by H. L. Burke
“It’s about power! Magicians have held the Republic together for centuries. The Magicians’ Congress controls the peace officers, trade regulations, taxation … how long will any of that last once the power shifts from magicians to engineers? If instead of magic, people are dependent on electric and steam power, what need will the people have of the old magical families? I get why he doesn’t understand.” Red-faced, Cordon jabbed the revolver barrel at Jericho like an accusing finger. “But you, Auric? You’re old blood magic, a Spellsmith. You know what we’ve given to this country, and you should know what we deserve in return.”
“Maybe I don’t.” Auric dropped his gaze from Cordon’s glare. Had he ever thought like that? Yes, he had once resented Jericho’s intrusion into his father’s shop and underestimated his abilities, but had it been because of the same prejudice Cordon now exhibited? In his heart of hearts, Auric knew that it had, and that sickened him. The wrench continued to sway behind them, slower now, but still clanging noisily off the pipe, making Auric’s heart thump every time.
“Bah! Your father got to you. Don’t you remember how you used to laugh at your crazy old man and his harebrained theories about the rifts?” Cordon’s voice grew shriller. “And look what he did! Teaching this nobody magic and elevating him to a position of equality with you! Letting him bed your sister?”
“Yeah, it was Hedward who served Rill up to me on a platter,” Jericho scoffed. “She had no say in the matter and would much rather have married a psychotic pretty boy like yourself.”
“Shut up!” Cordon snarled. Then his face lit up and he smiled. “You may be more on the nose than you think, Carver. That pretty little wife of yours has been paying me an awful lot of favors. I imagine you won’t be dead in the ground a week before she’s shuffling off the widow’s black to show me what’s beneath.”
“Why? Because you think she’s such a delicious strawberry trifle? All blushing and sweet?” Jericho smirked.
Cordon’s face turned gray, his smile dying.
“Yeah, she told me that. She told me every ridiculous advance you made on her, because I asked her to keep you distracted from what we were up to with Lotta Tyckner.”
Cordon’s gun-hand shook.
Auric swallowed his heart back into his chest. Blast you, Jericho, could you refrain from taunting the man who has a revolver pointed at your brain?
Cordon shrugged. “Well, then she’s as much a fool as her father and brother. A shame, but looks and brains rarely go hand in hand.”
Jericho’s eyes glinted. “You’re going to regret saying that.”
Cordon slapped his leg with his free hand and let out an exaggerated laugh. “What are you going to do about it? You’ll be dead in a few minutes.”
“If you kill us, it won’t stop Lotta’s generators.” Auric longed to loosen his collar. He couldn’t seem to get enough air. “Do you think you’ll be able to get at her? Her uncle has a gun and won’t let you close to her.”
“I don’t intend to kill her, simply discredit her.” Cordon reached into his jacket and pulled out a red cylinder with a wick sticking out the top. “I don’t hold much faith in new technology, but I’ll make an exception for this. The Machinists' Guild uses them for excavation and demolition, apparently. Blackthorn used one in the failed tunnel trap, incompetent woman. I almost enjoyed paying the jailer to slip that arsenic into her rations, after all the money she took from me. Now I’m taking matters into my own hands.” He waved at the area behind the men where the Styles Device sat along with Lotta’s alterations. “The Styles Device is tried and true, not prone to exploding, but these new-fangled contraptions? One never knows when they might go off. It’s a good thing this happened during one of her tests, rather than after the technology was installed in working factories where innocent lives might’ve been taken. As it was, only two bodies were found in the wreckage, and we suspect they were both wanted fugitives. Miss Tyckner will be charged with manslaughter, of course, but not murder. No, that would be too harsh when her intentions were good. If only her methods weren’t so dangerous.”
“Cordon, please,” Auric whispered.
“I truly am sorry, Auric, but I did warn you against getting involved with her.”
A clattering of wagon wheels across cobblestones echoed down the stairs. “Spellsmith? Carver? Are you out there?” Hovawart’s voice rang out in the distance.
Cordon recoiled, glancing over his shoulder up the stairs.
