Magic and Mayhem: A Collection of 21 Fantasy Novels

by Jasmine Walt

  Finally, satisfied that everything was in order and the shell of the Wall was finally complete, he returned to the Engine Ward to give Isambard his final report. As they crept toward the black clouds of the Industrian district, traffic slowed, and finally ground to a halt four miles from the gates, where omnibuses, coaches, wagons, and food carts blocked the streets while frustrated drivers yelled insults at each other. It started to rain. Sighing, Nicholas grabbed his coat and umbrella, paid his driver, and made his way down the crowded footpath toward the Ward.

  All about him, voices rose over the rain, talking excitedly about the Wall. He rubbed shoulders with priests in coloured robes as they slapped waterlogged tracts into outstretched hands, loudly extolling this and that theorem. Newspapermen in wide-brimmed hats dragged pedestrians from the fray, pens fluttering across cheap paper as they jotted down quotes for the daily editions. The press of people was so intense Nicholas got caught in a crowd outside Stephenson's cathedral and didn’t move for several minutes. While he waited, rain pounding against his umbrella and rolling down his trouser legs, he glanced up at the statue of Stephenson adorning the courtyard of the cathedral, and gasped.

  You fool, he cursed himself as his eyes sought out every feature of the statue. The rounded figure, the soft hands, the small eyes, and lofty chin were all identical to the man who'd spoken to him earlier about the Boilers. How could you not have known?

  Robert Stephenson was in the city. And that could only mean one thing – if he'd come all this way to see the Wall and the Boilers for himself, he considered Isambard's presence a very real threat.

  James Holman's Memoirs – Unpublished

  Naval Knights are not supposed to enter the castle grounds, but despite the late hour, such a bustle of activity greeted me that it was easy to slip through the hubbub unnoticed. Twice only did a guard stop me and ask my business, and I resorted to pretending I was lost, a trick which evokes only pity when employed by a blind man.

  At first, I stuck to the outer courtyards, each step building a map of the grounds in my mind. Growing bolder, I began turning into some of the lofty hallways and drawing rooms, listening for clues to discern the purpose of each room. I cursed myself for not thinking to attempt this before now. The physical exertion and mental challenge it presented gave me a renewed vigour – if I couldn't embark upon adventures outside England, I could at least have one within the confines of the castle.

  I passed through a maze of winding corridors, and found myself in an internal courtyard, surrounded on all sides by a covered colonnade leading off into a series of lofty, opulent halls. I stood still and listened. Maids bustled by, pulling down drapes and packing away boxes of fine china. Workmen hauled giant wooden crates onto wagons parked in the centre of the courtyard – these would be taken to the station Aaron had built at the bottom of the gardens.

  In the madness, no one paid me any heed as I slipped into an antechamber and pressed on, further and further into the depths of the castle. I laid my feet down carefully, making as little noise as I could on the polished marble floors, listening to the echoes in the cavernous rooms, finding my way to doors and archways by sound. I passed by a doorway, and heard a familiar voice boom from within.

  Isambard? What is he doing here?

  I flattened myself against the wall and inched my way toward the frame of the door, straining to hear the conversation.

  "The first of your children have been loaded onto the carriages, Your Majesty. We will be moving those in the cellars at intervals over the next two days to avoid detection. There will be twenty wagons in all."

  The reply came not as words, but as an animalian hiss that stood my hairs on end. Remembering what Miss Brigitte had said about the hundreds of Sunken locked in the cellars, I gulped down my fear and inched closer.

  "And we have your guarantee they cannot possibly escape from the wagons? It's vitally important their movement remains secret." That voice belonged to Joseph Banks.

  "Of course," Brunel answered. "All the wagons are secured with thick bolts and my own steam-release system. We will move the children only after every last soul has gone from this castle. All the public will see of the train is a brief glimpse of it churning across the countryside, and a few puffs of steam rising from the sewers in London. I've arranged a separate lift shaft to move the children from the underground station to their prepared chambers. My men have laid out a feast of scrap lead for them upon their arrival."

  "And your men?"

