The Archimage's Fourth Daughter

by Lyndon Hardy

  A sleek, pearl white chariot lined up nearby the stele with a snake-like hose stuck into an opening on the side and near the rear. ‘Tesla’ also adorned the vehicle. A dozen or more of the homeless milled about nearby, apparently watching to see how successful Eddie was going to be.

  “It is both the voltage and the current.” Eddie’s voice strained with frustration. “Here it is direct current not alternating and at 440 volts, four times the 110 at your home. That’s why it takes so long to recharge there.”

  “I still don’t understand,” the lord said. “You are not helping me at all. Putting the station up here on the street was a big mistake. It should have remained in the basement of the parking structure on Argile. No nuisances like you came there.”

  Slow Eddie thrust his upraised palm closer to the lord’s torso. “What I have told ya is worth at least a little something,” he said. “Come on, gimme… give us a break.”

  The lord scowled, pushed Eddie’s hand aside, and turned to disengage the hose from his vehicle. The rest of the homeless grumbled and inched closer to the pair.

  The noble climbed in his chariot and started to back out of its stall. But as he did, two of Eddie’s companions suddenly circled behind the vehicle and sat on the ground, blocking its exit. The lord stopped short of bumping into them, reversed direction, and tried to maneuver to the left. More of the homeless joined their comrades, surrounding the Tesla on all four sides.

  For a while, there was a stalemate. The Tesla could not move. But then, neither would the homeless be getting a handout. Finally, one of the black and white chariots that always seemed to be on the street pulled to a halt. Two men emerged. These must be the ones Slow Eddie had talked about.

  A crowd of boulevard walkers formed around Briana. A second group collected on the other side of the charging station. One of the police officers sprinted back to his chariot and began speaking to a small device suspended in easy reach.

  It took several minutes, but it seemed like almost immediately, that three more black and white chariots swooped into sight down the boulevard and halted. Like bees with a clear target, additional officers poured from the vehicles. Two grabbed the nearest homeless man under his arms and began to pull him away from the Tesla. Another one shrugged off the policeman who tugged on him, and his assailant responded by striking back with a baton.

  Several of the younger lordlings in the crowds suddenly shouted, “Police brutality! Police brutality.” They ran forward and sat on the ground, forming a second row of containment of the Tesla outside of the first.

  The police struggled with the sitting homeless as additional bystanders arrived to support them. More black and white chariots appeared. More protestors surged forward, this time even some of the ladylings joined in. Those behind Briana surged, and she was propelled along with them, scrambling all the while not to trip and be overrun.

  When she arrived near the Tesla, two ladylings next to her yelled, “Sit! Sit!”

  Briana looked about for a way to retreat, but another row of bodies was forming behind her, cutting off any escape route. In under a minute, the Tesla was surrounded six rows deep. Reluctantly, she knelt down to the ground.

  The police among the squatters retreated and waited for more reinforcements. As they did, Slow Eddie started a chant. “Brutality against the homeless! Give us a break!”

  The seated around the Tesla echoed in unison, “The homeless! Give us a break! The homeless! Give us a break!” The mood was infectious. Briana did not want to call attention to herself. She began shouting with the rest.

  A few minutes later, several large black and white vans arrived. A tinny voice radiated from the top of one, “Clear the area! Disperse! Clear and disperse.”

  The two chants blended into a garbled cacophony as police began dragging protestors from the outermost row. Some went limp as they were carried into the vans. Others bolted and ran away. They were not pursued.

  Briana hesitated. What should she do? There was an injustice here. The homeless man had been struck when he did not threaten. She understood why so many of the lordlings and ladylings of the street had sided with him. The retaliation was not consistent with the offence. But she also remembered Slow Eddie’s warning about what would happen to her if brought to the police’s attention.

  She looked about. The rings of protesters were no longer unbroken. Fleeing lordlings left zigzag paths among the others who remained. Not feeling good about herself, Briana rose and fled back toward the calm of the Wattles Garden. It was still two hours before her shift at the café.