Jericho grabbed the swinging wrench and hurled it into the back of Cordon’s head. Cordon cried out and stumbled forward. Jericho tackled him, sending the revolver sliding across the floor and under the stairwell and the explosive stick clattering to the floor.
“Auric, get the generator hooked up!” Jericho yelled.
With a cry of rage, Cordon threw himself back against the wall, pushing Jericho, who still had him about the waist, into the bricks. Jericho grunted.
Jumping into action, Auric approached Lotta’s device. Three wires—one blue, one red, one green, each ending in two pronged plugs—lay on the floor in front of three sockets, none of which were color coded. Which went with which and what would happen if he got it wrong?
A crash and a thump jerked him around. Cordon had freed himself from Jericho and was clawing at the narrow crack beneath the bottom stair, presumably trying to reclaim his revolver. Jericho kicked at him. Cordon growled and sprang, fists first, towards the taller man, teeth bared like a rabid dog. Jericho blocked a blow with his left arm, then swung at Cordon’s gut with his right.
“How do I do this?” Auric stammered.
Jericho glanced at him. “The dia—ouch!” Cordon yanked the swinging wrench from its rope. Jericho ducked just in time, the tool only grazing his crown. Keeping low, he head-butted Cordon. Both men collapsed onto the stone floor.
“Diagram!” Jericho managed to gasp out between dodging and aiming blows.
Auric wanted to punch himself. “Oh …” He reached into his pocket, and found nothing. His heart sank. Then he remembered. Other pocket. Ripping the paper from its hiding place, he glanced at it. “Blue, then green, then red … throw the switch.” He spoke as he acted, toggling the switch with a satisfying snap.
Silence.
His knees gave out, and he braced himself against the machinery. It whirred to life beneath his hands, the gears moving inside the metal casing like a heartbeat.
“I got it!” he crowed.
Jericho landed a bone cracking upper cut on Cordon’s chin. Cordon collapsed against the wall, cross-eyed with blood running from the corner of his mouth.
“That—” Jericho huffed. “—was for my wife.”
“What’s going on down here?” Hovawart hurried down the stairs, a peace officer at his side. He tilted his head at Cordon. “How did he even get here? He was still at his home when I left.” His gaze shifted to the machinery, now buzzing along as if the Styles Device were channeling all the magic in the world through it. His expression went so slack his glasses slipped to the end of his nose. “How ... ?” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wax tablet and a stylus, and whipped through a line of magical symbols. Nothing happened. “No, there’s no magic, so how are those machines powered?”
“Lotta … I mean, Miss Tyckner’s generator.” Auric grinned. “It works.”
“It seems it does. And Mr. Styles?” Hovawart nodded towards the unconscious man.
Jericho pulled out a handkerchief and wiped a trickle of blood from beneath his nose. “You’re looking for the one who killed Alvin? That’s him. He was also behind the death of Miss Blackthorn in your custody, and behind Miss Blackthorn’s attempts on Miss Tyckner’s life.”
Hovawart pushed his glasses back into place then steepled his hands in front of his chin. “Do you have proof of any of this?”
“I have the testimonies of myself, Auric, and Ezra Tyckner that he tried to kill all of us tonight. Also, I imagine if we go through his finances, we’ll find evidence that he was paying
Blackthorn for her services as an assassin.” Jericho drew a deep breath. “Will that be enough?”
“Maybe.” Hovawart turned to the peace officer who hovered, a stoic presence at his shoulder, waiting for commands. “Just to be safe, and considering there has obviously been some sort of physical altercation between Carver and Styles, I believe we are in our rights to incarcerate both of them on a temporary basis, just until we can sort through things and get the right warrants to investigate Mr. Carver’s claims.”
“Fine with me as long as your jail has some place I can lie down for the night.” Jericho’s shoulders slumped.
“If he goes, I go,” Auric burst out. “Jericho is my partner. If you’re trying him for anything, you’re trying me as well.”
Jericho raised his eyebrows.
“Plenty of room in the cells for you as well, Mr. Spellsmith.” Hovawart smiled wryly. “Now are you two going to come along peacefully or do we need to bind you?”
