by Raven Bond
“I do not believe you,” Mikey said angrily, his face a study in disbelief. “You westerners have many people that can call the fire, and they do not cause everything to burn down. You even hire them to start the street lamps, and they do not cause the street to burn down!”
“That is because they went to school,” Owen shot back. “Where they learned the basic skills to be able to control their gift. We have an old saying, ‘fire is the easiest to call, the hardest to control.” I am willing to bet that you do not teach that in your knock shop school!”
“Here now,” Mei said in Mandarin. “Mary isn’t like that! Nor is Mikey! You apologize for that!”
Mary laughed like a scarred bird. “I am you kind’s refuse, Lord high and mighty! Mikey here,” she laid a hand on his arm tenderly. “Mikey saved me from what you call the ‘knock shop school’.
“He saved me too!” Mei said still holding her gun at Owen, “not to mention that he only wants Mary to learn so that she can!”
“Mei—that is enough,” Mikey said more calmly than before. “We do not need to justify ourselves to his kind.” He turned to Owen, “So, Owen Strong, will you teach her?”
“An untrained Sorcerer is a danger to everyone, including themselves,” Owen replied automatically with the old proverb. He looked absently at Mary. His mind had been working all along. Perhaps this was the answer to his problems too. He needed someplace to hide from ‘Mr. Victor’ if that was his real name. It was clear from what he’d over heard that Owen had offended the wrong people in power back home. They had sent this contract killer and his giant thug after Owen like predatory birds with cries of ill omens.
He could not return to home or even contact Jinhao, he decided. To place her in that sort of danger was not simply not done, not until he had dealt with these hired assassins at least. It was enough that Findley had been caught in their spiders’ web. His death weighted on Owen heavily. Fine, he decided, perhaps he could made a refuge here. The girl clearly needed looking after. He looked up at Mary and spoke the old ritual words.
“Do you want to learn of these Mysteries, and in time, have the Greater Mysteries unfold for you? Do you promise to obey me in all things unquestioningly, from this moment onward?”
Mary looked at Mikey who nodded permission to her. Mary nodded at Owen in turn. “I do,” she said solemnly.
“I cannot promise to teach her to be a full sorceress,” Owen said to Mikey. “That is beyond my skill. But I can promise to teach her how to control her gift of fire calling.”
“That will do for a start,” the gang leader said.
“You also will have to follow my instructions if you want this hare-brained scheme to succeed” Owen continued. “I will require the return of my focus cane, and I want little Mei there to stop pointing that very big gun at me. I also need to be untied right now.”
Mikey got a determined look on his face and advanced towards Owen, a wicked curved knife in one hand and Owen’s cane in the other.
“I do not think it will be necessary to agree to all of that,” he said to Owen grimly.
Chapter 5
Owen was given a surprising amount of freedom following the so-called negotiations with the street leader called Mike, although Owen would be surprised if that was his birth name, given those Hannish features. Owen had agreed to be the girl’s teacher only because the arrangement gave him a place to hide while he recovered from the attack on the wharves.
That the man who called himself Mr. Victor had been a headhunter Owen had little doubt. Headhunters were a part of British society, sorcerers who were really little more than hired killers. When deeds of Magia and necromantic revenge had become part of your culture for hundreds of years, headhunters such as Mr. Victor would always arise, Owen reflected.
Headhunters were called that because of the vogue for British Nobles to hire sorcerer-assassins who would cut off the head of their target, thus stopping the distressing tendency for victims of assassination to rise from the dead and seek out their killers. As most Nobles were also sorcerers of some sort, this fashion kept down the number of revenants.
Even with necromancy outlawed throughout the Empire, most Nobles were not above a little necromantic revenge. Headhunters were very expensive and very ruthless. Whomever Owen had upset must be reasonably wealthy, but that hardly narrowed the field of possible persons, let alone accounted for the organizations who would doubtless like his head. Eventually he would have to find Mr. Victors’ employers, but first he would have to defeat the assassin himself.
