by Sean Wallace
A young man lay on the floor beside the clockwork projector, unmoving in the flickering shadows. I produced a foxfire-amber for a source of steady light and knelt to examine him.
There was an unnatural pallor to his skin, and his wide eyes were caked with dried blood.
The boy was dead.
No one should die so young. “May you find peace with Aeternitas,” I whispered, and gently closed his eyes.
The door creaked open.
I stood and quickened into an en garde position, ready for anything. But I needn’t have: the strapping policeman who entered was my friend and past pupil, Sergeant Georges Carmouche. Though he still had the same moustache, his hair – which I had once compared to a mop of straw – had been cropped short, and a holstered palmcannon replaced the sabre normally on his belt.
“Carmouche, you’ve no idea how pleased I am to see you!” I sheathed my sword.
“When I heard it was you, Professor, I reckoned you had the situation well in hand.”
“Not in time to prevent this young man’s death.”
“Poor lad.” Carmouche checked Philippe for himself. “I’d like to move the victims, but I won’t if you think they might suffer as a result.”
“Your caution’s wise, Carmouche – one wrong move and I suspect they might all die. If the film caused the curse, would terminating the projection help them or do more harm?”
Carmouche considered the problem. “Wouldn’t the projectionist see a film more than once, to adjust focus and the like? It could be similar to a poison, and this man died from exposure to a higher dose.”
“Well reasoned, Carmouche!” I had been helping him hone his skills at deductive reasoning before I left on sabbatical from the museum, and was glad to see our lessons had borne fruit. “Off it is.”
I held my breath and tapped a pin on the projector with my cane’s lion-head pommel. The reels clicked to a halt. Harbin’s still image stayed on the screen until I shuttered the magnesian flame-chamber, plunging the auditorium briefly into darkness, before officers produced their own foxfire-ambers for spot illumination.
We rejoined Katarin. “There’s no easy way to tell you this . . .” I broke the news of Philippe’s death and held her as she wept.
She and I had met a few years ago during the infamous Sphinx of Ys affair, becoming friends thereafter. When she left acting to manage Chimère Studios she hired me as a consultant, on account of my doctorate in Aigyptian archaeology and magic. I cared about her deeply, but we lived very different lives. I was a widower with a son about the same age as she, and she was a rising star trying to escape her troubled past. I had vowed I would never ask for more than her friendship, but in moments like these, I almost regretted my decision.
Carmouche shouted instructions to his men, who began unfolding stretchers for the victims. A team entered the booth to deal with Philippe’s body.
I gave Katarin my handkerchief and went to examine the Mayor and Aucoin again. They were growing colder to the touch. “You must keep them warm,” I told the men, though I did not know if my advice would save the afflicted.
Katarin helped the officers with the Mayor and was about to leave the theatre with them, but Carmouche held her back. “Madame Bertho, I must insist you remain here at Le Pégase. There are questions only you can answer.”
Katarin grudgingly agreed.
I said nothing. I did not like Carmouche turning his attention to Katarin, but he was right. She likely had the clues we needed to solve this mystery. Blame would fall on her if all these men died. As her friend, I had to defend her reputation.
One of the officers came up to Carmouche. “Any other instructions, Inspector?”
I raised an eyebrow. Inspector?
“See to the theatre lights, please, Sergeant Joncour,” said Carmouche.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d been promoted, dear boy?” I shook his hand. “Congratulations!”
Carmouche smiled. “It happened only two days ago. Thank you for all your help.”
“I wish we had time to properly celebrate, Inspector, but there remains much to piece together if we are to help those who fell ill.”
A few steps away, Katarin all but slumped into a theatre seat, most unlike the vibrant woman she was. I had never seen her so weak before, but then she had viewed two of the films.
Oh, Katarin! “We’ll stop this, I promise,” I told her.
Please, I thought, let my words be truth.
Crawling on my hands and knees, I studied the ornate hieroglyphs adorning the leg of a balcony seat, the same design on all the chairs. I could translate most of the inscriptions except for the shadowed cartouche near the base.
“More light, please, Carmouche,” I said.
