by A R DeClerck
“Mrs. Wicket has suffered a great tragedy. Her home is threatened. Her life is not the same. I think it wise to assume she is angry.” Lucia smiled at Bastion. She’d known the man for a long time. Once upon a time he’d saved her life, and it was his teaching that had guided her through apothecary training. But sometimes he was as daft as a young boy, fresh from his mother’s arms.
All eyes turned to the young widow, but she did not blush or stammer. In fact, Lucia observed with quiet humor, she met all their stares with one of her own. “I am angry.” Her fingers twisted the napkin, and if she’d been stronger it would have torn to shreds in her grip. “I worked hard to make a home for my husband and his family. We were happy. When Del died I picked up the pieces and assumed the duties of running this estate, and now everything I have worked so hard to protect is at the mercy of....”
“Elizabeth.” Grayson’s hand covered hers, stilling the rip of the napkin. “We are here to help.”
“Your anger only serves to fuel the power of the dark magic. Aether is incited by high emotion,” Archimedes warned gently. The others around the table nodded, and Lucia was sure their minds were all on Longmoore and the evil they had experienced at the hands of Icarus’ father.
“I can only promise to do my best.” Elizabeth pushed back from the table. “Please excuse me, I need to lie down before my solicitor arrives.”
The men stood as she left, and Ms. Burch hurried to clean the dishes from the table. The plump housekeeper was quiet, moving the china without a rattle as she swiftly gathered it all onto her cart and pushed it away.
“We can help her, can’t we?” Grayson asked as the door to the kitched swung shut behind Ms. Burch. Lucia remained silent, waiting to see what Archimedes would say. He was a ward-smith, a mage with a particular affinity for protection, but she’d seen him cast offensive magic with skill that few could muster. Even now the weight of the killing sat on his shoulders and shadowed his eyes. He’d been with Icarus through many of the earliest encounters with dark magic, so of them all he was the most suited to weight the danger.
“We have no choice but to try.” Archie turned to stare off at the estate beyond the window. “I sense something is amiss but I cannot say whether the target is Elizabeth or the Wicket estate.”
“Either way, she needs our protection,” Grayson argued.
“Indeed she does,” Lucia soothed, and Bastion and Corrigan nodded in support. “We will not allow Elizabeth to come to harm.” She studied Archimedes from the corner of her eye. He was silhouetted by the sun, and it glimmered off the golden strands in his dark hair. His face was taunt, his jaw set. He was worried, she could tell.
“Perhaps we’d best do a tour of the estate. All the buildings and the grounds. Talk with each of the employees and look for signs that someone is not who they seem,” Lucia suggested. She looked at Corrigan and Bastion. “The two of you can begin in the vineyard. The hands will be busy stripping the vines and readying for winter. We will explore the house, the barns and the stables.”
“There are six tenant farmers working the fields in the back sixty acres. My father told me that they grow wheat, barley and corn. We’ll need to talk to them, as well.” Grayson stood, his eyes shining with a desire to get on with it.
“Perhaps we’ll leave the land holders for tomorrow.” Archimedes turned from the window. “I have another assignment for you, Mr. Trimble.”
“How may I be of service?” the young mage asked, and Lucia did not miss the smiles on the faces of the other men in the room. Oh to be young and and in love, she thought with her own hidden smile. So courageous. So determined.
“I would like you to visit your father. Find out everything you can about the political and agricultural goings on in Kensington. We must know who has something to gain from the downfall of SummerRidge. Most notably, who has the most to gain if the widow Wicket were forced to sell the estate due to illness or accident.”
Lucia felt pride swirl in her breast as Archimedes outlined his plan. He was smart, looking past the obvious intentions of the mage to cause mayhem and hurt, and into the true motives of the person intent on harming the Wicket family. Their eyes met, and she could not hold back a smile. He was so serious, so determined to keep the people of SummerRidge from harm, and she loved him for it. His gaze pierced her, and she wondered if he somehow read her last thoughts, but he merely let his lips turn up at the corners before he turned back to young Grayson.
