by Ben Rovik
“Imagine,” Ouste said in a voice like a candle being snuffed out.
“The technology is, of course, in its infancy; far from fully proven,” Lundin began, frantic to slow the conversation down. If the court sorcerer decided that this project was a direct threat to her profession, then he was sure the Regency Council themselves would stamp it out—and his whole squad along with it. Delia’s tradition of independent research be damned; there were some entrenched interests you didn’t go up against until you knew you were absolutely ready. Even I know that. And Kelley couldn’t be making a bigger hash of all this if he still hated me.
“‘Far from proven?’ Mister Lundin,” Ouste broke in, “are you saying that you have yet to prove that a soulless box of gears, programmed by mechanics who haven’t practiced magic for a day of their lives, can cast a spell?” She put her fingers to her chest. “How very surprising!”
“Actually, I believe my technicians have been able to successfully weave a spell with the box,” Sir Kelley said guilelessly. He looked at Lundin—and then he opened his jaw as wide as it could go, as if he was trying to swallow an entire hard-boiled egg. Lundin drew back, but Sir Kelley closed his jaw again as quickly as it had opened, and kept looking at the technician without any recognition of what his face had just done. Lundin blinked.
“Didn’t you cast some kind of spell?” Kelley asked.
“Some kind of one, yes,” Lundin said, trying not to stare.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” Ouste said, inclining her head. She fixed Lundin with a frosty glare. “Much as I’d love to learn more about your small triumphs, I have pressing business in the Princess’ chambers. Pleasant feastday.”
“You too,” Lundin said quietly, bowing again as the sorcerer turned to go. He noticed a rough fabric pouch on a cord at Ouste’s side as she walked to the vaulted doors. The pouch was the same fabric Archimedia had given him to wrap the ojing, and the size was just about right for several of those flat tan disks. If she’s carrying ojing, does that mean she’ll be casting a spell in there? He stifled a curse. Having a chance to watch the court wizard of Delia, presumably one of the world’s first-rate spellcasters, as she went through her magical process would have been a gold mine of observational data. But now that she hated him, thanks to Sir Kelley’s big mouth, there was no way he’d be able to wheedle his way into that room.
Sir Kelley’s big mouth dropped open again, and closed shut with a noisy click of teeth. Lundin jumped a little, which also escaped the Petronaut’s notice as he clapped his hands. “Glad I could make that introduction,” he said. “I think she’ll be following your project with great interest, Mister Lundin.”
“You’re probably right,” Lundin said.
“At any rate, technician—ah, Ms. Elena, there you are!” Kelley grinned as Samanthi stepped up next to the junior tech, her face also bright and grinning. The Petronaut turned away to point at the corner of the room where white-clad servants were unpacking their gear. While his back was turned, Samanthi dropped the fake smile and turned to Lundin with concern, mouthing “did you see that?” and doing a startlingly accurate reenactment of Kelley’s oral tic. He barely had time to nod before Sir Kelley looked back at them and they became the picture of attentiveness. “Abby the Abacus is unloaded. You’ll be primarily crunching numbers about crowd density along the Princess’ parade route. The Palace Guard is looking for you to see if they need to fortify security in any locations or consider a re-route once the Princess emerges from the Ordeals.”
“So we know that Princess is going to make it through?” Sir Mathias asked, behind the techs.
Sir Kelley frowned. “What a strange question, Sir Mathias,” he said. “Of course she will; there’s a whole day of joyous celebration planned around it. Excuse me!” Kelley waved at a passing servant, gesturing for her to come over. The trim, middle-aged woman hesitated, then swept over to them, her long white skirt flowing behind her. “This is Biatrice. We’re friends,” Kelley said, beaming at the chambermaid. She bobbed a quick curtsey to the squad, and they nodded awkwardly.
“Biatrice,” Sir Kelley asked, “Princess Naomi is doing well, isn’t she? She’s such a strong, wonderful girl, I can’t imagine there’s any chance of her not making it through the Ordeals.”
She looked at each of them, her mouth half-open as she decided what to say. Finally, she leaned in closer to the Petronaut team. “I suppose you’ll find out sooner or later, working back here,” she whispered. “Just this morning, things started going wrong for her Royal Highness.”
