Magic and Mayhem: A Collection of 21 Fantasy Novels

by Jasmine Walt

  They had little in the way of tools and provisions, but they had books – some found in the storehouses of the old monastery, the rest smuggled from across Europe by a growing network of Industrian dissenters – and paper and ink. Each man studied according to his own interests, and so it was that Nicholas quickly found books by Étienne-Louis Boullée and François-Joseph Bélanger, great masters of architecture and industrial design. These he devoured again and again, ‘till he could quote whole passages by heart.

  He shared his studies with three other students. Joseph Ramée – who had been an eminent Parisian architect and outspoken Morphean until the Emperor's reforms had sent him underground – and Auguste, who made no attempt to disguise his hatred of Nicholas. They were joined often by Julianna. She still had not spoken, but read over her notes with a ferocious intensity. Sometimes she would lean over his shoulder as he read, tracing the drawings with delicate fingers. Her hair brushed his face, and all his thoughts and calculations escaped from his head.

  As his mother and her new lover continued to torment him, Isambard's fervour for his machine only grew. He began to openly flout their rules, returning late, stinking of grease, filling his bunk with minuscule workings of engine parts and crude clockwork mechanisms. He seemed to take the beatings as his personal triumphs, each rasp of his stepfather's whip against his skin only hardening his determination to reveal the machine and prove once and for all that Stokers could be engineers.

  "It will avenge my father's banishment." he said. "It will be the locomotive to end all locomotives. Faster than anything Stephenson has ever built. When we are done, I can show the King, and he’ll see he was wrong to send my father away."

  Every day, Aaron worried about what Isambard would do once he finished tinkering with the locomotive. Did he plan to sell the engine, or use it to incite the workers to rebellion, or to simply buy his way into another sect? They never discussed the subject, and Aaron – knowing the engine was not really theirs, but Isambard’s – felt asking was somehow sacrilegious.

  Most of all, he worried about being discovered. He worried his love for his friend would soon see his own neck in the hangman's noose.

  But as the months and years went by, neither Isambard's mother nor the priests discovered their secret hideout under the church. It was not for want of trying. Merrick paid boys in the village to follow Isambard, but he would weave and duck and lose them in the madness of the underground passages, before emerging and sneaking away to the church. The workers, who still remembered his father and knew Isambard was up to something, covered his shifts and stamped his attendance in the logbook. And though they made a terrible racket, no one noticed the hammerings of two boys amidst the banging and smelting and hissing and whirring of the day-to-day activities of the Ward.

  They should have finished the engine a year ago, but at Isambard’s insistence, they had pulled the chassis apart and widened her, setting the bearings further apart. Now she was a different kind of beast entirely.

  Finally, the day came when they hammered on the last sheet of iron over the boiler, and stood back to admire their work. Their adjustments gave the engine a squat, pygmy appearance – the round boiler casing jutting like a long nose from the high drive wheels. The cab was open to the elements, with barely enough room for two men to pass each other.

  "She's beautiful." Aaron breathed, hardly able to believe they had built such an enormous engine themselves.

  "Let's fire her up." said Isambard.

  They ran down into the tunnels and carried sacks of coal up to their secret workshop. Aaron filled the coal store and spread a thin layer on the floor of the boiler while Isambard knotted rags to the end of a wooden pole, dunked it in oil, lit it, and shoved it in the firebox. They checked the water tank was full, wiped the grime from the pressure dials, and sat against the bare brick walls, waiting for the temperature to climb up.

  "The festival of steam will be held in London in the summer," Aaron said. The feast day of Great Conductor and the biggest religious festival on the Stoker calendar would see the Engine Ward filled to bursting with Conductor engineers, their priests, and followers. The streets would throng with food and drink and dancing, and the Great Conductor churches would be packed with worshippers making their pilgrimage during this auspicious time. The Royal Society was holding an exhibition of Stephenson's work that would attract many people to the city, and rumour had it Stephenson himself might even make an appearance.