  As she ran, she thought about what she had witnessed. The homeless. And lordlings and ladylings. Two cultures that surely never mixed — never mixed unless they had, what… common cause? What was it about these denizens of the Earth? Some inner sense of what was right and what was wrong? Something that made them abandon certain security and fight for something greater? And was that any different from what happened on the battlefields of Murdina when challenged to defend what was just and true?

  No Need for a Philosopher’s Stone

  ANGUS CLIMBED the steps toward the farming alcove slowly. He strained to make sure the large glass condenser he carried did not touch the rock walls and shatter. It had taken him too long to build one the first time, and he did not want to construct another.

  Behind him, Jormind grunted under the weight of the rest of the equipment. “Flock Leader, what’s in this bag?” he asked. “It is as heavy as if it were filled with rocks.”

  “Precisely,” Angus said over his shoulder. “Gold ore and, if we need it, cinnabar as well.”

  “But why are we doing this?” Jormind persisted. “You say you have done it yourself alone many times before. Why do I have to come along?”

  Angus grimaced. A little less complaining would be welcome. “Soon, I plan to be busy with other things. Your new task is to be the one who barters with Oscar. I am going to show you how to smelt the gold dust you will need.”

  Jormind said no more. In silence, the two reached the garden alcove they had visited before. Jormind dropped the large sack to the ground with a thud before Angus could stop him.

  “Careful, idiot!” he growled. His fangs bared for a moment, but then retreated. “There are fragile objects in the sack along with the rocks.”

  Jormind shrugged and opened the bag, seemingly oblivious of Angus’ wrath. He pulled out a small iron tripod and a porcelain bowl with many holes in the bottom.

  “Set the colander in the plant stand,” Angus ordered. He shook his head. “It took Oscar three trips until he got a pair that fit together. Such a combination is not common among the primitives.”

  “Fill the colander with some gold ore,” he continued. “Not heaping over the top. Precisely full. Put the glass bowl underneath, directly on the ground. Then watch while I perform the alchemy.”

  “Alchemy!” Jormind exclaimed. “Flock Leader, that is forbidden.”

  “Do as you are told,” Angus said. “It is only for the first step — getting the gold in the rock to bind into a mercury amalgam. The primitives above go to great lengths to cause this to happen. With giant hammers, they crush the rocky ore into fine grains, using inordinate amounts of energy and effort. Energy and effort that we do not have.”

  Angus fumbled out a sheet of blank parchment from the folds of his swathing while Jormind followed the instructions. “Now, pay attention. You must remember it all if you are to act in my stead.”

  He waited until Jormind nodded he was focused. “As I finish placing the formula, quickly pour the mercury over it and into the ore.”

  Angus retrieved a pen and wrote arcane symbols in a brilliant red. With a flourish, he made the final stroke and smiled as he watched it dry. “The formula is completed,” he said. Carefully, he draped the paper over the top of the colander. “On our home world, we used the blood of vanquished enemies to construct the words of power. But it is not required. Any ink will do.”

  Jormind poured the
silvery liquid onto the colander and watched it seep through the parchment and disappear.

  Nothing happened for almost a minute, but eventually, drops of gold amalgam and mercury that had not bonded began to drip from the holes in the colander into the glass bowl.

  “The rest of the process needs no alchemy,” Angus said. “Even the primitives have been performing them for thousands of years.” His smile bared his fangs. “Thousands of years of only employing a portion of what mercury can do. They never discovered The Doctrine of Signatures — ’The attributes without mirror the powers within.’“

  When no more droplets fell, he picked up the bowl, connected it to the condenser he had brought and performed the rest of the steps needed — heating the amalgam to release the mercury as vapor from the gold, recovering the gas and returning it to liquid form for use again.

