Magic and Mayhem: A Collection of 21 Fantasy Novels

by Jasmine Walt

  The world had given up polytheism centuries ago, and we suddenly had a Parthenon of gods thrust upon us. Fifty years after the change, England still struggled to comprehend it. Learned men clung to the same values that has seen civilisation through thousands of years of history – ignorance, and fear, and intolerance.

  The Society continued its weekly meetings, but they had become nothing more than a church service – the forced attendance of hundreds of clever men, going through the motions of religiosity before they could get their hands on the brandy. Placing several gods in a room in the hope that they would jointly think up new and innovative ideas seemed sound in theory, but in practice it led only to competition, suspicion, and, ultimately, outright hostility. Faraday wouldn't talk to Herschel, and Turner secretly had popular artists killed in their sleep. Charles Babbage raised a quantitative error in one of Sir Humphry Davy’s calculations and, combined with his scathing rebuke of the Society’s excesses, managed to displease every member of the Council at once. The man who had once been a shoo-in for Presbyter of the Metic Sect was tonight going to be sentenced for treason.

  I pushed the door ajar, tapped my stick on the oak-panelled floor, and listened. Voices rose into the vaulted ceiling, and I caught snippets of hundreds of conversations – half understood mathematical principles, fragments of engineering genius, the first inklings of original thought.

  "Marvellous," Nicholas breathed, pushing past me to step into the room.

  "Terrifying," I corrected him, thinking of the power wielded by the men present.

  To my right I heard the unmistakably fake cough of William Buckland: Oxford biology professor, fossil collector, and longtime friend. Renowned for his work with swamp-dragons, Buckland first discovered the connections between modern creatures and the skeletons of giant ancient reptiles he called "dinosaurs". I moved along the wall toward him, hoping my late entry hadn't caught the attention of any of the Council members.

  "You're conveniently late," Buckland whispered in my ear, placing a glass of brandy in my hand.

  "Pesky omnibuses. They're so damn unreliable." I sipped my drink. "Has my absence been noted?"

  "I informed Prime Minister Banks you were outside getting some air, but I think he's becoming suspicious," Buckland observed. "Perhaps we both ought to show up on time next week."

  "Or come up with a different excuse."

  Buckland and I had been amusing ourselves by turning up later and later to the regular Royal Society meetings. We'd even established a rotating roster. Every second meeting one of us would be late, and the other would cover for him. We devised a giddy, schoolboyish joy from cheating the Messiahs of our attention.

  "I see you've brought another unfortunate along to witness this farce."

  "Buckland, this is Nicholas Rose. He and I were in the Navy together. Nicholas is an industrial engineer just arrived in London from his studies in France."

  I felt Nicholas' body tense up with my casual mention of his illegal crossing, but Buckland just laughed. "France, eh? How'd you get back across the border?"

  "I had help," Nicholas replied evasively. The men shook hands, and I noted that Nicholas quickly shifted the subject to Buckland's work. Buckland, who loved to talk about himself, acquiesced with pleasure, but I wondered – not for the first time – how Nicholas had indeed managed to return to England at all. Our borders have been tightly patrolled ever since Christian Europe united in opposition to our new pantheon of industrial gods, and one cannot simply row across the Channel. If Nicholas had come to England from France, he had come illegally – probably by way of an illicit air crossing. I listened to my friend talk, wondering what had happened to him since I'd left him at Portsmouth.

  Nicholas had come to the Society meeting as my guest. He'd been nervous about coming under the public eye, if it was indeed true the prize was being awarded to Isambard (giving further credence to my worries that he'd been involved in ill dealings back in France). Isambard, too, thought it better that Nicholas didn't declare their friendship in public, but for a different reason. "We don't know how the engineers will react to the chosen winner," he'd said. "As much as you think you're a danger to me, Nicholas, it is your association with me, and not what transpired in France, that might lead to your death. Better to have engineering circles know you as an associate of Holman's than as an accomplice to my blasphemous works."

  Buckland, flattered by Nicholas' attentions, began asking him for his opinion on the outcome of the engineering competition.

