Spellsmith & Carver: Magicians' Trial

by H. L. Burke

  “No. I have to draw the line somewhere. I’ve already allowed myself to be dressed like a paper-doll for this. I’m not about to let you primp me like I’m a prize chicken you’re grooming for the county fair.”

  Auric scoffed. “Suit yourself. It’ll just let my family know my sister’s chosen a barbarian as her future spouse.” He gazed out into the sanctuary. “Full house, huh?”

  “Yeah.” Jericho took out the precious pocket square and dabbed at his forehead.

  Auric’s shoulders slumped slightly. He’d been on edge lately, trying to hide it, but not very well. At first Jericho had assumed it involved the wedding or Hedward’s health, but Hedward had improved dramatically over the last few days, being downright hyper this morning on their way to the church, and Auric seemed to have accepted Rill’s choice.

  “Is something going on with you?” Jericho asked.

  “Huh?” Auric’s eyes widened. “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

  “Uh-huh.” Jericho narrowed his eyes. “You might as well tell me—”

  “Excuse me, Master Carver, Master Spellsmith?” The elderly parson poked his head into the room. “If you’d take your places, the bride will be arriving momentarily.”

  Jericho’s heart jumped into his mouth. He managed to make his way to the altar without tripping over his own two feet. He caught his mother’s glance and his heart warmed. She beamed at him. Milly Carver had been through so much to provide him with a chance at a good life, enduring over a decade tied to his abusive father, and now, here she was, happy for him.

  I won’t let you down, Mom, Jericho thought. I’m going to be a better man, a better husband, a better father than he was. I swear.

  The organist’s drone changed to a steady march, and Jericho snapped to attention. The room filled with the rustling of a hundred guests turning towards the entry. Rill stepped through, clinging to Hedward’s arm, her pale face flushed beneath the mist-like folds of her veil.

  Warmth swept through Jericho. Pure white lace flowed over her petite figure, the dress almost as perfect as she was. Blue eyes sparkled through the obstruction of the veil, piercing it like rays of sun through the morning clouds. A lump formed in his throat, and for a moment he doubted his ability to speak the vows, not for lack of desire, though. No, the desire had never been stronger.

  Then she was before him. Hedward brought her hand to Jericho’s, his gray eyes watering but happy. Her fingers trembled. He managed a smile. Her eyes shone.

  The world condensed to a bubble about them. The parson’s words murmured in the background, and Jericho became aware of his own voice, parroting the vows. The words sank into him. Honor, cherish, ’til death. He’d never made a vow like this. He could feel its gravity twining about him like chains, but they were chains he’d accept, chains he’d carry with pride.

  Rill gazed up at him, her expression filled with adoration he didn’t feel he deserved. Her hand squeezed his.

  “You may kiss the bride.” The words broke through Jericho’s daze, and he felt his mouth curl into an idiotic grin. Someone in the back of the church gasped, and an echoing murmur rose from the crowd. Jericho ignored it, leaning in to kiss his new wife. Clicking, metallic footsteps rang out. A flash of bronze, a dull impact, and Jericho stumbled backwards, Rill’s pet fox pasted to his chest.

  “Oh, Jaspyr, no!” she cried.

  Jericho managed to keep his balance, one arm around the fox, the other hand grabbing the parson’s shoulder for support. Rill’s metal pet blinked up at him, yipped, and wriggled before leaping into Rill’s arms. A tattered bit of rope hung about his neck.

  Laughter rose from the congregation. Rill blushed as Jaspyr nosed at her face. “Oh, you bad, bad fox.”

  “Oh, dear,” the parson said. “Here, let me.” He reached for Jaspyr only to pull back his hand to avoid a nip. Jaspyr growled at the parson then nestled against Rill’s shoulder, his tail wagging.

  “I think he’s jealous.” She laughed.

  Happiness spread through Jericho’s chest as she cradled her pet like a baby. “Honestly, I don’t blame him, but he’s going to have to learn to share you.” Jericho stepped forward and draped one arm around her shoulders and the other about her waist. Ignoring Jaspyr, he swept her into a kiss, the fox pressed between them.