Carmouche knelt and held the foxfire-amber closer.
I pushed my spectacles higher on my nose. The indecipherable lines resolved into sharp symbols under the added magical illumination. “Perfect. Thank you.” I pushed to my feet. “It’s an ancient incantation from the Tartessos Papyrus, but a benevolent one meant to cure digestive pains.”
Katarin, who was watching from an adjacent row, frowned. “Then the theatre’s not at fault?” She considered her auditorium again, from the marble atlantes supporting the balcony to the dome of golden alchemical symbols. We had examined them all, but nothing among them carried markings that might cast a curse.
“That’s my conclusion, yes.” I steadied myself with a hand on a chair back and reclaimed my walking stick and my amber. “Your designers should have consulted me. I give quite a bone-chilling lecture on the dangers of copying magical symbols haphazardly, or so my students tell me.” I had faced enough ancient ghosts and curses to know first hand.
“I would have, if you hadn’t been in Lyonesse. What about a saboteur?”
“It remains a possibility.”
“But the shape of a missing fossil can be deduced by the pieces we already have,” Carmouche said, quoting what I had taught him. “The projectionist’s death strongly suggests that the films are at fault.”
I smiled, remembering the nights at the museum when Carmouche would help me reconstruct archaeosphinx skeletons while I explained how archaeological methods could be applied to detection.
“But our actors turned in the best performances of their careers,” Katarin said. “The locales were breathtaking and the footage dazzling. When we screened a few scenes for our investors, oh, how they wept, cheered, and laughed! I beg you, Inspector, investigate the possibility of sabotage by Mandragora Studios.”
“Do you have any proof, Madame?” Carmouche asked.
“No, but Mandragora released their own colour film a month ago: The Thirteenth Labour of Heracles. Everyone could tell they rushed it out. My sources tell me they dread Chimère trumping them again.”
“Katarin, I understand your reluctance to blame the movies, but Carmouche is right: Philippe’s death points towards the films. Maybe arcane symbols are embedded in the footage.
“Or spirits from beyond were captured on film. It’s happened once before. When I was young, I sailed with the preternaturalist Henry Kitto to the Distant Orient in search of mer-lion fossils.” I thought back to an incident during those golden days on black sand beaches and evenings of bonfires and shadow-plays. “Professor Kitto accidentally captured two phantom tigers in a photograph, which brought the expedition a slew of bad luck. It took months to figure out what had happened and free the trapped spirits.”
Carmouche snapped his fingers. “Wait! Sometimes a quizzing glass will magnify details the eye overlooked,” he said, quoting another of my teachings.
“You want to go over the theatre with a magnifying glass?” I asked.
“No. We overlooked the lens,” Carmouche said. “All three films were projected through the same lens.”
I understood. Camera lenses were ground from crystal, a natural receptacle for containing and concentrating magical energies. I ran through the scenario: “Suppose a saboteur etched a mystica
l symbol on the lens. When the symbol gets projected onto the screen might curse everyone watching! But wouldn’t people see it?”
“Not necessarily,” Katarin said. “Flaws in the glass don’t always show up when light passes through a lens. Some distortions are subtle enough to escape notice.”
Carmouche nodded. “No one would realize the faint variations in light on screen were actually a curse.”
We hurried to the projection booth and examined the main crystal lens. Alas, it was flawless. The projector hadn’t been tampered with, as far as we could tell.
Carmouche started rewinding the film reel. “What if we watched these flickers elsewhere, using a different projector? If the curse begins to affect us . . .”
“. . . then we can rule out both the theatre and this lens as the culprits,” I said, finishing his thought. “May we use the screening room at your studio, Katarin?”
“We don’t know all the risks,” Katarin protested. “What if you’re paralysed like the others?”
“Paralysis should happen only if I watch all three films. Didn’t you watch only two? Two should be enough to establish any hidden patterns. If necessary, Carmouche can watch the final film to confirm.”
“It’s too dangerous.” She held out her pale hands. “It eats at my strength even now.”
I clasped her right hand in mine. “Which is why I must do this for you, Katarin.”