“Become familiar with all the players in the game, Mr. Trimble. We will need to be aware of everything going on in Kensington in the last few months.”
“I should discuss this with my mother, then.” Grayson smiled. “She is the gossip queen of the area. If anyone knows the rumors, it will be her and my sister.”
“As you like.” Archimedes smiled, and patted the young man’s shoulder. “Return before dinner. I don’t want any of us out alone at night.”
Trimble nodded and headed toward the front door, calling for Justice to bring his hat and order a carriage. Bastion and Corrigan stood.
“Be careful,” Archie warned. He looked troubled as he crossed his arms, his mechanical one covered with his human one. “I have a bad feeling about the goings on in SummerRidge.”
“We will be back before dark,” Corrigan promised, and they left. The dining room was silent as Archie stared at the fire.
“Bastion and Corrigan can handle themselves,” Lucia said after a moment. “And young Trimble has more up his sleeve than simple mage-lighting.”
“I know.” Archie moved, taking the chair across from her so that they were knee to knee, face to face. “That does not lessen my worry that we will be targeted. The mage will want to remove us from the game before we discover his identity.” He bent over his hands, running them through his hair.
Lucia reached from him, taking his mechanical hand in hers. She liked the smooth of the copper and the cool of the steel under her fingers. She wrapped her fingers around his and tugged until he looked up at her. He was uncomfortable when she touched his mechanical parts, and sometimes it amused her to watch him squirm. Today she held fast and stared into his eyes.
“How does Icarus deal with this?” he wondered. “All this worry that those he loves and cares for most will be hurt on his watch?”
“You have always taken care of others, Archimedes.” Lucia thought back to the darkened Indulgence Club, deep in the heart of London’s White Chapel. She’d been clinging to life by only a thread, her blood soaking the mud beneath her. Then he’d appeared, scooping her up and carrying her away. In her pain-addled mind he was more than a man. He was an angel. A knight. Sometimes when she looked at him she still saw him that way. “There is no one we would rather have watching our backs than you.”
His fingers tightened over hers. “What happens if I fail?”
“Don’t fail, then.” She patted his cheek. She had loved this man since that dark night, dreaming of him even in the deep coma that had overtaken her after her healing. She had never experienced the flood of love in her breast that she felt when she looked at him.
He smiled, the flex of his jaws under her fingers. “Astute advice, Adept Conti.” He stared into her eyes. She’d always wondered what color she should call his irises. Cora called Icarus’ “bluebonnet blue”, but there were no words to describe the browns and ambers and golds of Archimedes’ eyes. Somewhat like the richness of her mother’s cafe au’lait, but never so drab. So vibrant and alive that sometimes she thought she could drown in them.
“I should like to kiss you, Mistress,” he murmured, leaning close so that his lips brushed hers. “In thanks.”
“Of course,” she whispered, “in thanks.”
He pressed his lips to hers, firmly and directly like he did everything. To Lucia it was as easy as breathing, to kiss him. He was warm, his lips soft. She felt the tickle of his afternoon whiskers on her chin and she smelled the spice of his aftershave and the oil he used to grease his arm. It was heady, heavy. Her
heart was beating hard but she moved closer instead of away, pushing against him. He let her, and he wrapped his free, human, arm around her to press her closer.
His tongue was soft on the seam of her lips and she opened for him, not able to contain the groan that escaped when she tasted tea and his singular flavor on his tongue.
She did not know how long they kissed, or what it was, exactly, that made them pull back. Her hand was still tangled with his metal one, holding tight as she tried to catch her breath.
“You don’t play fair,” she muttered, pulling away to push back her hair. “You know I cannot control myself around you.”
“On of my favorite things about you, in fact,” he teased. “In the meantime, I believe we should be on with our work.” He took up his bowler from the credenza and stuck it under his arm. He was trying to appear normal, she knew, but he was just as affected by their kiss. “Shall we explore the house?”