  "I heard Shelley's had a team of poets working non-stop on his creation," said Nicholas, who'd been keeping up with the design proposals in the papers. "And Sir Humphry Davy has apparently concocted a most efficient poison. Then, of course, I've heard rumours about the brilliance of Isambard Kingdom Brunel, that young Stoker engineer—"

  Nicholas sucked in his breath as he realised what he'd said. I leaned forward, listening to the conversations around us, hoping nobody had heard.

  Buckland lowered his voice. "You shouldn't speak that name so freely, Mr. Rose, especially not in present company. But I'm glad to hear you're a Brunel man, also." Buckland patted Nicholas on the shoulder. "Isambard's a good chap. He won't win, of course – the Council won't accept that – but he's got a head full of clever ideas and the tenacity to forget what he ought not to say. I don't take with all this anti-Stoker nonsense. An engineer's an engineer's an engineer, I say. But my dear fellow, I've been talking you ear off and your hands are still empty. Allow me to remedy my oversight!"

  Buckland went to fetch Nicholas a drink, and Nicholas and I bent our heads together so he could describe the room to me.

  The Society hall – which had always resembled a church with its podium and rows of carved wooden and velvet pews – had been divided into two by the addition of a long wooden stage, covered with exquisite carpets and festooned with bright garlands of flowers and idols of the Gods of Industry. Our pantheon of gods-on-earth – the Messiahs, Presbyters, and other men of rank – strutted around the room, flanked by their high priests wearing various church regalia.

  The room was more crowded than usual, and the pews had been pushed aside to make room for all of us. On a raised dais at the edge of the stage sat His Majesty. Banks and the other officers of the Council were seated beside him. A gaggle of contest entrants – would-be engineers, scientists, and architects – clamoured for the King's attention.

  "You can tell those men apart from the rest of us," noted Buckland, returning with a glass of brandy for each of us, "by the outright desperation on their faces. Each one dreams he will be the recipient of this most enviable prize, and fame, fortune, and immortality will be his."

  Nicholas and Buckland described for me some of the familiar faces. George Combe, the eminent phrenologist of the Church of Morpheus, paced up and down along the wall. Turner, the artist and arrogant Presbyter of the Isis Sect, held court in a private circle in the corner, his trilling, whining voice rising above the clamour. Not wanting his position to be compromised by one of the newer artists or poets, Turner had submitted plans for a mural to be painted across the west-facing walls of each of the city's buildings – scenes of terror and desolation, of hundreds of Redcoats armed with muskets and bayonets, ready to strike at any dragon that dared impose upon the city.

  Percy Bysshe Shelley, the dark, brooding "engineer of words" who'd became Messiah of the Isis Sect in Lord Byron's absence, slouched across one of the velvet pews. Shelley had submitted a spectacular design for a high-walled pleasure garden containing plants like garlic and fenugreek, which the dragons found abhorrent. He planned to suspend these gardens or "mobile Eden" across the city, so citizens afflicted by dragons could wait in safety while the beasts were apprehended. I knew his design would find favour with many of the noble men on the Council, and he certainly acted as if he knew the prize was already his. He mocked protocol by bringing his wife, Mary, as his guest, and she sat beside him, dressed in her finery, the subject of many lascivious whispers amon
gst the learned men.

  Brunel stood in the corner of the stage, and Aaron stood behind him, frantically trying to pull the hems of Brunel's too-long formal robe from under the feet of the marauding deities. "Isambard's face betrays nothing," Nicholas said. "His is the only steady gaze in this room of posturing. Do you wish to see him?" he asked me. "Isambard has been so kind to me, James. I'm certain he will welcome you as a long lost brother."

  The blood froze in my veins. I shook my head, unable to bear the thought of facing him, of talking to him or Aaron, knowing my actions cost the lives of a brother and a father. "Perhaps another day," I said "Brunel will not want to think of the past when his future may well change forever." Nicholas waited for me to explain further, but I didn't.

  "How does the King look?" I asked, changing the subject.