Carmouche’s new alembic carriage spewed sweeter fumes than the cab I had arrived in. We sped up the Promenade, heading away from the Seawall towards the docklands where the studio was. Katarin, in the front with Carmouche, gripped her seat with both hands, whereas I sat in the back with Sergeant Joncour, deep in thought.
“Madame, who worked on all three films?” Carmouche asked.
“Cast or crew?”
“Both.”
“With three tight production schedules, we had to deploy all our staff evenly amongst all three films,” Katarin said. “Only two cast members were involved in all three: Laure Harbin and Franchot Aucoin.”
“Is that everyone?”
Katarin’s cheeks pinkened. “And myself, Inspector . . . I had a cameo in each. But I’d hardly curse my own productions, would I?”
“Maybe not intentionally,” Carmouche said. We turned west onto Old Ramp Road, heading for sea level. “Madame, you seem eager to blame Mandragora, which makes me wonder if you’re deflecting attention away from your own employees. Is there, perhaps, something you aren’t telling us?”
Katarin hesitated.
“By Lady Truth, Katarin, lives are at stake,” I begged.
At last, she answered us. “Early in the filming of Serpent of the Nile, Laure’s costume came apart during the seduction scene, and the camera caught her accidental exposure on film. The assistant blamed Bernard Marec for taking liberties with practicality in his wild designs. I gave her carte blanche to fix the costume, which she did, and we reshot the scene. However, we discovered later that the embarrassing footage had mysteriously disappeared.”
“Franchot Aucoin?” Carmouche guessed.
Katarin nodded. “Aucoin stole the clip. I only found out last night when poor Laure burst out in tears at dinner. Aucoin’s been using the footage to have his way with her for months. If she refused, he would ruin her career.”
“That scoundrel!” I cried.
Carmouche sighed. “She should have come to the police.”
“And risk a scandal? Not Laure!” Katarin insisted. “I comforted her and told her to keep a brave face, while I looked for a way to get that footage back.”
The carillons around the city sounded the Hour of Tranquillitas as our horseless carriage crested the slope.
“Could Miss Harbin be taking matters into her own hands, to hurt Aucoin?” I suggested. “What if she avoided the second movie on purpose, using you as her alibi?”
Katarin shook her head. “Harm so many others, just to strike back at one man? I don’t believe it.”
“Who’s Bernard Marec?” Carmouche asked.
“Our foremost designer, who’s been with the company since it started,” Katarin replied. “I put him in charge of all aspects of design for Serpent of the Nile.”
It meshed with my memories of Marec, who struck me as a creative man who loved his work. When I worked with Marec on the set for the Aigyptian alchemy film, at Katarin’s request, he often pushed for flashy, anachronistic designs while I aimed for historical authenticity. We’d joke as we fought over the research materials in the museum library, him teasing me about my lame leg and I him about his crippling arthritis.
We pulled up to the gates of Chimère Studios and exited the horseless. I mentioned my encounter with him and Miss Harbin at Le Pégase. “Maybe he’s working with Harbin?”
“But Marec was only involved in one film,” Katarin said. “What would be his motive?”
“We can speculate endlessly about motives, but the answers will come from the films themselves,” Carmouche said. “Sergeant Joncour, take the horseless and post guards around Aucoin. Then find Bernard Marec and Laure Harbin. I’ll have questions for them both when we’re done here.”
Joncour drove away.
Katarin led us to the screening room at Chimère, a thirty-seat theatre split by a narrow aisle, with a state-of-the-art clockwork projector hulking at the far end. Carmouche gave me a hand mounting the first reel, A Goat in Valhalla.
“Ever see a film in colour before, Tremaine?” Katarin asked.
“Not beyond what I saw at Le Pégase.” Although Mandragora’s Thirteenth Labour had been released in Lyonesse, between my work on the Leolithic Wonders exhibit and my guest lectures on archoleon extinction, I had no time to indulge in the ciné as I once had.
“Then be astonished or terrorized, but above all, be careful,” she said.
“Shout if you need us,” Carmouche added.
“And call me if she worsens, Carmouche.” I took off my tailcoat and draped it around Katarin’s shoulders.
