The Wizard's Daughters: Twin Magic: Book 1

by Michael Dalton

  “He’s too short,” Ariel said. “And too desperate.”

  Astrid sighed. “When are we to go to the city, father? There are no mages here to court us.”

  “Soon, daughters. There are things I must do first, preparations I must make.”

  “You said that a month ago,” Ariel replied.

  “A month in which I have made plans. Patience, child. What have I taught you about patience?”

  The girls said nothing, and Walther frowned at the idle butler. Best get this over with, he thought. There would surely be others calling on his daughters, and he had better things to do than chase lovesick dandies away from his door.

  3.

  Ariel sat in a chair with her back to her dressing table, listening to the clicks and whirs of the automaton behind her as it brushed her hair. She found the sounds it made soothing, but Astrid did not trust the thing and refused to let it touch her. Ariel was happy with that arrangement, since it meant she did not have to share it. The two girls had to share nearly everything—for a variety of reasons both of them knew and accepted—so anything either of them got for themselves was to be treasured while it lasted.

  Astrid, meanwhile, lay on her bed staring at the ceiling.

  “Father will never let us out of here. We are doomed to die alone in this house.”

  “I suppose he’s right that we cannot simply move to the city for several months,” Ariel replied. “He must make arrangements for the house while we’re gone.”

  “And with Temperance broken, that’s more delays.”

  “Father said he just needed to replace the brain.”

  “I don’t think that’s it. It was making horrible noises before it stopped. I think something is broken inside it.”

  “Did you tell Father?”

  “No. He would be happy. Another month in his workshop fixing it while we wither away.”

  Ariel knew her sister was right, though she understood her father’s passion for the things he built. She had always loved the little animated toys he made for her, though she had no talent for it herself. Her and Astrid’s talents with the Flow lay elsewhere.

  “I can’t believe Hans Bergdahl came back again,” she said.

  “I don’t think he’ll be back after this.”

  Ariel mused for a moment.

  “What do you think about Stefan, the baker’s son?”

  The merits and shortcomings of the town boys who came to court them were a common topic of conversation between Ariel and Astrid, though they knew full well none of them were appropriate matches. But there was little else to talk about.

  “He’s handsome, but I don’t like him. He’s always staring at your bottom.”

  “Yes. Yours as well.”

  “I suppose he likes bottoms,” Astrid said.

  “I think I would prefer a husband who liked my front.”

  “What does the book say? About men who like bottoms?”

  Ariel got up from the chair and dug into the lower drawer of her dressing table. Under various smallclothes, which she knew her father would never bother with, was a slim book she had found hidden high up in her father’s library years ago. She had meant to return it at first, but when time passed and he appeared never to notice its absence, she had let herself keep it.

  It was part spellbook and part instruction manual. It was clearly not meant for the eyes of unmarried girls, but as their mother was gone, she and Astrid had to learn about these things somehow.

  Ariel flipped through the pages, most of which were covered in rough drawings of a naked man and woman in various positions. With the drawings were spells that were supposed to enhance the experience depicted, make it possible, or both.

  She found several pages showing the man doing various things to the woman’s bottom.

  “Many men enjoy entering a woman from behind and find the view of her bare bottom pleasurable,” she read.

  “It says that about everything.”

  “Many women enjoy having their bottoms lightly spanked,” Ariel went on.

  “I don’t want to be spanked. Certainly not by a baker’s son.”

  “There’s a spell that goes with it.”

  “What is it?”

  “Poen yn Bleser.”

  “‘Pain into Pleasure,’” Astrid replied. “What does it do?”

  “It seems to make spanking . . . pleasurable.” She grinned, and Astrid smirked at her.

  She and Astrid had tried to cast only a few of these spells. They were not easy to convert to deuolhud, since they had no experience with such things.

  They had tried to cast one of the first spells in the book—Corn y Ddraig, or Horn of the Dragon—on the watch captain’s stallion as he rode past their house, but it had not gone well. The horse’s male organ had immediately expanded to enormous proportions, and it was all Ariel could do to keep from bursting into laughter. But the animal had then become extremely agitated and thrown the captain to the ground. It had taken five watchmen to finally get it under control, during which the two of them had hidden in their courtyard trying not to laugh and hoping desperately that no one had seen what they had done.

  Another spell was supposed to prevent conception. Thinking it would do nothing in particular—since they were unmarried—they had cast it on each other just to see what effects there might be. It had indeed appeared to do nothing at first, but they later discovered it also stopped their monthly bleeding. Happy to be free of that annoyance, they had left it in place.

  Ariel found Horn of the Dragon toward the front and read through the section again. It sounded interesting, nonetheless. Perhaps it wasn’t meant for horses. She was sure she could convince Astrid cast it on their husband when the time came.

  4.

  Erich found the blacksmith’s shop a few blocks from the inn, following the sounds of hammer on metal. The smith was inside at his forge while two apprentices worked the bellows. He looked up from hammering some metal implement and saw Erich standing in the wide doorway.