  Jaspyr didn’t seem to mind.

  ***

  “Lottie!” Her father shouted over the clicks and whirs of their shop. Lotta Tyckner filtered him out, concentrating on getting every last bolt tight on her latest invention: an automated sweeper.

  “Lottie, where are you?” The floorboards squeaked as he entered the back room from the shopfront. Sitting cross-legged on the floor behind the workbench, Lotta huffed. Yes, she was too old to be hiding in nooks and crannies to work on her devices. At nineteen, she should be finishing up engineering school or at least working alongside her father in the front, the public face of their little machinist shop. However, out there, people talked, people looked at her, people expected things from her. Here, hidden behind a table overflowing with gears and clockwork and toolboxes, she could think.

  Neville Tyckner pushed aside a large, dented boiler casing and leaned over the workbench.

  “Thought you could hide from me, did you?” His dark eyes twinkled. Her father had immigrated from Raumina, his brown skin, which she’d inherited, causing him to stand out amongst the pale inhabitants of the Republic. Still, he’d managed to become a respected member of the Machinists' Guild, due in part to his charm, which Lotta had not inherited.

  “I’m almost done,” she mumbled.

  “Which project is this?” He stepped around the workbench, leaping over the barrier of spare parts with a spryness that belied his fifty-five years.

  “It sweeps. You see this piston controls this arm while these wheels push it across the floor with the … it just sweeps.” She hated explaining her work. Why couldn’t people just take her word for it?

  “I see.” He rested his hand on top of her black curls. “What powers it?”

  “Wind-up, clockwork,” she grunted.

  “Ah, like the little toy mouse I bought you when you were three that you immediately took apart and put back together as a beagle.” He chuckled.

  A smile crept across her face in spite of herself.

  Father took her hand and pulled her to her feet. “Come to the front room with me. I want to show you something.”

  She gulped down the lump in her throat. The front room meant the possibility of customers, of people walking in and expecting her to converse. It meant leaving her project unfinished just when the end was in sight. “Can’t you bring whatever it is here? I don’t want to stop working.”

  He slapped his forehead. “Ay! What did I do to deserve such a stubborn and disobedient daughter?”

  She crossed her arms. Her father was fond of invoking the old days when young women who insisted on wearing trousers and speaking back to their parents would’ve been cast into the streets with much wailing and gnashing of teeth, but he never went further than complaining.

  Not since she was fourteen, at least.

  That was the year he’d forced her to attend a luncheon in her best frock, planning to show her off to the eligible sons of his guildmates … only to have her collapse, red-faced and shivering on the tea room floor. People had called it a fit, a tantrum, a show of will. All Lotta had known was that she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think or speak. From that point on, social functions, which had always been nerve wracking, became debilitating.

  His expression softened. “Please, Lottie. You can’t hide from the world forever. Take a little step with me? It’s just the front room of our shop.”

  Her stomach twisted, but she nodded and followed him through the door.

  Light flooded the clean swept, carefully organized shop, making her blink. Her gaze immediately darted towards the flip sign in the window, and relief rushed through her. He’d turned it to “closed.” Outside people, potential customers,
bustled by: women who might’ve bought some wind-up toys for their children, men who may have been interested in their home security systems or automated-shoe-polishers … but for her, Father would risk the loss of business. Why did she ever doubt him?

  Across the street, a group of men in tattered clothes milled about. Their expressions were dark, their movements restless. One of them motioned straight at the shop, and several of his companions followed the gesture. Lotta flinched back. Were they looking at her?

  “What?” Father asked.

  “N … Nothing,” she stammered.

  He followed her gaze, and his brow furrowed. “With the factories closed, there are too many unemployed men roaming the streets, looking for trouble. It makes me anxious for you.”

  “It’s not like I go out much.” She shrugged.

  “I’m not too happy about that either, of course.”