  "Strangely fine," Nicholas replied. "He's still sitting in the wheeled chair, but he lifts his head and talks to people – mostly to Banks, who has just slipped him a small bottle of something. The skin on his face shows no signs of the wounds he received. I do not know what to make of it."

  "And no sign of Babbage?"

  The Council judged cases of state and religious crimes. Babbage was charged with blasphemy, and he'd opted to defend himself rather than accept a Council-appointed lawyer. As far as I knew, he'd found no man willing to speak in his defence.

  "He has declined to attend his own trial," Buckland said. "No point, really, is there? They have him under guard in the Engine Ward – his last free night to work on his calculating machine."

  Even I could sense the tension in the room. Shuffling my Noctograph from one arm to the other, I flipped back the glass lid on my pocketwatch and felt with my fingers for the engraved watch face. We had been waiting over an hour, but now all the Messiahs – save Robert Stephenson, who often absented himself from Society business, preferring to remain in the north with his railway – were present, we could finally begin.

  Sir Joseph Banks called us to order. There was a mad scramble as men rushed toward the front of the room, but we remained in our circle in the corner, our reactions hidden from the scrutiny of the stage. Buckland, who would be reciting the evening's sermon, nervously folded and unfolded his lecture notes. He was a man who secretly (or not so secretly, thanks to Babbage) still worshipped the Christian god, and the presence of so many religious men unnerved him.

  There was still no sign of Charles Babbage.

  Banks rolled the King's chair across the stage, and released an injector valve, which raised it above the podium with a puff of steam.

  "For thousands of years, man has long sought to hold back the natural world." The King's voice held no sign of age or illness. Strong and deep, it soared over the cavernous room. "From the moment of our birth in the great Forge of Creation, we've fought to control fire, pull up the flora, and tame wildlife. And now, as we proceed through the nineteenth century, we are closer than ever before to achieving dominion over all the earth's forces. In this room stand the men who've made this possible – the engineers, physicians, adventurers, scholars, artists, and poets who've shaped this age of iron and industry.

  "Our final task lies before us. We must keep this city – the capital of iron and dreams – free from the menace of the dragons, the last great remnant of our barbaric past. We must assert, once and for all, our dominion over the beasts. After a week of deliberation with the committee," he said, "I have decided who among you shall lead this city into the new age of industry. I would like to ask Isambard Kingdom Brunel to join me."

  A collective gasp rose from the room, followed by frantic whisperings as tongues wagged. Even though Nicholas had told me what the King had said, I still couldn't believe the Council had chosen Brunel.

  "Mr. Brunel's design is composed chiefly of a great Wall, which will encircle all of London like a fortress of old, making her impenetrable to the dragons as well as any other enemy that may present itself. The Wall shall also benefit our local trade and security, as it will monitor the coming and going of people and goods throughout the city, and will one day run passenger trains throughout London. In light of his industry and forward thinking, I present Brunel with this certificate of patronage, and his new Godhead as Presbyter of the Sect of the Great Conductor, replacing William Adams, who will be stepping down immediately."

  The applause came in spatters, overwhelmed by cries of protest. "He's not even an engineer!" cried Shelley, leaping from his chair and upsetting his brandy all over his velvet breeches.

  "Silence!" boomed the King. "The Council's decision is final. Brunel has won the competition. Need I remind you that questioning my divine authority and insulting church leaders are answerable to charges of blasphemy and treason."

  That shut everyone up. In stony silence Brunel walked across the stage, his heavy worker's boots clanging on the oak. He accepted his award and kissed the King's ring.

  "He looks rather chuffed," whispered Nicholas.

  "Wouldn't you?" Buckland said. "This is an incredible honour. Perhaps the Council is finally allowing men without money or status to pursue the sciences."

  "Not likely," Nicholas replied. "Look at Shelley's face. He looks as though he's ready to commit murder."

  Banks tapped on the lectern, his fingers rapping against the wood and Brunel's footsteps on the wooden stage as he returned to his seat the only sounds in the room. The King gestured for the ceremony to continue.