  “Come back in an hour. I am in the midst of something.”

  Erich nodded. He was unlikely to get any information out of the man by interrupting him. But a glance around the shop also told him he would not find a sword belt here. There were a few basic weapons on the walls—a few axes and a dirk—but no scabbards or other gear to be seen.

  He looked up and down the street, not seeing any immediate possibilities. A pair of town guards walked past, and he considered asking them, but given his manner of entry to the town, he felt avoiding their notice might be best.

  Past the square in the other direction, toward the town gate, he found a leatherworker’s shop. Wrinkling his nose at the residual tannery stink—the tannery itself was of course located well outside of town, but the noxious smell of it typically came back with its owner to some extent—he lowered his head and entered the building.

  A tall, thin, man was working behind a counter, but stood up and brushed off his clothes as Erich entered.

  “Good day. What can I help you with?”

  “I need a sword belt.”

  “What size?”

  “Not heavy.” Erich showed him his blades, and the man nodded. “I gather from your dress this is for the road, not a parade?”

  “You gather correctly.”

  The man went to the back and returned with a few options. One, which looked the most solid, was dyed black and tooled with geometric designs. Erich liked it.

  “How much?”

  The leatherworker named a price that was nearly everything he had left. Erich winced, and the man noticed.

  “I stand behind my work, friend. That belt will last you far longer than the one you had.”

  “How can you tell?”

  The man picked up the broken belt and twisted it between his fingers. “Not all tanning is created equal. This was leather meant for breeches, not for a belt to support the weight of those blades. Whoever sold you this cheated you.”

  That would explain the num
erous times it broke, Erich thought. “I paid little for it.”

  “There you have it.”

  Erich manage to talk him down a few coppers, but finally gave in and paid him. When he handed over his money, the leatherworker took the coins and placed them in a small brass chest behind the counter. The chest whirred and clicked curiously as he dropped the money in.

  Erich strapped on the belt and attached his sword and dagger, and immediately felt more his usual self.

  “Those are fine blades,” the man said. “Worthy of a fine belt.”

  “Aye.” He adjusted the belt until the fit was to his liking. “But fine belt or not, my purse is lighter than I would like. I don’t suppose you know of anyone in this town hiring swords?”

  The leatherworker nodded. “I do, though you may find the job a hard one to win.”

  “What is it?”

  “Have you noticed the stone house off the square? The one with the iron bars over the windows and the green pennant at the top?”

  Erich had, though he had given it no thought.

  “That is the house of Walther, the artificer. I have heard he is looking to hire a guard for a trip he has planned.”

  “A mage?”

  “Aye. He sold me this,” he said, indicating the chest.

  “What is it?”

  “Try to take it and see.”

  Erich reached warily over the counter toward the chest. When his hand got with a foot or so, the chest suddenly jumped up on hitherto unseen legs and recoiled from his reach. To Erich, it almost seemed to be growling at him like a dog, and appropriately enough, a plate opened on the top that was ridged with sharp tooth-like projections.

  The leatherworker grinned. “Try to grab it, and you might lose a finger. Convenient.”

  “Clever.”

  “Yes. Walther is a gruff sort, but a fair one. If you want the job, best approach it honestly.”

  “I appreciate the help. Thank you for the belt.”

  “Thank you for the business.” As Erich turned to go, he spoke up again. “Just one other piece of advice. If Walther lets you into his house, which is no certain thing, mind you keep your eyes off his daughters.”

  “Oh?”

  “Indeed. You may find that difficult, but trust me on this.”

  5.

  As soon as Walther lifted Temperance up to carry it to the workshop, he knew something was wrong. Several parts rattled around the inside, and what sounded like a gear went clattering down one leg.

  When he laid it on a workbench and pried open the back, he saw the truth of the matter. The worn-out brain was the least of his problems. The mainspring—the mainspring itself!—had broken, and in unspooling it had shredded most of the automaton’s internal workings. What should have been an elegant array of components was instead a tangled mess of wires, rods, and secondary springs.

  Looking more closely, he could see what had happened. A small gear near the mainspring, a trivial thing that was there merely to balance the tension in some tertiary cables, had somehow worked its way out of alignment and begun rubbing against one of the mainspring mounts. Over time, it had gradually sawed through the mount until the mainspring came loose. It had no doubt been the source of the squeaking he had been hearing, but Temperance was old and old automata usually squeaked incessantly without self destructing like this.

  Walther cursed his procrastination in replacing the brain, because he would surely have noticed the problem and been able to fix it. But now repair was out of the question; the automaton was good for nothing but spare parts.

  As he sifted through the shattered fragments of brass, he saw that he had been right about the brain. Getting it out before would have been an extremely delicate process requiring days of work, but after this disaster it was simply a matter of lifting the mess of the mainspring remains out of the way. The once-clear stub of quartz, about the size of his fist, was now a deep purple, the Flow energies having wreaked havoc throughout its crystal structure over the past decade.