Headhunters tended to follow certain habits and traditions, habits that Owen could exploit. Victor and his giant thug would doubtless be watching the house; one of those traditions was the destruction of the target’s household. If that had truly been what Victor’s employer had paid for, the assassin would have used some other stratagem, so Barton and the house should be relatively safe. Given that Jinhao would not be returning for a few days, and would thus be away from the danger, this opportunity seemed ready made for him to out-flank the headhunter.
Of course the fact that Mike still held his Electrum cane was a consideration, but not as great a hold over Owen as the street leader figured. He could always create another focus, although that would take a great deal of time as well as energy, and he would hate it. Owen had lost enough in this little adventure already.
He kept seeing James’ face over and over again in the grips of that huge creature accompanying Victor. Owen fiercely clenched his hands together at the memory. He had never felt as helpless as he did when he saw James in danger. Then he heard his childhood friend call for his help. Victor was a powerful sorcerer, Owen couldn’t deny that. Most headhunters were. The man would face justice for James all the same, Owen vowed.
“Hey Mister, you alright?” asked the girl Mei who was behind him. Owen came to himself to find that he had stopped in the passageway down which he and the girl had been walking. Mei was the price of Owen’s apparent freedom. The little girl with her big pneumatic pistol was his constant shadow as well as his guide.
“Yes,” Owen said, “I am fine.” He pointed towards the room ahead of them. “What room is that just ahead of us again?” Mei sighed in the weary manner that was the habit of children everywhere when confronted by clueless adults. Owen had to admit though, that she seemed sharper in wits than many adults he dealt with.
“That’s the big eating hall, the re-fac-tory” she replied, stumbling over the English phrase. “You know, where we all eat and tell stories about the day.”
“The refectory I presume you mean,” Owen said simply. Mei gave an exaggerated shrug or grimace, Owen wasn’t sure which, at his reply.
“Yeah,” she agreed, that word. What is it with you British anyway? Why can’t you just say big eating hall?”
“That would make things too simple,” Owen explained. “We British have never shied away from the complex and the convoluted. In fact, we positively embrace it. Why call something one thing that everyone knows when you can call it six different things that only a few can understand?” Mei looked at him puzzled.
“You people are crazy,” Mei pronounced. Owen nodded in agreement.
“Oh, absolutely,” he said. He walked into the large hall, looking around. He was pleased to find it both clean and ordered, with long tables and benches that would not be have been out of place at his boarding school. To continue with the boarding school theme, he realized that he had only seen women and young girls wherever he went in to factory
“This is amazing,” he said to Mei, “but where are any boys?” The girl looked up at him.
“Boys don’t get left out by their families to die,” she explained. “This is all Mike’s doing. Some of us he takes in as small babies, others when they’re older. The babies all live upstairs,” she continued. “Once you’re old enough though, you have to go out and nick things to keep the babies fed.” She expanded her chest proudly. “I am the leader of the pick-pockets, because I’m the best.”
“I am sure you are,” Owen murmured while thinking. Abstractly, he knew about the custom of exposing infants, especially unwanted girls, but to his chagrin had never really thought about it, or about what happened to the abandoned. Suddenly the room swam in front of his eyes.
“Hey Mister,” Mei called to him. Her voice sounded as if it came from down a well. Owen felt for the closest of the benches.
“I believe I shall just sit down for a moment,” he remarked. The floor came up to meet him.
Chapter 6
When he came to, at least he wasn’t tied up anymore. He opened his eyes to see his little guardian sitting on her packing crate. She tossed him a large bun.
“About time you woke up,” Mei said to him. “Eat that and get ready to go out.” Owen groggily bit into the bun to find it stuffed with curried vegetables that exploded with flavor in his mouth. He wet his lips.
“Any chance of a cup of tea?” He asked. Mei snorted at him.
“It’s a working day,” she said. “You should feel grateful for what we have.”
“Working day?” Owen asked, hungrily eating the last of the stuffed bun. “What does that mean?”