“Yes.” She took the arm he offered and allowed him to lead her from the dining room, and she could ignore the pleasant warmth that invaded her whenever he was near. He was everything she’d ever wanted for her own, but she wandered again when it would all be taken away.
Vineyards and Romani
“What do you expect to do with that thing?” Bastion watched Corrigan pull the long item from his bag. The room the captain had been given was suited to the man, all dark wood and heavy furniture upholstered in blues and browns. The bed was an ornate four poster sized for two very large people, and the captain’s bag took up most of it. He continued to take out article after strange article, placing them all on the duvet.
Bastion picked up the small box-like device with several blinking lights and a cup-like antennae on the top. “What is this?”
“That’s a gas meter.” Corrigan plucked it from Bastion’s hand and turned the knobs, watching the lights flicker. “It measures the gasses in the air and shows me their concentrations.”
“And what good does that do?”
The captain turned his head slowly toward Bastion. The apothecary shrugged, not ashamed of his ignorance about science. Most wizards were the same, having very little use for science when the aether was most often at their beck and call.
“Helium is one of the rarest gasses on the planet. Though our ships are propelled mostly by steam we do require a bit of helium for upward lift, especially during take off. With this,” the captain waved the meter, “I can pinpoint and take advantage of helium that may be floating about in the atmosphere.”
Bastion picked up the long rod that the captain had placed on the bed first. “And this? Is it some sort of lightning rod?”
Corrigan laughed and took the stick from Bastion. “Apothecaries know nothing of science, then?” He shook it and it extended another foot on each end with a slick slicing sound. Corrigan stepped back and widened his stance, holding the long stick in both hands. “This is a Bo. The Bo is used to defend oneself against an enemy.”
“A weapon?” Bastion eyed the captain doubtfully. His eyes widened as the captain began to swing the stick in graceful arcs. He didn’t have time to jump out of the way as the captain moved in a flash and swept his feet out from under him, taking him to his arse in the blink of an eye. He dusted himself off and stood, laughing. “Well, then, tell me where you learned the art of this Bo.”
Corrigan shortened the staff again and put it on the bed. “I’ve had cause to travel most of the world for Her Majesty.” He brushed off his long tweed coat and slipped it on, flipping the collar back. “Japan is especially interesting. The culture is much different than anything we’ve ever experienced.” He reached into the bag and removed an item that Bastion immediately recognized.
“A gun? You think to use a pistol against a dark mage?”
Corrigan laughed. “Always a skeptic!” He held out the gun, butt first. He pointed to the modifications that Bastion had not noticed on first glance. “This gun doesn’t fire bullets, dear healer. It shoots electrical current. Enough electrical current to put a full sized elephant down.”
“You’ve seen elephants, have you?” Bastion handed back the weapon and watched the captain strap it to his side. He rubbed his hands together. He wasn’t the kind of man who enjoyed bloodshed, but he’d seen his share of violence.
“A few. In India.” The Captain reached into his bag and produced another pistol. “I’ve one for you as well.”
“I can defend myself.”
Corrigan laughed. “I have no doubt of that, my friend. But this weapon is not for your peace of mind, it’s for mine. If your magic is incapacitated at any time, for any reason, you’ll be armed at the very least.”
“You’ve seen the way the aether clings to us now.” Bastion could feel the magical particles close, through the barrier that prevented them from entering the human plane of existence. According to Icarus and Cora the aether wasn’t just magical, it was alive and it was very, very old. Created, in fact, by a civilization so old humans could not remember its existence. A civilization that had treated their creation so horribly they’d walled themselves off to prevent any more abuse.
“It’s a heavy press, especially when Ic and Cora are around,” Corrigan agreed, pressing the gun into Bastion’s hand. “Still, do my mind a favor and carry the gun.”
“Very well.” Bastion took the leather holster and tied the gun to his belt. “If it makes you feel better.”
“It does.”