“What do you mean, wrong?” Sir Mathias asked.
“Well, she’d struggled a bit in week one of the Ordeals, but then she rallied in the most amazing way; like a true Haberstorm. Just last night, with how focused she was and how full of energy, we really did think it was a sure thing she’d make it through. The Regents, too.
“But then, this morning, it’s all different, all of a sudden. I haven’t seen her, granted—only Lady Ceres is with her now—but the word is she can’t move, barely opens her eyes, just lies there, struck with a great fever.”
“Spheres,” Samanthi breathed. “Catching a fever right now, when her body’s exhausted from thirteen days of Ordeals….”
“And aren’t masters of physic forbidden from attending to a Haberstorm during the two weeks?” Lundin asked.
Biatrice nodded once, anxiously. “If a physician intervenes, she fails the First Ordeals. She’ll lose her place in the succession and be banished, as Prince Torvald was.”
“But if a master of physic doesn’t intervene?” Sir Mathias asked, his voice low and grim. Biatrice’s eyes dropped to the ground. None of them needed to put the worst-case scenario into words.
“The staff have been saying,” Biatrice said, putting on a smile after a moment of silence, “that this proves what an overachiever Princess Naomi is. She wouldn’t be content unless she added an Ordeal of her own to the ritual.”
“Is there anything we can do, Biatrice?” Sir Kelley asked, an outpouring of sympathy in his voice. His jaw swung open and closed again without his green eyes losing their softness.
Biatrice straightened up and tucked her hair back into place under its bonnet. “That’s why Ouste has been summoned. There’s no rule against magical healing or protection in the Tome of Ordeals, so hopefully she can help. All we can do is trust in Ouste, and in Princess Naomi’s strength, and keep working, I suppose. If you’ll excuse me,” she said, curtseying. They said quiet goodbyes as she trotted away.
“What a nightmare, to have this crop up on the final morning,” Sir Mathias said, shaking his head. “No wonder the Regents looked so worried.”
“Hey, team!” Kelley said, his face brightening. He turned to Samanthi and Lundin. “Since magic is allowed during the Ordeals, what do you say you offer to use the squawk box to help Ouste?”
The technicians looked at each other, with the unspoken question “how do we bury this idea as quickly as possible?” “Oh, the court wizard knows what she’s doing, Sir Kelley,” Lundin said. “We’d just be underfoot.” Where she would squash us like bugs.
“Besides,” Samanthi added, “we’ve never done any spells like this. It would take us hours to figure out the Mabinanto for a, you know, spell of fever reliever; hours more to press new disks; and who knows how long to cast the spell. The only spell we have the disks ready for is a spell of friendship.”
Before Kelley could reply, a white-clad Herald came dashing up to them. “Sirs,” he said, “if it please you, the commander requests your presence at the north gate.”
“Please tell the commander we’ll be there straight away. And thank you,” he said, reaching out and shaking the nonplussed servant’s hand, “for running all this way. That’s truly an accomplishment, and I want to make sure that your contribution to this day is properly recognized…”
Sir Mathias buried his face in one massive palm and gestured for the techs to lean in closer. “Listen,” he said, eyes peering at them bet
ween his fingers. “Secondary assignment number two. When you’re not working on fixing Sir Kelley, or tasks for the Guard, I want you listening for anything we can do to help Princess Naomi. If you think of anything at all, fire up the Communicator.”
“Look at you, Sir Mathias, commanding the squad,” Samanthi said with sugary approval.
“You lose that tone or Lundin gets your machine lathe,” he said severely. Her face went stony serious. Lundin stifled a grin.
“Best of luck, technicians! See you later in the—” Kelley’s cheery goodbye was briefly interrupted by his jaw swinging open, viper-like. Samanthi and Lundin flinched involuntarily. “—day ,” he finished. With a clatter of boots, the Petronauts followed the Herald down the hall and out of sight.
“To work?” Lundin said.
“Let’s just hope Princess Naomi makes it through this, and the day ends with the good kind of parade,” Samanthi said as they made their way towards the Abacus.
