by M. K. Hobson
“Then they’re all old men?” Emily asked.
“No, they continue to actively recruit …” Stanton paused as if momentarily lost in a maze of thought. Then he shook his head. “They have a special dispensation to practice sangrimancy, supposedly for the public good. They are deployed in situations that need to be resolved quickly, quietly, and without bothering with that troublesome little thing called the Constitution. If the Maelstroms are after us”—he let out another long breath—“then we really are in trouble.”
At that precise instant the little bell above the door tinkled merrily. Both Emily and Stanton startled; Emily saw Stanton’s hand go to the inside pocket of his coat as his eyes darted to the door. There was the sound of heavy, irregular footsteps and a loud, drunken demand for a steak to be prepared, double quick. Stanton withdrew his hand, lifting it reassuringly, but Emily did not relax.
“Why should the Maelstroms be after us?” Emily whispered. “If the government needs the stone for the public good, why didn’t they just ask?”
“Maelstroms don’t ask.” Stanton shook his head. “Honestly, I knew the stone in your hand was an incredible discovery, but I never anticipated—”
Stanton stopped speaking as the drunk man who had called for the steak lumbered by their table, giving Emily a good hard leer as he passed them. She sank down in her seat, lowering her eyes while the man moved past.
“Are my eyes still black?” she whispered to Stanton.
“No, they’re returning to their customary ‘dewy violet,’ though it looks as though the garden has suffered a recent bout of frost.” Stanton dipped one corner of his cloth napkin into his glass of water and gestured to her. She leaned forward, and he wiped dirt off her cheek.
“And what about Komé? Why was she in my head chanting?”
“That’s a more difficult question. I imagine it has something to do with the acorn she gave you.”
“The acorn? You think I’m having visions because of a magical acorn?”
“Do you have a better explanation?”
Emily sighed. Of course she didn’t. “Well, what are we going to do?”
“We have several problems.” Stanton reached into his pocket and pulled out a few small coins and laid them on the table. “Problem number one. That’s all the money I have.”
“What about your Warlock’s Purse?”
“I’m afraid I left it sitting safely with all my other things, on a chair in Mrs. Quincy’s spare bedroom,” Stanton said. “Shall we go back and ask for it?”
Emily stared at him. “You left it in the spare bedroom?” She said each word slowly.
“We were just going downstairs for dinner! How was I to know we would end up exiting through the parlor window?”
“All right,” Emily sighed heavily. “That’s problem number one.”
“Problem number two. We have to get out of town, and quickly.”
“And the minute you go back for your horses, Captain Caul is certain to be waiting.”
“Actually, that is not a problem.” Stanton looked smug, and for once, Emily found it very comforting. “Mrs. Quincy does not know where my horses are stabled, nor did I divulge that information to the proprietor of the Excelsior Hotel. I took them to my customary stabler near the waterfront to get them reshod. It should be quite safe to retrieve them. But that brings us back to problem number one. I don’t know what I’ll tell them when it comes time to settle the bill.”
Emily reached into her collar and pulled out the silk pouch. From it she withdrew the ten-dollar gold coin that Pap had tucked into her pocket when she’d departed Lost Pine.
“Will this be enough?”
He took the coin from her, looked at it with astonishment.
“I guess Pap thought I should have something in case of emergency,” she said.
“Your pap is an astute old gentleman.” Stanton tucked the money into his pocket. “All right, that’ll get us the horses back.”
“That’s a mercy,” Emily sighed. “So when we get out of San Francisco—if we get out of San Francisco—what then?”
“We have to go to New York,” Stanton said finally. “We have to get to Professor Mirabilis.”
“New York!” Emily stared at him. “That’s … that’s thousands of miles away! We can’t go to New York!”
“Name me an alternative,” Stanton said. “Stay in San Francisco and wait for Caul to find us? Go back to Lost Pine and wait for Caul to find you there? Mrs. Quincy was my only connection to the Institute on this side of the continent. Now that she’s betrayed us, I won’t trust anyone but Professor Mirabilis himself.”