  "When the work is complete, they will be seen to, as per Your Majesty's orders."

  "Good." I heard footsteps echo across the room and Banks’ voice again, from the furthermost corner. I then heard the sound of liquid falling into a glass. "If the next few days go smoothly, your reward will be handsome."

  "I wish only to serve His Majesty and the Industrian Gods. Consideration of wealth and power do not occupy me," Brunel said modestly. "When I have completed the Wall to His Majesty's satisfaction, then and only then is it time to talk of such things."

  "The Wall stands, upright and gleaming, after less than a month of construction. It is truly a miracle of engineering. The Royal Society has every confidence in your abilities, Isambard," Banks said, "and in your new thinking machines. If all this goes successfully, you'll be receiving an order for several Boiler units from the Council, and the sum offered will make you very rich indeed."

  Their conversation was broken by a snarl, like a hound sniffing out a tasty fox, followed by a shout and something smashing against the marble floor. Banks sighed, and said, "A pity! He was so placid this morning, too. The madness comes more frequently now, and he grows more violent and erratic each time. I am hoping his children will calm him again. Maybe it is the only thing. Will we see you at the palace?"

  "No. I will be busy with arrangements in the Engine Ward."

  "As you wish." Wheels creaked across the marble floor, coming towards me. Forgetting my silence, I bolted, the echo of my shoes against the tiles alerting Banks to my presence.

  He shouted and gave chase, but he had the King with him, confined to a wheelchair, and he had no hope of catching me. I ducked through room after room, down one corridor, then the next, ‘till at last I could smell the fragrance of the flower beds. Not far now. I slowed, panting, searching with my ears for the sound of Banks’ footsteps.

  Nothing but the songs of nightingales and the gentle rustle of the flowers fluttering in the breeze. I had lost him.

  What is Isambard doing at the castle? Although the boy I'd known was a stranger to me now, thanks in large part to my own simmering guilt, I could not imagine Isambard allowing such a blasphemy to continue. But my ears did not deceive me – Isambard not only knew of the Sunken's existence, he was implicated in their relocation to London.

  My thoughts turned to Nicholas, who worked with the Presbyter day after day, and had not even entertained the possibility that Isambard might be tied up in this madness. Aaron had suspected something, and I had heard with my own ears the proof that he was right – Isambard had built the Wall and the underground railway in full knowledge of their intended purpose.

  Nicholas will not believe me. He quarrels with Aaron over Isambard's motives, and every day he seems to fall deeper under the Presbyter's spell. If I tell him what I've heard, I will only drive him away, force him closer to Isambard, closer to danger.

  One thing I could be sure of: they were moving the Sunken into London in two days’ time. I had to do something. I must find Aaron. He will believe me. He will know what to do.

  I hurried through the gardens, vaulting over the low stone wall that marked the edge of the hundred steps, and found myself once again under the porch of Travers College. I stood outside, waiting for my heart to cease pounding and my ragged breath to return to normal before entering the residence. My mind whirred through the possible actions open to me. The castle gates were locked and every exit guarded day and night. I had only one course of action open to me. If I hoped to escape the ca
stle in time to warn the others, I would have to take the same passage Brigitte took – down in the cellars, with the Sunken.

  "Isambard. Open up!"

  Aaron hammered on the internal door. It'd taken him all day to find his way back through the crowds to the Engine Ward from Nicholas’ boarding house, and when he'd finally entered the Stoker camp, William Stone informed him the last rivets had been driven in on the Wall, and the Boilers had finished laying the London/Windsor track and building the platforms. All that was left was to test the train in the tunnel and the railway would be operational.

  He was running out of time; he had to know the truth.

  He knocked again, yelling at Brunel to grant him entry. Finally, he heard the bolts sliding free and the heavy door scraping against the floor. Aaron slipped through before Isambard could change his mind, but the Presbyter seemed to have already forgotten him, turning back to his bench and muttering under his breath.

  "Is this important, Aaron? The King kept me late at Windsor and I'm behind with these Boiler repairs—"

  Aaron stared at his friend's back and yelled his accusation.