The girl pulled herself off the crate, brandishing her rather large air pistol. Owen noticed the bulging gas chamber with some disappointment. If it had been a gunpowder weapon he might have been able to ignite the cartridges with his Fire talent, but it seemed that even among ruffians and street urchins that trick was too well known these days. Not, he reminded himself, that he wanted to.
“It means that Mikey wants you to come outside as we can’t be bothered to watch over you anymore. Get up,” Mei said grimly, training the weapon on Owen. Owen stood, considering whether to fight. At least he wasn’t swooning anymore when he stood up. The strange old man they all called the Doctor had come, Owen vaguely remembered him holding Owens wrist while clucking his tongue, then sticking Owen with needles in various places. Owen had heard of this form of Hannish Medicine, though he had never experienced it before.
To his surprise, the needles didn’t hurt, and he did feel quite better than he had. While he wasn’t sure about it replacing a good old fashioned Western Healer laying on their hands, then giving him alchemical potions, he had to admit the man’s ministrations seemed to work. Owen flexed his legs, regarding Mei and the distance between them.
The Western woman Mary came in through the double factory doors behind them at that moment. She was wearing what Owen judged to be a middle-class Western dress of lavender and sky blue complete with a feathered hat and large matching bag. A far cry from the grey pajama pants and tunic she normally wore. She stopped, taking in the sight of Owen and the little girl facing off.
“Mei!” Mary said in a tone kept for scolding children who were stealing sweets, “Where did you get that pistol? And why are you pointing it at Owen?” Mei tossed her head, black curls swirling. Owen noticed that the pistol remained rock steadily aimed at him.
“Ah, Mary,” Mei whined, “I was just doing what Mikey said. He told me to scare the Quizi so that he wouldn’t run off when we take him out.” Quizi was slang for ‘tricky foreign demon’, a term Owen had often heard used in reference to Western sorcerers. Mary frowned at this and strode over to Mei, hand outstretched.
“Give me that gun! You are not to refer to him as a tricky demon! He’s my teacher! Am I a demon?” The little girl seemed to deflate under this scolding, and meekly handed Mary the pistol.
“Aw, no Mary,” Mei protested. “You know that you’re not!” She nodded in Owens direction. “But he’s a rich Magia user, and English, not to mention a guy!” Owen could not decide from this if Mei’s main objection to him was his sex, his sorcery, or his birth. While he was still puzzling this out, Mike the gang leader came through the doors. He looked at Owen
“Good you are awake,” he said crisply. He turned to Mei. “Get him up and ready to go out the door.”
Mei looked between Mike and Mary. “Mary took my pistol,” she said glumly. Mike whirled on Mary.
“What did you do that for?” He snapped. Mary frowned, the gun held loosely at her hip by the barrel.
“Mei was threatening Owen with it. That is no way to treat a house guest!” Mike answered her with a frown of his own.
“‘House guest is he?” Mike looked at Owen. “You had better be worth it, quizi,” he said. Mary stamped her foot at this.
“He is no quizi, he is my teacher!” she objected.
“Fine,” Mike snapped. “Then you can be responsible for him today! That is, if I can trust you to shoot him for the safety of the gang!” Wordlessly, Mary aimed the pistol in Owens direction and pulled the trigger, while still staring at Mike. There was the whish of displaced air, followed by the thunk of a bullet hitting the wooden pillar behind him. Owen ducked down as sharp splinters flew around him.
“I can shoot him just fine,” Mary retorted. “But you had better be willing to get me a new teacher!”
“You!” Mike whirled on Owen, who was still brushing off chips of wood from his shoulders. “This is all your fault! Just do as you’re told and there should be no trouble! Mei,” he ordered, “go round up your crew and get to the streets. Do the usual plays, I will meet you at noon.” The girl nodded sharply, ringlets flying.
“Got it, Mike.” She turned towards Owen. “Mind you do what Mary says, foreign devil!” With that admonishment, she swaggered out the double doors behind her.
“I would be happy to follow whatever directions you have,” Owen said calmly. “Just what are we about? What is a working day?” Mike grinned at Owen savagely.