“And how, exactly, are we supposed to get to New York without any money?”
“I’ll have to sell my horses,” Stanton said.
“Oh, no!” Emily blurted, for she had grown surprisingly attached to Romulus. “I’m sure Pap still has the money you gave him, and that’s enough to get us a pair of tickets to New York. Maybe we could sneak back to Lost Pine and—”
“Lost Pine is the last place we should go. The Maelstroms will be looking for us there, after everything we told Caul.”
“But your poor horses!”
“Better them than us.” To his credit, it sounded as if he mostly meant it. “But I don’t think we should sell them in San Francisco. It’ll take too much time, and the Maelstroms will be on the lookout. Besides, it just so happens that luck is on our side. You remember when we were riding out of Dutch Flat, and we stopped near Colfax for lunch? I talked to a small group of men.”
“I remember. You didn’t tell me what they wanted.”
“They wanted to buy my horses,” Stanton said. “They were from a place called New Bethel, about ten miles east of Dutch Flat.”
“Dag goes to New Bethel to buy hay for his teams every week.” She paused, the memory of Dag giving her a twinge. “But Pap never let me go there. He said it wasn’t wholesome.”
Stanton hmphed grimly.
“Well, we’ve been through quite a number of unwholesome experiences already; I suppose one more won’t hurt.”
Emily sighed in frustration. The thought of selling Stanton’s regal horses to those sour-looking men made her angry.
“Isn’t there any other way to contact Professor Mirabilis? What about those Haälbeck doors? Can’t we get to one and … well, you could go through anyway, and bring Professor Mirabilis back!”
“Magical society in San Francisco is small and close-knit. There are only two Haälbeck doors in San Francisco, one of which is in Mrs. Quincy’s house. The other is at the Calacacara, a club for gentlemen Warlocks. I am not a member, and even if I were, Caul will have surely posted someone to watch it. The Maelstroms know that flight is our only recourse. I’m sure they’re doing everything they can to cut off our avenues of escape, magical or otherwise.”
“How about a telegraph? Couldn’t we telegraph the professor and tell him that he must come to San Francisco?”
Stanton thought about this, stroking his chin.
“Professor Mirabilis, your presence San Francisco required. Stop. Urgent. Stop. Professor Quincy untrustworthy. Stop. Maelstroms hot on our heels. Stop. Look for me lobby of Excelsior Hotel, wearing red carnation. Stop. Signed, Dreadnought Stanton, the man of whom you thought so highly that you banished him to the most pathetic little town in California.” Stanton gave her a look.
Emily gave him his look right back and then some, but said nothing.
“Besides,” Stanton continued, “there is no way to know who might intercept such a message. Mrs. Quincy is a highly placed member of the faculty. The fact that she betrayed us makes me worry that there might be others. A telegraph could be easily intercepted and a misleading reply composed that would send us directly into a trap. No, I won’t be satisfied until we’re standing in front of Professor Mirabilis himself.”
Emily was silent, biting her thumbnail thoughtfully.
“Your father,” she said, after a moment. “He’s a senator, right?
Isn’t there some way—”
“Entirely out of the question.” Stanton said curtly. “I prefer not to involve him in such matters.”
“Well, I prefer not to run around San Francisco with blood sorcerers chasing me and no money!”
“No, Miss Edwards.” Stanton’s voice was firm. “My father is a … blunt instrument. Contacting him wouldn’t make things better. It would very likely make things worse. Trust me.”
Emily pondered this. Then she let out a breath.
“All right. We sell your horses. We take the money and catch the train. We can board at one of the smaller stops above New Bethel—the Maelstroms can’t watch them all.”
Stanton nodded. It was clear that he was thinking hard. His green eyes were lustrous with concentration. His long forefinger tapped a rhythm on the tabletop as he whistled softly to himself. He stopped abruptly, looking up.
“Yes, it seems a reasonable plan,” he said. “Which leaves only my immediate concerns to be addressed.”
“Immediate concerns?”