  "To our second matter," Banks said. "We must address the opinions published by Charles Babbage in the Society Gazette. I know many of you have read this document, but for those of you who have not, Babbage insinuates Sir Humphry Davy, Messiah of the Aristotelian Sect, had not added his calculations correctly, and suggested an alternative equation based on his own calculations. Clearly, you must all be as appalled as I am by Babbage's actions – to accuse a Messiah of erroneous calculations – such a thing is blasphemy! Mr. Babbage's writings have sullied the good name of Mr. Davy, the Gazette editors, the Society, and the deities we serve. When asked to speak in his own defence, Babbage declined: his absence only confirming his guilt."

  "Declined, or was kept away?" Nicholas whispered. I nodded. He was beginning to understand the kind of men we were dealing with.

  "As you know, the punishment for blasphemy is excommunication. But, as this is an organisation of equals, I would not be so arrogant as to make this decision myself. Is there anyone in this room who would speak for Mr. Babbage? Anyone who would offer an argument for him to remain?"

  No one spoke. I knew the thoughts of my friends mirrored my own. If free thought and debate were still welcome within these walls, than why was Charles Babbage being vilified for expressing his?

  Banks, however, didn't appear to notice this discrepancy, as he announced the decision had been made. Charles Babbage was no longer a member of the Royal Society and would be stripped of all his royal and church patronage. Any further infractions against the church would be dealt with more harshly.

  After that announcement, we heard two sermons – one from Sir Humphry Davy himself, who informed the congregation in a smug tone that his calculations were, in fact, correct; and the second, much longer, from Buckland on some recent fossil discoveries of Great Dragons: the larger, prehistoric ancestors of the very swamp-dragons that continually attacked our city. I took a seat on the edge of a pew and rested my Noctograph in my lap, using the metal and string frame to guide my notes in straight lines across the page.

  Normally a compelling, engaging lecturer, Buckland stammered throughout his speech, dropping his papers from the podium and losing his place. I understood his nervousness – his discoveries pointed toward a catastrophic flood wiping out the great dragon population, which, coming from the mouth of a known Christian, sounded even more blasphemous than Babbage. Luckily for Buckland, the Council members had found the brandy stash, and no one paid much attention to his sermon.

  The meeting closed and we were free to drink our fill of brandy and talk amongst ourselves. Men �
� mostly lesser engineers and those from the poorer classes – swarmed around Brunel, offering their congratulations and requesting meetings.

  Aaron managed to slip away from the chaos and joined our circle. "He won! Could you ever have imagined such a thing?"

  I wondered why Brunel had not told Aaron about the hint that had been given during the meeting at the castle. For friends, we all of us seemed to harbour secrets.

  "It's a great day for the Stokers," he said, clinking glasses with us. "With Brunel's appointment, we may finally become an important part of learned society."

  "As long as your new Presbyter doesn't let all this religious nonsense go to his head." I gestured to the gaggle of engineers gathering in the centre of the hall, singing the Hymn to Great Conductor and shouting jeers at the leaders of other sects.

  "If anyone can keep his head screwed on right, it's Isambard." Aaron replied.

  "Pity about Babbage, poor old chap," said Buckland. "He was a bright spark, head of his own little Metic congregation. A brilliant mathematician – Charles had this idea to create a machine that could calculate mathematical tables."

  "I bet the computers like that idea," Nicholas smirked, referring to the men who were paid to calculate and write mathematical tables.

  "Not one single bit, but that's not why he got expelled." Buckland dropped his voice. "He was a good man, but blinded by his own intelligence. He never thought of the consequences of anything he did. Babbage just wanted the Society back the way it was, back the way it is supposed to be – a stimulating discussion of various scholars."

  "I wish they would choose one god and stick to it," Aaron said. "I've grown up with Great Conductor, but I don't mind Morpheus or even that Mama Helios the Dirigires are so fond of. I wouldn't even mind having that Jesus fellow back – after all this nonsense, his claims of transmutation and necromancy seem rather inoffensive."