“Don’t forget these.” Katarin took my spectacles from the coat’s inner pocket and carefully fitted the pair onto my face before she closed the door.
The lights dimmed, shrouding the room in deepening shadow.
Had I chosen the right course of action? Or would I doom myself by watching these films?
I took a deep breath, gave the wind-up key one final turn, and pulled a pin, setting the reels a-spin.
The studio’s production logo projected onto the screen: a chimera mascot rearing into a rampant dexter stance. But instead of familiar grey tones, the chimera’s fur rippled gold, its goat and lion tongues flashed pink between its teeth, and the scales of the viper tail glistened jungle green. I gripped my seat in awe as the beast-heads mimicked roar, bleat, and hiss – all in frustrating silence. If only the alchemists could master sound!
A Goat in Valhalla starred Franchot Aucoin in his most famous role as ‘The Goat’, a licentious Hyperborean skald. Aucoin was a genius at physical comedy, proving Chimère’s strategy of capitalizing on the successes of A Goat at the World Tree and A Goat Among Giants was sound: Aucoin would bring in legions of fans in this infamous role.
I watched the bawdy comedy play out. The Goat’s slapstick pursuit of the Valkyries was inspired, and the clever script even made colours crucial to the plot. But I couldn’t relax and simply enjoy the flicker, and searched each scene for runes and spirits.
Something was sapping my vitality, bit by bit, but it was so subtle that anyone not expecting it would dismiss it as tiredness from sitting still too long. I couldn’t think of any spells or charms to counter it, and that worried me.
In the second act, the Goat arrived at a Silver Door covered with runes, but the shots never lingered long enough for me to decipher them. I made a note to ask Katarin if I could examine the props.
Laure Harbin appeared in the next scene, in the role of the youngest Valkyrie. Though I was struck by how well colour brought out her true beauty, now that I knew about her
and Aucoin it was difficult to watch them interact on screen.
Katarin made her cameo as another Valkyrie after the final battle. In a touching scene where she collected the soul of the Goat’s faithful companion, she convinced me she belonged in front of the camera. But I could not oust from my mind the fact that a Valkyrie was the spirit of a slain warrior, and that Katarin played on screen one of the dead.
I called Katarin and Carmouche back to hear my analysis. “No ghosts in the film that I could see, but I’d like to examine any props with runes on them.”
Katarin nodded. “Everything’s kept in Warehouse Three. Would you like to rest before we continue, Tremaine?”
“No. I won’t let this curse get the best of me.”
“I’ll stay for this film and keep you company,” Carmouche said. “Two sets of eyes are better than one.”
Katarin left the room while Carmouche and I prepared the next reel: Serpent of the Nile.
“Just between you and me, Professor, do you think Madame Bertho resents Laure Harbin for taking her place in the limelight?” Carmouche asked quietly.
“Carmouche! She wouldn’t.”
“I have to consider every possibility. Maybe she doesn’t consciously wish Miss Harbin harm, but her repressed envy might be fuel for the curse.”
“Let’s eliminate all other possibilities first,” I said.
The chimera mascot sequence again began the film, and it was Carmouche’s turn to be amazed by the brilliant colours. “Astounding!”
Laure Harbin played the lead in Serpent of the Nile, and her performance as the vengeful daughter of a murdered Aigyptian pharaoh captivated me from the start. Aucoin played a minor role as a jolly slave, providing comic relief in this otherwise sombre tragedy. Unlike the previous film, they never appeared in the same scene.
As the film played, my slight discomfort welled into a nameless dread; my body ached as though a year of my life had been ripped through my skin. I gasped for air, fearful that I had condemned myself to an early death.
Halfway through, when Harbin danced for the usurper’s son in a most revealing costume, my cheeks flushed. I tried to focus on the hieroglyphs and sphinx statues in the background instead. During the bathing scene, Katarin appeared briefly as one of the handmaidens. But tantalizing glimpses aside, I was still on the hunt for the source of the curse, as was Carmouche. I didn’t expect to find Hyperborean runes in a flicker set in Aigypt, but films were rarely perfect recreations of a specific time period.