“After I pay for the shoeing and stabling of the horses, we’ll have less than five dollars. That’s hardly enough to feed us past Walnut Creek, much less all the way back to New Bethel.”
“We’re running for our lives, and you’re worrying about whether you’ll get your regular breakfast?” Emily was incredulous. “Going without a few meals will hardly kill you.”
“No, I’m afraid you’re wrong there,” Stanton said. He pushed his coffee cup around on the saucer. He opened his mouth to say something then closed it. When he opened it again, he spoke in a quick, clipped tone.
“You recall that Mrs. Quincy made a disparaging remark at the casino—she referred to me as burned. That is the crude colloquial term for an impairment, a defect from which I suffer. Exussum cruorsis.” He paused, centering the cup on the saucer with more precision than the action really required. “You see, practitioners are supposed to be like Swiss cheese—full of holes through which mantic energy can be funneled and directed. Much of a Warlock’s formal training consists of manipulating these pathways, the viae manticum. While the viae manticum are open, they represent a great drain on the physical system. In most cases, they are only opened while a Warlock is actively working a spell and can be closed at will.” He paused again. “In my case, however, I am unable to close them. They remain constantly open, and I am like a lamp that is always kept lit. It’s quite draining. If I don’t keep well fed, I’ll be worse than useless to you.”
Emily absorbed this strange flood of information, blinking.
“Are there many Warlocks with this … condition?”
“It is extremely uncommon,” Stanton said.
“And there’s nothing you can do? There’s no cure, or …”
“No,” Stanton said. “There’s no cure.”
Emily leaned back, crossed her arms, and looked at him.
“Well, I must say I feel sorry for whoever it is decides to marry you. You’ll have her cooking all hours of the day and night.” She paused. “It’s not catching, is it?”
“It’s a defect, not chicken pox.” Stanton frowned. “Training as a Warlock aggravates it substantially. In most cases, the burned relinquish all aspirations to a magical career. If training is discontinued swiftly enough after the discovery of the defect, the opening of the viae manticum can be reversed, and the individual can return to his original state of health.”
“But you continued your training,” Emily said.
“Most mantic institutions refuse to train students who are burned, citing a mealymouthed concern with the ethics of it.” Stanton lifted his chin proudly. “But Professor Mirabilis perceived profound advantages in having me attend the Institute. And so I did.”
She shook her head. “But there other perfectly acceptable professions in the world. Why on earth did you go on with magic?”
He looked at her as if he could not fathom the source of such a question. “Because it was what I wanted to do,” he said.
There was a long silence between them.
“Anyway, there’s always Brother Scharfe’s soup kitchens,” Stanton said, raising an ironic eyebrow.
Emily picked up her cup of tea. She placed it on the table. Then she pushed the plate with the little almond cookie on it toward him.
“My pap has a word for men like you, Mr. Stanton,” she said. “Mulish.”
To her surprise, he smiled at her. To her even greater surprise, she realized that he had quite a nice smile.
“Let’s hope that’s the worst word your pap can ever apply to me.” He took the cookie and ate it in one bite. “I’ll go retrieve the horses. You wait here.”
“Wait here?”
“For once, Miss Edwards, please do as I ask.” He dusted almond crumbs from his hands. “It is safer for you here than on the streets. I doubt even the Maelstroms have the manpower to search every chophouse in San Francisco. Here. I want you to keep this while I’m gone.” He pulled the Jefferson Chair ring from his finger and dropped it into her outstretched hand. “If we find ourselves separated, it will be useful.”
“What would I do, pawn it?”
“You wouldn’t get much. It’s index metal—gold alloyed with iron. The iron comes from a special mine and contains a rare mineral called diabolite. The chemical makeup of each ring is unique. Anyone wearing a ring of index metal can be found by a simple magical search for the ring’s particular alloy. If you keep it with you, I can always find you.”
Emily looked at the ring, suddenly wary.
“What about Caul? Can he find us by searching for the ring?”