  "The fact has not escaped my attention," Isambard replied.

  "Are you planning something foolhardy?"

  Isambard laughed. "You know me too well, Aaron. But we're not finished with her yet. She must work perfectly on the day she is discovered; otherwise, all our work will come to naught. Even if everything works perfectly today—"

  On the engine, something shot off and clattered on the brick wall above their heads, and the engine belched a cloud of black steam. Isambard grinned.

  "—which we knew was too much to hope for, we still haven't run her on a track. That will be our next test."

  "But we don't have a track to run her on," said Aaron, a feeling of dread settling in his belly. "The only railway in Engine Ward is built in Stephenson's standard gauge."

  "Precisely." The thick, steam-filled air could not mask the gleeful expression on Isambard's face. "So we shall have to build one."

  Nicholas tossed in his bed, unable to sleep. Above his head, the carnal pleasures of Auguste and Danielle could clearly be heard, and his mind created images to accompany their cries. He felt his solitude more keenly than ever, and his thoughts cast a dark shadow in his heart. I am an outlaw, a deserter, hiding in the mountain. I shall never have a wife.

  He could measure his achievements to date by the state of his lodgings. Down in the tunnels, each man had a space of his own, and his was an old storage battery two storeys beneath the chapel, empty save his blankets and a small wooden table on rotting legs. A narrow door led into the passage beyond. The bare rock walls had been carved with crucifixes and other markings by the ancient occupants.

  Nothing. I have nothing.

  He balled his jacket – on which he rested his head – into a tighter pillow, pulling the blanket around his head to block out the sound. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to ease his mind into gentle thoughts – thoughts of bridges and factory designs – but they kept being pushed aside by the image of a black-haired face and a life he had lost forever.

  The air around him suddenly grew thick. He opened one eye and found that very face staring back at him, her nose only inches from his.

  He leapt back in fright. "Julianna, what are you doing here?"

  She, of course, did not answer, but lifted up his blankets and slipped underneath. Her skirts brushed against his legs, and a tongue of fire shot up his spine. Instinctively he shuffled away.

  "You can't remain here. The men will say—"

  "I do not care what they say," she declared suddenly, pulling the blankets tightly around her.

  He sat up in surprise. "You can speak?"

  "Of course. I—I—I choose not to. I do not want him to hear my thoughts."

  "Who?"

  "Jacques." She spat out his name.

  "You speak with such venom, has he done something to hurt you?" Nicholas paused. "I'm sure it was a misunderstanding. He is not a cruel man."

  "You do not understand. I did not choose to come here like you and the other men. I am a prisoner. I come from a village near Marseilles. We had one of the finest Morphean churches in the country, and scholars came from miles around to visit our library and hear the great scholars teach. But the Emperor's men rode in on horses, hacking and shooting and setting fire to our buildings. The church burnt down, and they executed many – including my brothers – as heretics. The village had no money, and no one would help us, because they were afraid of the soldiers.

  "My father needed money. No one would hire a known Morphean, and my younger broker was sickly, so he sold the onl
y thing he had left – me. I've been with Jacques for four years now, and every year his passions grow more insidious."

  "You are his … wife?"

  She laughed. "Hardly. He's tried his hand at me, certainly, but I would not let him near me. No, I do the work he deems beneath him – the dangerous work. I deliver messages; I steal from ravaged churches and neglected libraries. Once, I even killed a man." She shuddered at the memory. "You do not know the things he's done. The things he plans to do."

  "These men would all be dead if it weren't for him. I would be dead if not for his intervention. And here I have access to books, and some of the most learned men in France—"

  "Do you think our studies are for the worship of our gods?" she laughed bitterly. "Jacques has a plan in mind for us, Nicholas, and it is diabolical."

  She rolled over, pulling his jacket under her head, her black tresses fanning out across the cold floor. Soon, he could hear her breathing heavily, but he did not sleep; the warmth of her body, mere inches away, sending his head spinning with impossible dreams.