“The bright youth. The child queen. Naomi of the Haberstorms, sweet child of the shining braid.”
Jilmaq’s throat was parched. He had been weaving the spell in Mabinanto for eight hours now, and the Mobinoji had demanded nearly constant speech of him. He had known it would be taxing the instant he drew the Riker’s Hex on the floor in black sand and he felt his muscles spasm with tension, all over his body. There was great power at work this day, and great importance to every word.
His employer had demanded a gradualistic spell, a piece of technical finesse that required great reserves of stamina on the part of the caster. Instead of a spell taking effect all at once upon completion—his memory leapt back to that dreadful moment when the healthy LaMontina became a smoldering corpse—the desired outcome would creep in gradually, the effect sustained for hours. In this case, stretching out the time horizon meant Princess Naomi’s symptoms would be indistinguishable from a run-of-the-mill illness.
But to work the spell to its desired end, it might be another eight hours of speech before Jilmaq would know his task was complete. When that strange, small place in his hindbrain lit up with the knowledge that the spell was finished, then he would rest.
He wrapped a single strand of Princess Naomi’s hair around his palm three times and closed his eyes, spittle flying as he raised his voice again.
“Are you the Petronaut?”
Lundin was crouched behind Abby, cleaning out a jam in the printing apparatus. He looked up to see the round body of Lord Portikal, his famous belly obscured underneath an ornately patterned gray tabard. The mustachioed Regent was tapping his foot, his thick hands clasped behind his back. Lundin set down the stiletto-like dejamming tool and scrambled to his feet, bowing deeply.
“Hail to the Regents! Hello, my Lord. I’m… well, a technician. Would you like, uh, Sir Kelley…?”
“Do you know how to fix things?” The Regent demanded.
“Some things, yes.”
Portikal waved a hand dripping with rings and turned his back sharply. It wasn’t until he was a few steps away that Lundin realized the Regent meant for him to follow. He looked over and tried to catch Samanthi’s eye.
“Who told you to set this up here?” Samanthi was saying to a particularly bubble-headed midling servant, stabbing her finger towards a very unhappy Compiler. The machine was clunking in a tragic fashion. Samanthi glanced over as Lundin waved. He pointed at Lord Portikal’s back, and her eyes went wide. “Should I go?” Lundin mouthed.
“Are you stupid?” she mouthed back, shooing him away furiously. Lundin quickly fell in step behind the Regent, as they marched towards—
Her Highness’ chambers, Lundin realized as Portikal shoved one half of the wide arched door open. The technicians had been installed in the spacious anteroom to the Princess’ personal space. Now Lundin was entering the sitting room where Naomi would receive guests or conduct business. The walls were beautifully papered, but there was far less furniture than he expected, and the drawn curtains made the room no brighter than a cloudy twilight. A single closed door led to Her Highness’ sleeping room, he supposed.
Ouste was in the far side of this room, closer to the curtains. She glanced at him and visibly stiffened before turning back to her magical accoutrements; a scroll, a bowl, a stick of charcoal. Only a few minutes had passed since the Petronauts had left, so clearly she hadn’t had the time to begin her spellcasting. Lundin tried not to be too obvious as he craned his neck to learn whatever he could about her preparations.
“Here,” Portikal said. Lundin brought his attention back to the Regent, who was standing in front of an upended piece of machinery. He crouched down. It was a standard fan box with conditioning coils. For people who could afford the expense, and the ‘tum that powered them, a single one of these could make an entire room pleasantly cool in the hottest days of summer. It was no surprise at all to see one in the palace. Lundin looked into the already-open casing, tilting it towards him for a better view.
“It’s not cooling the air properly,” Lord Portikal explained. “Can you repair it quickly, or should we have a replacement sent up?”
“No, no, Lord Regent, it’s a quick repair,” Lundin said, reaching into his tool pouch. “This wire on the cooling side has chipped off; it’s jamming the fan’s movements. Did you hear a rattling sound?”
“I suppose so.”
“I’ll clean this piece out and it should start blowing normally again,” he said, already unscrewing the fan housing. “Less than five minutes?”