“We’re running low on supplies,” he explained. “So we’re all going out stealing. I can’t spare anyone to watch you here. Besides Doctor says that you should get out in the fresh air.” He held up a warning finger. “Mind you if you try to run or tip off the constables to us, you’ll be the first to die!”
“It would be to my advantage to not draw attention to myself I assure you,” Owen said dryly. “I cannot be recognized.” Mike narrowed his eyes at this.
“You are on the dodge from someone,” he guessed. “The people who put you in the water.” Owen shrugged.
“Perhaps,” he replied. “I promise you that you also do not want to come to anyone’s attention.” He gestured to the clothes he was wearing, grey Hannish tunic and pajama pants, then towards Mikes suit. Like Mary he was wearing the epitome of middle-class Western apparel with dark charcoal pants, maroon embroidered vest and an ink-blue suit coat. “Should I not be dressed more as you are?” Owen asked. Mike squinted at Owen.
“Your clothes were torn up for scrap,” the young ganger said. “They were too burned and soggy to save.” He shook his head. “No I think that what you are wearing will do just fine. We’ll get you a bamboo hat and no one will know that you are a foreigner. Mary here will keep you in line. Just do as she says.”
“Well,” Owen replied with a bow towards Mary, “Let us be about it by all means.” Mary’s face colored at him. She hid the handgun under an embroidered shawl that she wore over her bare shoulders. She glanced warily at Mike, then faced Owen with a determined set to her jaw.
“Just remember,” she said fiercely. “I have this and know how to use it, so you just mind what I say.” Owen raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.
“I promise, I shall be the epitome of obedience,” he murmured. Mike pointed that he should go first, followed by Mary and then Mike himself. He walked forward without a backward glance. If they had intended to kill him they could have done so any time before this. Besides, it was clear that Mike truly needed a teacher for Mary, a fact that Owen still wasn’t sure about in his own mind. Once through the double doors, he was greeted by a swarm of youngsters running about, all headed towards what he presumed was the doors to the outside. Owen looked around with interest as this was the first chance that he’d had to see the home of his erstwhile rescuers.
To his eye it appeared clear that the gang had been here for s
ome time. He found himself in what appeared to be some sort of common room filled with benches, only guttering candles in mirrored holders vainly chasing away the gloom. Makeshift stairs ran up the walls to other rooms, the stairs all full of scampering youths in various modes of dress. Some in pants and tunics much like his own, others barefoot in smocks or shifts. The only common denominator again was that they appeared to Owen to be all female, most Hannish, although a few of the younger ones looked to be mixed blood of some sort.
Studded throughout the running stream were a few older women, dressed much as Mary was, in western dress, wearing stylish bustles and elegant hats. This mode of dress was very fashionable among the middle-classed Han, and Owen was surprised to see it here. The other thing that surprised him was the cleanliness that greeted him wherever he looked. While the ragamuffins might sport an artfully applied smudge of dirt on cheek or nose, their home was cleaner than any foundry had a right to be.
“There isn’t any escape,” Mike remarked from behind him, “You might as well stop looking for one, and march on out the doors there.” Owen realized that he had stopped walking and turned his head. Mike and Mary looked the very picture of a respectable Hong Kong couple, he wondered what they were about. Doubtless, he would find out.
“Sorry,” Owen said innocently. “I am simply not used to going out minus my cane. I do not suppose that I could have it?” Mike laughed, and shook his head.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “I’ve heard plenty of stories about what you sorcerers can do with things like that. This way you stay powerless.” Owen frowned at this statement. While it was true that he could not conjure the strongest manifestations of his powers, he could still do some small parlor tricks, which he was sure would catch them off guard. He could understand the natural reluctance Mike had to giving him a tool of escape. The fact was, he did not want to escape. Somewhere out there lay the assassin, Mr. Victor, as well as whoever had hired him. Returning home would have to wait until the situation had been dealt with. Fortunately, Jinhao was not due to return for a few days yet. That should give him enough time to sort things out.