“We’ll behave,” Jericho said.
Hovawart chuckled. “Oh, I doubt that, but at least don’t resist arrest. I’m too old for that nonsense.”
The peace officer hoisted up Cordon, who wobbled on his feet like a drunk but still managed to follow the peace officer up the stairs. Hovawart motioned for Jericho and Auric to go after.
“Nice gesture, there, but kind of stupid,” Jericho muttered under his breath as the two men obeyed. “You should be with Rill and your father, not stuck in a cell with me.”
Auric flushed. “I didn’t want you to be alone in prison. With Cordon in custody, Rill and Father will be fine.”
“Thanks,” Jericho said. “I guess I don’t mind the company.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Jericho leaned against the cold stone wall of the prison, his arms behind his head and his coat folded under his rump as a makeshift cushion. The narrow wooden bench on the wall opposite the bars wasn’t long enough for him to stretch out comfortably upon. Also, Auric kept plopping down on it, only to jump up and look out through the bars a few seconds later, twirl around, mumble to himself and sit back down again. Let him use the bench for that. Jericho wanted to rest.
Auric groaned loudly and kicked at the bars. The vibrations traveled down the iron into Jericho’s foot, the heel of which was wedged against the cell door.
Jericho opened one eye. “Would you cut it out?”
“Do you know how annoying you are right now?” Auric snapped.
Opening his other eye, Jericho leaned forward. “Me? I’m the annoying one right now?”
“How can you be so at ease? Aren’t you at all worried?” Auric sat on the bench again, scratching madly at his beard.
“Not really.” Jericho stood and shook out his legs. With his long strides, he didn’t even have the luxury of pacing. Two steps in any direction and he ran into a wall. “After all, Rill said they’d raided Styles Manor for documents already. If Hovawart has done that, he’s taking this seriously. He wouldn’t risk angering one of the foremost families of the Republic if he didn’t intend to bring it to trial. If Styles is incarcerated, Rill and Lotta are safe. Everything else is out of our hands anyway.”
“Yes, but we’re still in here, after nearly two days, with no word from Hovawart about our fate.” Auric’s fingers twitched as if twirling an invisible stylus. When the peace officer at booking had taken Auric’s tablet and stylus from him, his expression had reminded Jericho of a small child with his teddy bear snatched out of his hands.
“Yeah.” Jericho sighed, leaning against the bars. The other holding cells, four in total, were blessedly empty. The one across from them had held a smelly drunk the night before. He’d kept Jericho up with his off-tune singing followed by his raucous snores. Jericho had been relieved when the man’s wife claimed him that morning.
The smell of unwashed man and sour booze had filled what little sleep Jericho had gotten with nightmares about his father’s rampages, and he’d woken feeling more tired than he had when he’d fallen asleep. Also, the only contact he’d had with Rill in the last two days was one quick, supervised visit, the couple only managing to steal a quick kiss when the peace officer on duty looked away for a moment, and that with Auric a few feet away, hovering awkwardly.
Though Jericho supposed he should be grateful even for that. Lotta hadn’t come by at all. In fact, according to Rill, the young engineer hadn’t even returned to the house. Ezra had stopped by to pick up some documents, but apparently she was already being swept from one meeting to the next, telling various congressional boards about her generators and setting up plans to install them throughout the city.
At least she’d gotten her wish, though Jericho couldn’t help thinking she should’ve spared a little bit of time to check on Auric.
The door to the holding cells opened, and Hovawart strode in, hands behind his back. He eyed the two men, then gave a slow nod. “Not so long ago I dreamed of seeing you behind bars, young Spellsmith,” he said. “Now that I’ve achieved it, though, my feelings are mixed.”
“Are we being charged with anything?” Jericho asked. “I’m no lawyer, but it is my understanding you can’t hold a Republic citizen without official charges.”
“That’s true.” Hovawart stroked his chin. “Though in fairness, Mr. Spellsmith did request to be here.”
“I definitely did not, however.” Jericho sniffed.
“It seemed a good idea at the time,” Auric mumbled.