  “I do not want to be doing this, Flock Leader,” Jormind said as the process completed. “Others have told me mercury vapor is poisonous. And if for only one step or not, it does not matter. Alchemy is forbidden. We will become meals for the tigerwasps if we do not stop.” He sucked in a gulp of air and then blurted. “And I must tell Dinton about this.”

  “Silence!” Angus shouted. “Dinton wears the baton only most of the time. But I am your Flock Leader for every cycle of every day, no matter what. You must do as I say.”

  “But, Flock Leader, as your brother has explained many times over, the consequence of discovery by the Faithful is too great. He must know of this.”

  Angus thought for a moment, then spoke in a quiet voice.

  “You are as guilty, Jormind. As guilty as am I.”

  “No, Flock Leader. I performed no craft. I do not even know how.”

  “Then you examined the breathing tube before inserting it into your helmet and substituted another before we ascended?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because, I placed a special product of alchemy there. It is what gave us so much extra time before we had to return. You used the fruits of the craft, Jormind. If you go to Dinton, you too will face his wrath. Is that what you desire?

  “But I did not know. Surely, Dinton will understand.”

  Angus’ anger exploded. “I will silence you one way or another,” His fangs lowered. He fumbled for his dagger and growled in frustration that it could not be reached. Then he lunged at Jormind and began unwrapping the covering from the other man’s head.

  “No!” Jormind shouted. “No, I will die!”

  “Perhaps so,” Angus growled.

  “Please, Flock Leader,” Jormind gasped. He had slumped to the ground and frantically began trying to bat Angus’ arms away, to keep himself swathed and safe.

  “I… I misspoke,” he cried as Angus continued the uncoiling. “Yes, yes, you are my Flock Leader. I will do as you say. This is our secret to share.”

  Angus stopped for a moment, deciding if he should continue. As quickly as it had blossomed, the rage inside abated, and he released his grip. It would take too long to seek out another helper. There were the other things that had to be done.

  “It was the sulfur that gave me the grand idea,” he said at last. “It is a chemical of many useful properties throughout the realm and the key to freeing us from this hateful swathing.

  “‘I will not perform any craft,” he continued and then snorted. “Hah! Without it, I would not have found the path to our salvation.”

  Zero

  THAT EVENING, at the café, all of the other waitresses were busy as the big hulking man entered. Briana hesitantly walked toward him, and then stopped when she saw his leer.

  “Ah, a new one,” the man said. A rough stubble like newly planted grass filled his face, barely covering the scar down his left cheek. His smile showed yellowed teeth. Heavy, like a giant mobile potato, he lumbered with each step. Around his neck was a collection of metal chains. Worst of all were the deep-set, cruel eyes.

  “Don’t be shy,” he continued as he reached out to grab for Briana’s wrist. “My name is Zero. We haven’t met, so sit on my lap for a while. We can talk about what comes up.”

  Briana pulled her arm out of his reach while at the same time forcing the corners of her mouth to turn upward, as she had been taught.

  “Now, Zero,” she said as breezily as she could. “You know there are others waiting for me to serve them. Do you have a usual, or is there something else you want?”

  She slammed her mouth shut and the beginning of her smile vanished. Those were not the words she should have used.

  “Something else I want, most definitely,” Zero laughed.

  “Come on, Zero.” Another waitress came to stand beside Briana. “Give the girl a break. She hasn’t figured out yet how to deal with somebody like you.”

  “Not you, Irma,” Zero said. “You have got a little long in the tooth. I like mine fresh and young, like this one here.”

  “Gimme your order, Zero,” Irma said. “Briana is going to be busy with that table over there.”

  “Foxy?” Zero snorted. “His stable is already too big. He has enough to handle. He should give the rest of us a chance.”

  “So, you want to suggest that to his face?” Irma asked.

  “No, you know I don’t,” Zero growled. He stood and looked back at Briana, and then again in Foxy’s direction. “But as long as this one remains untaken, she’s fair game for the rest of us. I will be back in a few days to see if she is still available.”