  “Can’t have it both ways.” She gave him what she hoped was a cheeky wink, though it probably just looked like she had something caught in her eye.

  Father laughed then crossed the shop and pulled the shutters. “Well, if everything goes right, all will soon be mended.” Returning to her side, he turned up the gas lamp and drew a roll of paper from beneath the counter. “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

  She tilted her head, recognizing the drafting paper. “It’s a schematic.”

  “Yes, but of what?”

  Lotta didn’t like games. It took all her patience not to scowl at him. “How can I know until you unroll it?”

  “You need to loosen up a little, Lottie.”

  She didn’t like being called Lottie much either, for that matter, but she bit her tongue.

  He cleared his throat, then drew something else from under the counter: a leather bound notebook.

  She gasped and snatched it. “You had this? I’ve been looking for it for almost a week! Why did you have it?” She flipped it open. Everything seemed to be intact, no missing pages, all her sketches and notes still legible. Of course, she shouldn’t have expected any less. Father would never destroy her notes—though him keeping them from her in the first place was problematic.

  “I needed them to put this together.” He unrolled the schematic.

  Her breath escaped her. There, laid out in carefully labeled bits and pieces, was her generator. Her gaze darted from the schematic to the notebook, comparing the notes she had on one page, flipping to another page where she’d sketched out the rotors and stators, checking the lists of materials. She bent over the schematic. It was perfect, all her jumbled notes and drawings, compiled into an easily understood diagram. “It’s beautiful. You did this?”

  He nodded. “Your ideas are brilliant, but I know you have a hard time getting them out of your head in any orderly fashion. I wanted to help.”

  “There are parts missing,” she whispered.

  “Yes, it’s not a complete blueprint, just a simplified version to help with our presentation.”

  Lotta’s head spun. She braced herself against the counter. “P… P … Presentation?”

  “Lottie, this is exactly what the Capital needs right now: a source of power that can revive the factories. Your generator can do what magic used to, and more reliably.” He touched her hand. “This is your chance to prove to the world what a genius you are, as well as do a lot of good for a lot of people. I had to call in a few favors, but I got us a hearing with a congressional board. If they like what we present, it could lead to a contract, a chance to install one of your generators in a major factory. Once the concept is proven on a small scale, nothing can stop us.” A grin wrinkled his face, eyes bright, voice rising slightly in pitch.

  Lotta felt cold all over. “You will do it, though. You’ll make the presentation.”

  His smile faded. “Lottie—”

  “You know I can’t!” She gripped his wrist. “I can’t. There will be strangers and they’ll … they’ll expect me to talk, to explain. I just—”

  “Shh, please don’t.” He pulled her into an embrace. “You deserve this chance to show people what you can do. I know it’s hard, but think of the future it will open up to you. If I go in, they’ll expect me to head the project. That isn’t right. It’s your invention.”

  “But I … I can’t …”

  A bang jerked both their attention to the shuttered windows. His brow furrowed.

  “What was that?” she asked.

  Another crash, then raised voices. The shutters shook and broken glass clattered to the floor. Something slammed into the shop door.

  Father stiffened. “Get in the back and hide.”

  “No, I won’t leave you.” She drew herself up. “What is it? What’s going on?”

  “For once in your life, obey me, you stubborn girl!” He shoved her.

  Lotta rocked, catching herself on the counter. Father had never laid a hand on her before. Dumbstruck, she stumbled into the back room but stood at the door, leaving it a crack open.

  Another slam. The front door quivered. Father turned and met her eyes. “Shut it and lock it! Now!”

  Crash!

  Splinters flew across the room. Father threw his hands over his face. Lotta fell to the floor, her shaking legs unable to hold her weight. Father rushed across the room and wrenched the door between them closed. The lock clicked. “Go out the back,” he called from the other side. “I’ll stall them.”

  Another bang, the stamp of booted feet, and angry men called out. “There he is! Grab him!”

  “Gentleman, there must be some mistake!”