  Julianna came to his chamber most nights, when she felt she could sneak away from her usual bed without attracting notice. She huffed derisively at the sounds of lovemaking from above, ‘till Nicholas could only conclude that she had no interest in him in that way, or if she did, she hid it well. Instead, she wanted to learn about architecture.

  Huddled around the stub of a candle in a dark corner of his room, they whispered their lessons to each other. She had an astounding aptitude for mathematics; as Nicholas described an engineering concept to her, she could perceive it in time and space without needing it drawn for her. When she struggled with an idea, he would take her hands and form a picture in the darkness.

  Snow fell on the mountain, first as a fluffy, flaky sprinkling, and then in a great dumping that iced shut the doors and froze up the monastery's well. Now that the bridge to the monastery was impassable, Jacques sent Nicholas out with the other men to clamber down to the forest and collect wood for their fires.

  While he gathered branches to drag back up the cliff, he stuffed his pockets with handfuls of twigs, always choosing the straightest. Back at the camp, he dried them by the fire, and tied them together with twine to form the bridges and factories he saw in his imagination.

  As his knowledge grew, he began to fill his room with these creations. It was now more than two years since he'd left the Cleopatra in Gibraltar, and the monotony of the monastery had begun to wear on him. He longed again for the freedom and opportunity of a huge, industrial city.

  He expressed his desire to Julianna one night, while they huddled together in the light of the candle. To his surprise, she leapt into his arms and planted a kiss on his cheek, sending that familiar fire through his whole body.

  "I knew you'd change your mind about this place one day," she exclaimed, forgetting to whisper in her excitement. "We will leave within the month – he'll not follow us down the mountain in winter—"

  "No, no, I do not wish—" Her expression froze. "I mean, I have not finished my studies."

  "This isn't a university," she snapped. "You have memorised all the books. You have exhausted Jacques' and Monsieur Ramée's knowledge. You cannot live forever in the mountains, drawing cities in your imagination. We must leave soon, before the Spring breaks. We will go north – I've heard the Dirigires will fly people across the border—"

  "I'm sure if we ask Jacques, he will drop us near the coast when he next returns there."

  Her eyes flashed. "You must not breathe a word to him. How many times must I tell you, Nicholas? He is not to be trusted."

  "But—"

  "Do you remember I told you I killed a man?" Her voice sounded far away. "He was Louis – the last man who tried to leave here. He snuck out in the dead of night, jumped the fence, and headed east into the mountains. But Auguste was on guard, and saw something moving across the rocks. He chased Louis down and hit him with the flat of his blade. Then he came to find Jacques.

  "Jacques has some knowledge of my character, given the arrangement that transpires between us. He wanted to warn me what would happen if I tried to escape. So he roused me from sleep and dragged me up with him. When he found Louis as Auguste had left him, Jacques pressed a pistol into my hand, and ordered me to kill him. He made me straddle the body, wrapping his fingers around mine as he showed me how to pull back the hammer and squeeze the trigger. He said, if I didn't do it, he would, and then he would kill me. And I … forgive me." She looked away, tears sliding down her smooth cheeks.

  "He laughed, Nicholas, he laughed as that man's brains spread out across the cobbles. I scrubbed and I scrubbed for days afterward, but still the cobbles in the courtyard are stained with his blood. Look for yourself. Look at my skirts." She lifted the hem, bringing it into the light so he could see the dark stains.

  "Julianna—" The sight of her tears made him feel helpless. He reached for her, but she recoiled.

  "We will escape together," she said. "You and I. And if we make it to London alive, I should like to marry you."

  Three days after she made this proclamation and Nicholas had promised he would find a way for them to escape, Julianna stopped attending Jacques' morning sermons. At first, Nicholas thought perhaps she was feeling ill, or had been sidetracked with business in the kitchens, but on her fifth absence from the sermons, he excused himself to look for her, and found her in the courtyard. Snowflakes settled on her cloak as she scuffed at the snow with her foot to reveal the discoloured stones.