  Briana backed away. She began to shake. Zero was going to be more of a challenge to deal with than any of the rest so far. She glanced at the other waitresses standing near the pickup table. Besides Irma, no one showed any sympathy. She understood now why they had been so friendly when she had arrived, letting her buy some tattered clothes, giving her tips about things like buses and shampoo. It was probably the same with each new wench. After some training, the newcomer would have to be the one to handle the worst customers. She looked at Irma, hoping her conclusion was wrong.

  “There is no secret to it,” Irma explained. “To keep the worse ones at bay, you need a protector, someone with some muscle and the reputation to use it if need be.”

  Briana looked in the direction of Foxy’s table and his rowdy entourage and shuddered. “Protection… in trade for what?”

  “You can’t be that naïve, girl. What do you think? Your protector provides for you in exchange for services you perform for him. He takes a cut off the top, and everyone wins.”

  “And Zero?”

  “He’s the same as many of the rest. Getting started with the crumbs falling from the table from a Foxy. Right now, it looks like if you make the first move, it can be your choice.”

  “I do not want to make a choice. Just continue working here, collect my tips, and — ”

  “It doesn’t work that way. Either you hitch up with one of them, or you leave and go somewhere else.”

  Zero or Foxy? Somewhere else? The words ricocheted in Briana’s head. If she left, she would be back at the very start, Spending all of her time wandering from handout to handout like Slow Eddie. Not able to learn a single thing more. Somehow, she was going to have to come up with a way of dealing with Zero and the others like him on her own.

  A Purchase Order

  ANGUS GROWLED for a moment to be sure. The air this far away from the alcoves tasted differently, but otherwise, it was sufficient. Oscar’s ramshackle dwelling on the surface stood before him. In the near distance were other shacks, and the one closest to the city, the old man had said, had an ISDN line and the Wi-Fi access point servicing them all.

  Yesterday, the old man had not shown up at the cave entrance after all. Angus had waited as long as he could, but the recluse never appeared.

  The exile alchemist had had to retreat to the prison below, his rage boiling higher with every step. The wait until morning the next day was an agony of frustration, but eventually, the feeling passed. Now he had purpose and could act. Oscar was undoubtedly inside his hut. Where els
e could he be?

  At one time, there had been paint on the door Angus faced, but now what remained was faded into peeling strips of gray. Windowsills on either side of the door were bare wood, cracked and weathered like the jawbones of fossil whales from long ago. The roof of nailed-down tarpaper barely slanted enough to dispose of the torrential rains. There had been no attempt at upkeep. There was no need. In between the times he ran errands for Angus in exchange for gold dust, Oscar passed the hours drinking beer and harder liquor.

  Angus did not knock before entering. Such civilities were for the humans, not a Flock Leader of the exiles. He shook his head. Yes, the exiles, the vanquished. The ones who had proclaimed themselves victors gave those names to him and his brethren to shame them, to make them feel small and insignificant. But he, his brothers and all who followed their lead, bore the titles proudly — a constant reminder of what they must do: defeat the so-called Faithful and usher in the new age. An age of their own chosen title, The Heretics Who Proclaim the Truth.

  Dinton and Thaling. They meant well enough, but they had insufficient vision, no boldness, no plan that would save them now, nor in a distant future. It was he who would lead the way.

  Angus creaked the door open. Oscar rose from a folding chair next to a card table, startled.

  “Why… why are you here?” he managed to say. “I told you I would visit no more.”

  “And so, instead, I have come to you,” Angus said. “Enough wealth has been accumulated. I have decided your use to me now has little value.”

  He looked hastily around the room. A cot with yellowed sheets and a crumpled blanket was next to the far wall. Empty bottles littered the floor amidst a sea of crumpled papers, moldy shoes, and discarded cardboard boxes. The door to the left opened onto a small kitchen in which Angus could see a sink piled with dishes next to an ancient stove.