward off the evening chill. “You can see why I inquired as to securing your services?”

  “I can indeed,” I concurred, trying not to display an unseemly amount of excitement. I did not wish my gracious host to think I was taking delight in his misfortune, but after hearing his tale and examining what evidence remained it seemed that my services as a Consulting Transfigurist were finally—finally!—truly required. It must be remembered that this was the first tangible proof witnessed with my own eyes that something genuinely astounding was afoot in the world. That is, aside from my own groundbreaking studies, naturally.

  Tom’s story had been brief, but what it might have lost to brevity it easily made up in peculiarity. It seems that the statue in question was of a wild boar, commissioned some three centuries ago in honor of a device on his family’s coat of arms. Legend held that it was fashioned from solid gold, though privately his lordship confided that such talk was not entirely accurate. It was an impressive specimen regardless, life-sized and posed in a fearsome manner, with small rubies for eyes and genuine ivory for the tusks. Whenever it was moved, Tom told me, it required a team of at least four stout men to carry.

  The trouble began a little over a week ago, when Tom had left his study to investigate a curious clamor coming from downstairs. Descending to investigate, he witnessed not misbehaving servants or interloping criminals, but the boar itself somehow come alive and running amok, overturning furniture and gouging great gashes in the walls with its tusks.

  Thinking it no more than an ordinary animal in costume, perhaps released as some kind of poorly judged prank, Tom waved and shouted at the beast, attempting to scare it outside. When it rounded on him, however, its unnatural nature revealed itself. “It was the sound of the hooves that changed my mind,” he’d remarked, shuddering. “They were so heavy, it sounded like thunder rolling down the hallway.” Only his experience as an accomplished hunter allowed him to keep his wits about him and avoid being trampled as the beast issued a monstrous bellow and charged.

  Even so, its preternatural speed was such that it savaged Tom’s hand as it went past, a twitch of its powerful head enough to send him flying. It might well have been his end, except he was fortunate enough to land behind an upturned oak cabinet. Still, the beast attacked the cabinet until it was reduced nearly to splinters before it turned away in apparent frustration and escaped by crashing through the wall, thundering off into the bitter chill of the Yorkshire night.

  Since then, the boar had been spotted several times, at first solely on the grounds of the estate but later at the outskirts of the nearby village. It always appeared at night, and while Tom was the only person who had been injured thus far, it had charged several unfortunate servants and local villagers caught in its path, and only a combination of blind luck and quick thinking had prevented terrible injury. The villagers were near panic, and Tom said a handful of his more superstitious staff had actually fled in the previous nights. It was an untenable state of affairs, and so after settling we resolved to set out to hunt down the beast without
delay, assuming I could find a way to return it to its previous statuary condition.

  Even more troubling in its own way, however, was Tom’s injury. When I examined the wound, I found myself utterly confounded. Instead of the vicious gash I expected, Tom displayed something altogether different. There was indeed a wound that had received a surgeon’s stitching, but the skin in and around the injury had turned to solid gold. According to Tom, the curious amalgamation had begun spreading as soon as the wound began healing. Amazingly, despite having apparently worked its way into the muscle, the transformative effect had done nothing to the utility of the limb—it was as functional as ever. The progress was slow, but nevertheless, if not arrested before long, would pose some serious and unusual questions for his health.

  “So where shall we begin?” Tom asked, putting down his drink and re-wrapping his wound. If I detected a hint of nerves in his otherwise steady voice, it was forgivable. As one who knows only too well, it can be most unnerving to find your form altered in ways previously undreamt of, most especially since he did not initiate the alteration.

  “With the matter immediately before us,” I replied, and outlined the measures I’d devised as a solution. It was perhaps a bare and hasty plan, but I had been sketching it ever since Tom spoke about the boar’s curious animation, and his injury had drawn the final lines to give it shape. “With your permission, I shall retrieve my materials, and we can begin.”