  The one saving grace was that it would now make a fine amethyst if cut and polished. He could likely sell it for a tidy sum when they finally went to Köln.

  Köln. Yes, the girls were right. It was high time he put his affairs in order and took them to the city. He had been building another automaton he meant to watch the house in their absence, for he did not trust Temperance to be able to do it properly, even with a new brain. That project had dragged on for months, largely because he needed to fabricate a number of delicate parts and building things like the rat-catcher was simpler and more enjoyable.

  In that, perhaps Temperance’s unfortunate end was a blessing in disguise, because he could salvage much of what he needed from its wreckage. Most of what was broken was the main drive system, and he had already built one for the new automaton. Temperance’s was not powerful enough for it anyway.

  All he needed was some time and freedom from interrupt—

  “Father!” Ariel called.

  Walther groaned. “What is it?” he replied.

  “There’s someone at the door.”

  He had forbade them from answering the door, for reasons that were obvious to all of them, which was why they went through this routine several times a day.

  “Another one?”

  “Yes, but I don’t recognize him.”

  Walther left Temperance’s carcass behind and went out to the front hall. When he opened the viewport, he saw a tall man with long brown hair on the doorstep. He was older than the boys who had been pestering Ariel and Astrid, and from his dress—little better than rags—he was no town dandy. But he carried a fine set of blades on his hip, which made him no beggar either.

  Curiosity piqued, Walther opened the door, though he left the wrought-iron gate on the outside closed.

  “Yes?”

  “I am seeking Walther the artificer.”

  “You have found him. What business have you?”

  “I am told you are seeking a man to serve as a guide and caravan guard.”

  “There is no caravan but myself and my daughters. We are going to Köln. Do you know the way?”

  This was not what Erich wanted to hear, but he needed the work. Köln was a large city, and it was unlikely he would be recognized now. He hoped.

  “I do and have been there. I know the city well.”

  “What do you know of the route?” Walther asked.

  Erich suspected—accurately—that he was being tested.

  “It is not a difficult trip, but it will take a week or two, providing the weather favors us. There are a few rivers to cross, and one we may need to ford. That river in particular may be risky, as I have heard there are ogres in the area. Beyond that, though, the trip is not overly dangerous, but you are wise not to attempt it unaccompanied, especially if we are bringing children.”

  Walther nodded.

  “My daughters are not children and can handle themselves well enough, but indeed I do not wish to take them on that road without some assistance.”

  He paused and looked Erich over slowly.

  “By the look of those blades, you are an experienced swordsman, though by the look of your dress, you seem one a bit down on his luck.”

  “You are correct on both counts, sir.”

  “May I see your sword?”

  Erich did not like giving up his sword, but the leatherworker’s description of Walther appeared accurate. He withdrew his rapier and passed it through the iron gate. Walther turned it over in his hands, then looked down the blade, rotating it to feel the balance.

  “I’ve always believed you can judge a craftsman by his tools, and yours, sir, are in fine shape.” He looked more closely at the hilt. “These gems are not paste.”

  “No.”

  Then, squinting at the base of the pommel: “And this is an emerald.” He looked up at Erich with growing respect. “It never occurred to you to pry one of these loose and sell it? Your situation would be much improved from even one.”

  �
��It did. But, as you said . . . I would prefer not to vandalize my tools.”

  He passed the sword back to Erich.

  “Well. I’m convinced your skills are in order, but what about your character? You arrive here with no references. Am I correct in assuming you have arrived in this town only recently?”

  “This very morning.”

  “You have no one who can vouch for you?”

  Erich shrugged.

  “I am afraid not.”

  Walther nodded. “Fortunately for you, I have other means of assessing your suitability. Hand me your blades, and we can get started.”

  Erich frowned but said nothing. Walther regarded him evenly.

  “You can, I assume, understand my reluctance to allow an armed man I do not know into my house,” he said. “And a man such as you surely took the time to assess my reputation before showing up at my door. I do not need to steal your sword.”

  Walther had read him correctly again. He had spoken to the smith, who had independently told him that Walther was seeking a guide, as well as to the fat woman at the inn, both of whom had confirmed what the leatherworker had told him.

  He unbuckled his new swordbelt and passed everything through the gate to Walther, who disappeared for a few moments before returning and unlocking the gate.

  “Follow me.”

  6.

  Walther led him into the house. The front hall led off in three directions on the ground floor, as well as up a curving staircase to the second floor. As he entered the room, Erich thought he heard footsteps scampering away somewhere, but saw nothing. Walther motioned him to follow down the passageway to the right, and Erich soon found himself in a large workshop. Three long workbenches were set against each wall, and a broad table sat in the middle of the room. Most of the benchtops were covered in gears, pulleys, wires, and parts beyond his understanding. What appeared to be a large brass man—in a state that even Erich could tell was badly broken—lay across the table, while another, larger iron one, partially built with its innards hanging out, stood in a corner. More than one smaller brass assemblage was walking around of its own accord.