  "Have I been building a secret railway to transport the King's lead-soaked, vampiric children into London?"

  Brunel whirled around. "How do you know all this? You haven't seen—"

  "Never mind how I know. Is it true? Is it true?"

  "Aaron, it's not what you think—"

  Red spots flashed in front of Aaron's eyes. He grabbed Brunel by the collar, dragging him up, forcing Isambard to look him in the eye. "How could you do this? How could you? Our whole lives I've supported you, helped you bring your dreams to life. How could you let me work on that railway, knowing what it would bring into London?"

  "I didn't have a choice—"

  "You said so yourself, Isambard. There is always a choice. You must stop that train. If the Sunken are allowed to enter London—"

  "Is that what you call them? An apt name – the Sunken. I think I shall adopt it."

  "—if you shut the gates on the Wall, and no one can get out, and no one can get in—"

  "Do you think I don't know this? Do you think I'm so blinded by the favour the mad King has shown me that I would endanger the whole city? Do you think I've not put measures in place to prevent such a tragedy?"

  "I don't believe you."

  "No, clearly you do not. What's happened to you, Aaron? Have all these years of friendship meant nothing to you?"

  "What's happened to me? You are the one who has changed, Isambard, and not for the better. This power has corrupted you, however much you think otherwise. You've never kept secrets from me before. The Isambard I knew would have given up his church and his power before he agreed to build such a reprehensible device."

  "And then done what, exactly? King George would have found another engineer willing enough to build him his trap. It is only because of this power I stand any chance of stopping him!"

  "Oh, and what a fine job you're doing! Cutting it a little close, aren't we, Presbyter?"

  Anger flared in Isambard's eyes. "I know what this is about. You're jealous of me."

  "What?"

  "You heard me. All these years you've been second to me. Aaron the labourer. Aaron the dogsbody. You hated that I got the credit for the broad gauge locomotive you helped build. You hate that I am the one who is held up and revered by our people. And most of all, you hate that I am Presbyter and not you."

  "Don't be so quick to presume my thoughts. I've never wanted to be you, Isambard. I've never wanted to be an arrogant, self-righteous quack who thinks he is above the gods—"

  "You can't stand that I can innovate and you cannot! You hated the Boilers from the moment you saw them."

  "You're right about that. I hate the Boilers. They terrify me. Just because you can create something, doesn't mean you should. You've gone too far, Isambard. You're creating machines to do the tasks that should be left to men. If you have your way, we will soon have no men at all!"

  Brunel balled his hands into fists. "Get out," he hissed.

  "Excuse me?"

  "Get out of my church, Aaron. You're no longer welcome here. You're no longer part of my crew. You have until tomorrow to pack your things and leave Engine Ward."

  A priest tried to intercept him as he fled the Chimney, but Aaron pushed the man roughly aside. As he flung open the door a torrent of water assailed him – the rain came in sheets, tearing at his clothes and matting his hair across his eyes. He flew down the stairs, forcing back the urge to scream as he came upon a great swell of people waiting to meet the revered Presbyter. His rage bubbling up inside him, he practically knocked the first man down as he pushed his way past. A woman scolded him, and he barked something so offensive at her that she fainted and had to be carried back to her carriage.

  Unheeding, Aaron ducked through the gate at the side of the Chimney, picked up a curved iron bar from the pile of tools outside the locomotive shed, and moved toward the Stoker camp. The rain came so thickly everything seemed hazy, coated in a shroud of water. People moved about him, carrying boxes of supplies, moving equipment indoors, out of the weather. He wiped his hair from his eyes and searched for a familiar face.

  "Aaron!" It was William Stone. He grabbed Aaron's arm. "Is something the matter?"

  "Quartz was right," said Aaron through gritted teeth. "Isambard Brunel is not to be trusted. The Stokers are doomed, William. The whole city is doomed, and we're the ones responsible."

  "You're not talking any sense." William grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him roughly. Men walking between the locomotive shed and the camp gathered around them, shouting over the rain that something was amiss.