  “No mistake!” A gruff voice rose above the rest. “You’re a machinist!”

  “That is no crime.” Her father’s tone became steely.

  “We want our jobs back!” another shouted, followed by echos of agreement.

  “You need to return the magic! Whatever you machinists did with your new-fangled telegraph wires, it’s taken the magic!”

  “That’s untrue!” Father protested.

  “Your cables go up, the rifts close!” The others fell silent to listen to the gruff voice rant. “We’re not stupid!”

  “The telegraph cables have nothing to do with that.”

  “The papers said you’d done it, that the cables were your idea.”

  Lotta’s stomach lurched. They’d been her idea. Another she’d been too nervous to present, so Father had brought it to the Machinists' Guild, to great applause. He’d felt guilty about it, of course, taking her credit, but she hadn’t wanted it. Oh, but now these strange men were outraged because of it and after her father instead of her.

  “I swear they have nothing to do with the loss of magic. It’s purely coincidence—”

  “Shut up! We know what the papers said. You’ll pay for it!”

  Sounds of destruction slammed into Lotta’s ears like rocks. She needed to go to her father, or go get help, or do something. Instead, she crumpled into herself.

  A scream of pain rose above the clamor. A squeak escaped Lotta, and instinctively, she grabbed at the door handle. It didn’t budge, locked from the other side.

  “Damnit! Nothing here. Let’s check the back.”

  The walls closed in around Lotta. She gulped for air. The door handle shook.

  “Locked! See if the old man has the key.”

  Obey me for once, you disobedient girl! Run! Her father’s voice echoed in her skull. Somehow she pried herself from the floor and sprinted across the room. The back door opened onto a narrow alley, filled with scraps of metal and barrels of spent oil for the junkman to haul away. Lotta slammed the door shut behind her just as the mob broke through into the back. No time to run. She dove behind the nearest scrapheap.

  The sky collapsed on top of her. She was trapped. The world grew narrower, the air thinner. The pounding of her heart overwhelmed all else. Darkness closed in on her, and everything melted into a haze of gray.

  “Young lady!” A voice echoed through the glass coffin about her.

  She forced an eye open. Goosebumps
prickled at her skin. Sweat drenched the clothes which clung to her shivering frame. A hand touched her shoulder, and she shrieked.

  “Calm yourself! The mob fled. You’re safe.” Someone wrenched her to her feet, and she found herself staring into the florid face of a uniformed peace officer. “My men and I got here as fast as we could. Are you the shop girl here? An employee?”

  She shook her head. How long had she been unconscious? “My … my father … Where’s my father?”

  His face fell. “Oh, of course. You have the same strange complexion. I should’ve known. I’m so sorry, ma’am. Mr. Tyckner is … well, he’s gone.”

  “No!” She wrenched herself away. The back door to the shop stood open. Strange men, also in the navy uniforms of Republic officers, milled about, picking over shattered furniture and crushed machinery. “Father!” she called. She pushed into the front room. A sheet covered a man-sized form in the middle of the trashed shop.

  “You shouldn’t be here!” The peace officer from the alleyway grabbed her arm.

  “Sergeant Hale,” another man called out. “Who is that? A witness?”

  “The victim’s daughter, Captain.” The first officer’s hold loosened, and Lotta stepped closer to the covered body. It couldn’t be her father. It just couldn’t. Neville Tyckner never harmed another human being. Why would other human beings harm him?

  It didn’t make sense. She couldn’t process it. The second officer, the captain, was talking at her. Asking her questions, and she felt herself nodding and shaking her head even though she didn’t quite comprehend the words. Pain welled up within her. This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be.

  “If you could identify the body for us.” The captain pulled away the cloth, and Lotta hit her knees. Her father’s eyes stared lifelessly at her from a pool of blood. “This is your father, the shop owner, Neville Tyckner?” the captain asked.

  Somehow she managed to nod. “He shouldn’t be like this. His … his coat is ripped. He would never wear a torn coat in the shop.”