Lord Portikal blinked, and his face softened considerably. He shifted his weight, clasping his hands on his belly, and nodded. “Very well,” he said. “The Princess will be much more comfortable. Well done.”
“Please don’t say that until it works, my Lord,” Lundin said. The Regent actually smiled back at him. As he clipped the twisted wire out of place, he took a little risk. “Is Her Highness all right, my Lord?” he asked, trying to keep his voice casual.
“Nothing wrong with being warm on a summer morning,” Portikal said, immediately becoming more guarded. Lundin nodded and buried his head back in the machine. He’d seen the flash of concern cross over the Regent’s wrinkled face before he’d mastered himself.
It really was a simple repair. Lundin scratched his forehead and idly wondered if they gave medals for maintenance tasks when his eyes wandered back to where Ouste was getting ready.
He stopped abruptly, halfway finished with removing the fourth screw, and stared. The wizard was giving careful instructions to a visibly nervous maidservant, standing on a stepstool with an ojing on a long string in her hands. Ouste was holding the pouch he’d noticed earlier in her hands, its wide mouth slung open to display a small stack of other ojing inside. Each of the disks was bright white.
“That doesn’t make any sense,” Lundin muttered.
“What’s wrong?” Portikal asked, pointing down at the fan box.
Lundin shook himself, glancing up at the Regent, then back at the solid white disk the maid was hanging from a loop in the ruched ceiling. “I, uh, I need to investigate the air flow, my lord, through these windows. Very quick, very simple, won’t be a moment.”
Lord Portikal frowned. “Fine,” he said as Lundin stood. The technician had the sense to give the Regent a nice deep bow before taking a slow, purposeful stroll towards the window, right past the sorcerer’s magical setup.
He kept his face even and his eyes fixed on the window, not making eye contact with the maid or the wizard as he walked past. The maid glanced at him; Ouste very studiously did not. As he walked by, he flicked his eyes from the hanging ojing to the others in Ouste’s hands. Sure enough, they were a brilliant white; and a flat white, without a trace of depth or swirling motion. His heart started pounding in his chest.
Lundin made a show of pulling back the curtains, opening the window, putting his face in the opening to feel the flow of warm outdoor air, frowning a few times, and then nodding decisively before closing the shutters and drawing the blinds again. He w
alked back to the fan box quickly and knelt down. Lord Portikal crossed his arms.
“Do you know what to do now?”
“I think so, my Lord,” Lundin said, his mind far away as his hands breezed through the simple repair.
The Regent was grateful for his work, and the powerful man’s praise would have been more than enough to send him over the moons for days at any other moment. But Lundin could barely focus enough to say the right pleasantries as his mind raced. He sauntered out of the Princess’ chambers and practically bolted back to Samanthi and the Abacus.
“How come Lord Portikal picked you?” Samanthi said, teasingly, as Lundin drew close. She dropped the light tone when she saw the look on his face. The senior tech grabbed Lundin by the arm and turned him away from the passing servants.
“What’s wrong?”
Lundin shook his head vigorously, as if to preemptively deny what he knew he had to say. But if there was any chance that he was right, they had a lot of work to do and no time whatsoever to do it. “I think Princess Naomi’s under a magical attack, and I think Ouste is behind it,” he whispered.
Samanthi just looked at him for a long moment. “Boy oh boy, Horace,” she said in a low hiss. “You sure you don’t have any Haberstorm blood? ‘Cause it’s one ordeal after another with you.
“No,” she raised a hand as he tried to object, or apologize. (He wasn’t sure which was trying to come out of his mouth.) “Just give me your evidence. Quietly.”
“When no magic’s around, ojing are tan. A leathery color. They turn white in the presence of magic you’re casting, black when outside magic is drifting through. Right?”
“Sure.”
“Ouste hasn’t even finished setting up her space, and all her ojing are already white. Pure white. Flat white.” Samanthi frowned. It was everything Lundin could to do keep from raising his voice; this was way too public a place for a conversation like this. “They ought to be tan up until she starts casting. For them to be white without any magic going on doesn’t make sense.”