“Professor Mirabilis is the only man who knows the chemical signatures of all the Jefferson Chair rings,” Stanton said. “If the Maelstroms are able to find us using that ring, then all hope really is lost.”
“So this will help you find me if I go missing.” Emily slid the ring onto her thumb. “But it hardly helps me if Caul spots you riding around San Francisco.”
“If I’m not back in three hours, you’ll have to find a way to get to New York on your own,” Stanton said. “Get to the Institute and tell Professor Mirabilis everything.”
“Get to New York? On my own?”
“You’d find some way,” Stanton said. “You’re very resourceful, and you’ve shown that you can be entirely ruthless if required.”
When he was gone, Emily toyed nervously with the gold ring. Sliding it off her thumb, she examined it. A phrase in Latin was inscribed on the inside of the band. Ex fide fortis. From faith, strength. She looked down at the cookie crumbs on the saucer. Stanton had to keep fed, at least until they got to New Bethel and got some money in their pockets. She reached up and felt the hair sticks, the smooth cold weight of them.
Ruthless. Yes, she thought, she could be ruthless.
She went to the man behind the counter.
“How far is Mason Street from here?” she asked.
Stanton returned to the chophouse two and a half hours later. An expression of alarm crossed his face when he didn’t see her waiting for him, even though she was sitting in exactly the same spot. He looked around for a moment, rubbing his chin. She stepped forward and thrust her hand out to shake his.
“Good evening to you, sir,” she said, in a lowish voice.
He blinked at her. She watched the wariness in his eyes transmute into horror, and knew that her disguise was completely successful.
“Miss Edwards?” he fairly choked on the words. “My God, what have you done to yourself?”
After Stanton had gone, Emily had ascertained that Mason Street was not a far walk, and she’d hurried down there, keeping to the shadows along the way. Mason Street was garishly lit and bustling, even at three in the morning, and Emily had no difficulty finding a buyer for her extraordinary hair. She had squeezed her eyes shut as the large scissors flashed over her ears, snicking cleanly through her thick braids. Afterward, the man offered her another sawbuck for her silver hair sticks and the amethyst earrings,
but she declined. The hair she could grow back. The inheritances from her mother could not be replaced.
Her next stop was a small, untidy secondhand shop. After prolonged fingering of the material and exceedingly close scrutiny of Mrs. Lyman’s handiwork, the pockmarked old rag merchant said he’d take her poplin dress in trade for a suit of men’s clothing. Unfortunately, the only suit small enough to fit her was made of a screamingly loud plaid that mingled the colors of cherry red, peacock blue, and apple green in a way they had no business being mingled.
The rag merchant told her she could change in the back room, pointing to it with his thumb in a bored way as if women changed into men’s suits in his back room every hour of the day. Perhaps they did; on her way back he handed her a folded length of wide white linen.
“You’ll need this,” he said.
She could not imagine why he thought she’d need the fabric until she discovered exactly how narrow the jacket was through the chest. Using the white linen to subdue her remaining female endowments wasn’t easy or pleasant, but eventually she succeeded in molding her torso to fit the garment. When she came out of the back room, the rag merchant presented her with a pair of brown gloves in a brown felt hat.
She wedged the hair sticks securely up into the tall crown of the hat for safekeeping, then fitted the hat onto her head. Jauntily, she touched the brim to the man as she walked out into the cool night.
She felt exceptionally pleased with herself as she strolled back to the chophouse to wait for Stanton. Indeed, she felt quite manly and direct. Ruthless, that had been Stanton’s word. She felt keen and ruthless. She felt like buying a cigar and smoking it with one thumb tucked under her suspender. Instead she tucked her hand into the jacket pocket and found, to her surprise, that the suit’s previous owner had left a fine linen handkerchief there. She pulled it out, examined it. It was embroidered with the letter “M.” For Mike probably.
Ruthless Mike, that’s what they’d call her.
Now, however, standing in front of Stanton she felt somewhat less ruthless and somewhat more ridiculous. She reached into the pocket of her vest and pulled out a folded wad of greenbacks.