Corrigan’s hand disappeared into the bag again and Bastion groaned. “What contraption do you have this time?”
The captain help up the pair of enormous glasses. The frames were wrapped in coils and wires, the eyepieces so thick that his eyes looked enormous behind them.
“What the devil do you plan to do with that?
“With these we can see through any material.” Corrigan pulled a long string attached to the eyepiece and pushed the end into his ear. “And hear conversations through solid stone, if we need to.”
“Impossible.”
“Not nearly, dear fellow.” Corrigan removed the glasses and folded them neatly, placing them in his breast pocket. “An amalgam of steam and aether technology only recently appropriated by Her Majesty for the protection of the Crown.”
Bastion pulled on his leather gloves and shook his head. “Some poor scientist had his life’s work appropriated by the Queen for her own purposes, you mean. It’s no wonder the poor are rioting in the streets.”
Corrigan laughed. “He was paid handsomely for his invention and is currently hard at work on his next project. I assure you, Her Majesty does not quibble in matters of security.”
Bastion opened the door and Corrigan followed him out. “How much more is there in that bag?”
“Much,” Corrigan assured him with another grin. “Much, much more.”
The vineyards were a graveyard of dead and twisted vines. There were six or seven men hard at work pruning them down and then untangling them to lay them gently on the ground. As the men worked three women followed behind, covering the vines in a mound of soil and straw to protect them until spring. When Bastion and Corrigan approched one of the men looked up from his work and called a halt to the others. They stood, wiping their hands as the men approached.
“Good day to you,” Corrigan said, nodding to each in turn. “we are guests of Mrs. Wicket. We’d hoped to have a bit of a look-about.”
“If that’s what she says.” The men stared openly at Corrigan and Bastion. “Be ye wizards?”
“Him.” Corrigan pointed to Bastion. “Not me.” The vineyard workers’ eyes followed the bump of Corrigan’s modified pistol on his hip.
“What are you then?” the brave one asked.
“Dirigible captain.” Corrigan’s smile was wide, but his eyes were shrewd. He studied each man carefully, and he spared none of the women his suspicion. They all got the same careful scrutiny. But with his open smile and easy stance there was no animosity. The man really was good at his job, Bastion realized.
&n
bsp; “Are you here about the black magic?” one tall woman with wide hips and dark almond-shaped eyes asked. Her hair was wildly curly, held back with a kerchief. She crossed her arms over her ample bosom and her wide gold bangles clanked with the movement.
“You’re a right church bell, Stella.” The older man with the wide curling mustache shook his head at the woman. “That’s blather and she knows it.”
“So you don’t believe a dark mage is at work in SummerRidge?” Bastion asked. The men were rough around the edges, but he felt no malice or evil intent wafting off them like could usually be felt in the presence of practitioners of black magic.
“Bah. Elder Wicket is daft and his mind has got the morbs over the killing of young Wicket in the war. It’s gone too far, this chatter over dark magic.”
“Old Wickets not up to dick, that’s clear,” another man agreed, “but we all know Mrs. Elizabeth is clear headed. If she fears dark mischief then we should heed her worries.”
Corrigan considered their words and cocked his head as the men continued to debate the possibility that a dark mage was running amok on the estate. Bastion moved closer to the women.
“Tell me why you believe a dark mage is in town,” he said to the taller woman.
“You heard old Gus, I’m nothing but a chatterbox. A blatherin’ on about nothing.” Her voice was dry, her hip out as she shook her head in annoyance.
“You don’t believe that and neither do I.” Bastion looked at the women and they all nodded. “Tell me what you know.”
“Missing animals. Chickens and the like.” The tall woman fixed her dark eyes on Bastion. “We find the bones and feathers scattered about. Melina saw a fire on the far edge of the east wheat field, but when the men got out there it was nothing but a scorched area.”
“Are you here from the Grand Council?” The smaller woman’s face was pale, and Stella wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “Will you protect us from the dark magic?”