  "I am in private worship," she replied fiercely when Nicholas confronted her. "There's no blasphemy in that. He's not even a real priest. He cannot force me to attend his church."

  Surprised by the malice in her voice, he left her alone, and returned to the chapel. Jacques looked up as he came in, nodding as he took his seat alone. Something in Jacques' expression flickered, and Nicholas wondered what had really transpired between him and Julianna.

  She returned after the sermon to serve the breakfast with Danielle and Marie. As she shoved Jacques' bowl in front of him, he grabbed her by the wrist and leapt to his feet, sending the gruel across the floor.

  "If I may have your attention, please?" he yelled.

  The room fell instantly silent. Nicholas lowered his bowl, his stomach knotting. His eyes met Jacques’, and he was surprised at the intensity there. Julianna didn't attempt to extract her hand, but her face pleaded with Nicholas to do something. He shook his head, not understanding what was happening.

  "I have an announcement to make." Jacques clasped her tiny hand to his breast. "After many years as part of my household, Julianna has finally agreed to be my wife. The wedding will be here, in this very chapel, within the week. It will be conducted in the true Morphean manner."

  He left the room, dragging Julianna by the wrist, to raucous applause. A wedding meant a feast, a night to ease the monotony of the long winter. Nicholas remained seated, staring at the departing couple in open-mouthed horror. This can't be real. Only a few days ago she said she would marry me. She said he had never … surely Jacques does not mean this?

  As Jacques shoved her toward his quarters, Julianna looked over her shoulder, and the terror in her face told Nicholas all he needed to know.

  Nicholas retired after the evening meal to be alone with his thoughts. He hadn't seen Julianna or Jacques for the rest of the day, their absence causing all manner of unsettling thoughts to pass through his head. Surely Julianna has not agreed to this? Jacques is an educated man – surely he would not resort to such barbarity? The question plagued him long into the evening, ‘till he finally drifted into a fitful sleep.

  He awoke with a start, his mind awash with images from his nightmares. Something scraped against the stone in the doorway. Someone was in his room.

  He could see nothing in the darkness. "Who's there?" he called, reaching for his gun.

  "Nicholas?" she whispered, her skirts swishing against the stone. "Are you awake?"

  He bol
ted upright, closed the distance between them in a single stride and embraced her. "I was so worried about you. Are you all right?"

  "I shall never be all right again. I could not get away to talk to you," she said. "But now, finally, he is asleep, and I could sneak away. I had to see you."

  "What are we to do?" he whispered, pressing her head against his chest.

  "We must leave before I am bound to him. It will not be easy. He knows of our … meetings. He is jealous. He will guard me with all his powers."

  He pulled her under the blankets with him, and together they formed a plan of escape. She said nothing about what had gone on earlier, her indifference disarming, but he sensed she was fragile, broken somehow. He reached out to touch her face, but she shied away.

  What has Jacques done to you?

  When the grunting and screaming of Auguste and Danielle interrupted their scheming, Julianna crawled closer to Nicholas and pulled his arms tightly around her. She sobbed; great silent sobs that wrenched her whole body. He ached with need of her, but could not bring himself to do anything more than hold her.

  The back of the church sloped into a generous garden – now an overgrown mess of weeds and debris, hidden from street view behind one of the tallest scrap heaps. It had once been the burial ground of prominent Christian engineers, but had fallen into disuse with the King's militant stance against the banned religion. Most of the gravestones had been pulled up to decorate the churches of other engineers, but here and there Aaron tripped over the flat corners of a marker. Thinking what might lay only a few feet underground gave him a cold feeling all over.

  They didn't have enough space to create a complete loop, so Isambard designed a long test track that extended along the western edge of the graveyard, directly behind the scrap heap, and executed a tight curve, continued in a straight line for fifty feet (just enough time to brake, according to Isambard), and ended abruptly just before the brick wall of a mausoleum. He even built a special machine that moulded and cut the rails to uniform thickness.