“It would’ve saved me a lot of headache if you hadn’t.” Hovawart shook his head. “That Miss Tyckner was in my office screaming at me yesterday because I’d incarcerated you. I had to have her physically removed from the building, but she’s still sent me a telegram every hour on the hour demanding to know when you’ll be released.”
Auric grinned.
So not all is lost on that front.
“Are we going to be released?” Jericho asked. “Or are we being officially charged?
“Well, my original charges against you were to be for the murder of Terryn Alvin.” Hovawart crossed his arms, staring at the men as if they were an exhibit in a zoological garden. “However, with what we have found in Cordon Styles’s documents, it seems likely we will be accusing him of that crime, not you. Then there is the issue of the assault on Mr. Styles, who had a broken jaw and a serious concussion when we brought him in. However, the fact that we will be a charging Mr. Styles with murder lends serious credence to your claim of self-defense, so I doubt we will be pursuing that.”
“So you’re letting us go?” Auric leaped from the bench.
“Easy … there is one other matter: the closing of the rifts, which could be seen as a serious act of treason against the Republic.” Hovawart narrowed his eyes at them. Auric squirmed.
“You need proof to pursue that charge, and the run-around you were giving Auric over the court case seems to suggest that you lack conclusive evidence,” Jericho said.
“Seems to suggest? Conclusive evidence?” Hovawart tilted his head. “Are you quite certain you are not a lawyer, young man?”
Jericho shrugged. “I read a lot. Now, are you going to let us out?”
“Your conclusions are faulty. I actually do have proof that the rifts were closed from your area of the Republic. Energy spikes allowed us to pinpoint the event to within five miles of your home. I had thought that left only two options for the culprit, Hedward Spellsmith and his son, though I hadn’t ruled out them working together. Now, however, I see that there were two other possibilities. It could’ve been you, Mr. Carver—or even your wife. Before her impressive display when we tried to arrest you the first time, I didn’t realize she was a trained magician.”
“Mostly self-taught.” Jericho kept his voice steady, but his chest tightened with anxiety.
“Yes, well, I’d been going back and forth between it being the younger or older Spellsmith, or both in concert, but with what I’d observed over the last week or so, I came to believe the more likely team was Spellsmith and Carver.”
Cold rushed through Jericho’s veins. What was the punishment for magical treason? Would he get out of prison while his child was still a child?
“Jericho had nothing to do with it!” Auric burst out, shoving Jericho away from the bars to stand between him and Hovawart.
Snapping out of his daze, Jericho pushed his way back. “Auric, don’t.”
Auric glared at him. “You have a wife and a baby on the way. Don’t be an idiot.” He turned to Hovawart. “Jericho is innocent. He had nothing to do with the rifts closing.”
“Oh, I know.” Hovawart nodded.
Jericho blinked, and Auric gaped.
“You … are you accusing me, then?” Auric asked.
“No.” Reaching into his pocket, Hovawart produced the key and unlocked the cell. The door swung open with a loud squeak. “The chief’s office is just down the hall. I’ve been there all morning, having an illuminating conversation.”
Jericho and Auric exchanged a glance then followed Hovawart into a small but tidy office. There, in a wooden chair, sat Hedward Spellsmith.
Icy realization stole Jericho’s breath away.
“Father?” Auric’s voice could only be described as a whimper.
The older man smiled. “Hello, sons. Inspector Hovawart and I have been having an interesting ethical debate: if a man causes great misery, but does so in an attempt to prevent greater misery, should he be judged by the misery he caused, or the misery he prevented?”
“The sticking point being if we can prove any misery was actually prevented.” Hovawart gave a thin smile before slipping around the desk and taking a seat.
Auric loosened his collar. “Father, you shouldn’t be here. I told you, Jericho and I would take care of it—”
“You’ve done a fine job of that.” Hedward rolled his eyes. “How was that cell, Auric? Comfortable?”
“You need to go home!” Auric crossed his arms, possibly to hide that his hands were shaking. “The doctor said you need to avoid stress.”
“Do I look stressed?” Hedward leaned back in his chair.