  "That railway we've been building – it's secret because the King is bringing something horrible into London – an army of monsters that lust for human flesh." The men murmured to each other. William looked stricken. "It's the honest truth. Isambard himself confirmed it. It'll take me too long to explain how I know this, but we can't let that locomotive run." He held up the iron bar. "If I can disable the locomotive, then we can buy some time—"

  "You'll do nothing of the sort."

  Aaron heard the ominous click of the hammer of a pistol being pulled back. He whirled around and saw his brother, his robes heavy with water and his face impassive behind the barrel of his barker.

  "Oswald."

  "Little brother." He didn't move the gun away.

  "Aren't you supposed to be in the swamps?"

  "Brunel called me back. He needs me to oversee the service for the Grand Opening of the Wall. And I see discipline has grown lax in my absence. Drop the crowbar, Aaron. I'd hate to be forced to shoot my own brother."

  Aaron twisted, slowly, to face Oswald, the bar falling from his hands and landing in a puddle. He stared into his brother's eyes, hatred burning inside him. You've been greedy, Oswald, greedy for power, greedy for the easiest job. I hope the Sunken devour you.

  "Don't be a fool, Oswald," said William. "Put your barker down. We can't have Stokers killin' Stokers, now."

  "I don't want any trouble—" Oswald began.

  "Well, you're the only one here waving your irons around," Aaron snapped.

  "You were given an order. I'm here to ensure it's carried out."

  Aaron spat on the ground. "Look at you, a ridiculous man in your sodden robes. Isambard gives you a sup of power and suddenly you forget how much you once bullied him. He's still the same little boy, still tinkering with machines, only now he's put all our lives in danger. And you – you don't even bother to ask questions, Oswald. You follow him blindly. You don't even try to understand. I'm ashamed to call you my brother."

  "And you!" Oswald snarled in return, the arm holding the barker twitching. "You think you know everything, don't you? Aaron bloody Williams – you think you're so bloody clever because you have some kind of magical, special friendship with our Presbyter. Did you ever think that maybe he's been using your loyalty all along? You're his lackey, Aaron. Nothing more
—"

  Oswald's words died as a scream pierced the evening. It came from the maze of Stoker shacks, stacked one atop the other in the blocks behind the Chimney. It startled Oswald, who fumbled with the barker. Aaron saw his chance and broke away, running toward the Stoker camp.

  A shot rang out behind him, but he kept on running, William Stone and a growing crowd of Stokers close at his heels. Oswald was a lousy aim, anyway.

  He found the source of the screaming soon enough. William's wife, Mary Stone, knelt in the mud in a small courtyard, a pot of stew upset beside her and a body stretched at an impossible angle on the ground before her. A river of reddened water spilled along the narrow alley, sloshing over Aaron's boots as he ran to investigate. She wailed, her screams cutting through the roar of the torrents of water that cascaded from the pitched roofs above.

  William gathered Mary into his arms, stroking her hair in an attempt to calm her sobs. Aaron bent down and turned over the body. It was Benjamin Stone, his face bloody and bruised. The bone in his arm stuck out from a jagged cut in his elbow. Aaron felt for a pulse, watched for signs of life, but could find none.

  "I— I— I was just takin' this soup over to the fires, when all o' a sudden he comes hurtlin' down like a sack o' potatoes an' lands right there." Mary covered her eyes with her hands.

  "He came from where?" Aaron followed Mary's gaze upward, to the precarious pitched roofs that abutted each other along the edges of the courtyard. Water poured from the one of the corners and splashed across his face.

  "In this weather? What was he doing up there?"

  William shook his head, his face frozen in shock. One of the men piped up. "Maybe he was fixing a leak, an' fell."

  "Benjamin wouldn't have fallen," said William, looking over the boy's mangled face. "Even in this weather he was as spry as a compie."

  Aaron glanced up at the roof again, but this time he saw a silhouette against the misty London sky – the flash of a dark cloak flapping in the wind. Someone else was up there! He squinted, shielding his eyes from the rain with one hand. The figure – if there even was a figure – had disappeared.