Welcome To The Age of Magic

by C M Raymond et al.

  It took months before she accepted he wasn’t coming home. The first day that Parker ate in his father’s chair was when he knew for certain he had become the man of the house, and that was the day he stole his first loaf of bread.

  Parker didn’t necessarily like the life of a thief and conman, but it paid the bills and kept his mother from having to seek other questionable jobs. Too many women in the quarter did things no human should face, and he vowed that his mother wouldn’t be one of them.

  “Thanks, Mother. What’s the plan today?” He asked the same question every day, and every day he got the same answer.

  “Oh, I need to do some tidying up around the house and see if MacIntyre has work for me. If not, I’ll swing by the park and sit with the girls.” She smiled broadly at her son. “It’s a good thing I have a working man in the house.”

  MacIntyre ran The Arcadian, the city’s local paper. For a long time it had been esteemed as a reputable news source, but for the past few years it had published mainly political propaganda for the Governor and the Chancellor. The few remaining back pages were reserved for gossip and advertising. There had been little work for people like his mother since its transformation.

  People said the business had been infused with special magitech—magic-powered machines that pretty much wrote, edited, and printed the paper all by themselves. Parker knew that was horseshit, but couldn’t deny the fact that his mother’s unemployment had something to do with the legal use of magic.

  The magic was controlled by those in power, and it worked for these power brokers to make them even more powerful. For as long as he could remember the Capitol had boasted of more and more progress while life in Queen Bitch Boulevard spiraled into misery.

  “Sounds like a good plan,” Parker said, shoveling loads of eggs into his mouth. “I better get going. The foreman hates it when people are late.” He ate his last bite, kissed his mother on the cheek, and headed for the market square.

  The morning fog hung thick, and the cobblestones were slick with dew. Only a few people gathered in the square that early; not many had any reason to. He exchanged greetings with those he knew and nodded at some familiar faces.

  Arcadia had grown exponentially over the past few years. People were flooding into the city from the corners of Irth, looking for a fresh life and a new hope.

  Outside the walls, a skewed narrative about his home spread to foreigners beyond the walls. Arcadia, as the heart of Irth, had good houses on every corner and that jobs were abundant for anyone willing to work.

  Parker had no idea how this lie was spun or why. But he did know that when people came to the city they would eventually end up realizing the ugly truth of the place. Many of them landed on Queen’s Boulevard doing the same work he did—hustling on the streets for whatever sustenance they could find.

  This was why he had to go out earlier and earlier.

  It was also why the con had to keep changing. Every few weeks he would devise a new plan. His work continued evolving. And this morning, he planned to kick a new strategy into play.

  “Morning, Mac,” Parker said as he pushed through the growing crowd on the South end of the Market Square.

  A burly man with a face only a mother could stand sat on an empty mead barrel chewing on the stump of a cigar that looked older than Parker himself.

  “Hey, kid. What’s happening?” the man asked as he sorted through a handful of coins, glancing up occasionally to watch the crowd gather for the first fight of the day.

  Mac ran the Pit, a roped off corner of the market reserved for daily boxing and mixed-method fights. It provided entertainment for the lower classes, and a chance to cash in through the bets that Mac booked.

  He was a brilliant businessman. The odds were perfectly calculated, and the earnings closely tracked. All bets were supposed to flow through him, and he collected a fee from each transaction. A portion of the fee went to the fighters.

  Both the victor and the man who was left in a bloody pulp on the dusty ground would get their cut, which everyone knew was less than Mac’s. Side bets weren’t allowed, although everyone knew they happened.

  “I want in today,” Parker said.

  “On the first fight? You know I’ll take anyone’s money, kid, but no one’s stepped up to fight Hank. His reputation precedes him. After what he did to Grant last week, I can’t find anyone to go toe-to-toe with him.”

  Parker looked around before answering him. “Not for a bet, Mac. I want in the ring. I want to fight Hank.”

  Mac stopped counting his coins and looked up as if confused for a moment, then laughed. Parker, tall for his age, had a lean frame rippled with muscle, but fully dressed he looked like a beanpole. “Seriously, kid, you can’t go in there. You look like you couldn’t give a stray dog a run for its money.”

  If you only knew, Parker thought.

  Undeterred, Parker continued his pitch, “That’s exactly why I’m the perfect man for the job. You’ll be able to set the odds however you want, and you’ll still draw plenty of action.” He tried a different tack. “People would love to see Hank break me in half.”

  Mac shook his head and put up a hand, waving it in Parker’s face. “No way. If word spreads that I’m putting kids in the ring, the Capitol’ll shut me down faster than you can say Queen Bitch.”

  Parker thought about saying ‘Queen Bitch’ but decided snark wasn’t to his advantage at the moment. “I turned eighteen last month, Mac. I’m legal now. There’s no problem for you in this.”

  Mac chortled. “Just a number, kid. That argument won’t fly. Not with the Governor or the people.” He pointed to himself. “I’m a businessman first and foremost, Parker. I can’t have my customers turning away because I let you get mauled. It’d be bad for business.”

  Parker leaned forward on the table. “What’s bad for business, Mac, is not having fights for people to bet on,” he argued. “Come on. Give me a shot. If shit goes sideways, I’ll call it.”

  Mac scratched his graying beard a few moments, considering before he nodded. “OK, kid. One shot. But don’t get your ass handed to you. Your dear old dad would never forgive me.”

  The mention of his father only fueled Parker’s appetite for the ring. His old man had gone off to strike it rich on a new mining operation deep in the Heights.

  It was a fool’s errand.

  If his dad had told the truth about what he was doing, then odds were good he had been buried in a landslide or crushed to death by a mountain troll or whatever creatures actually lived in the peaks beyond the walls of Arcadia.

  But Parker suspected that his father was more coward than fool. He probably used the new mine as an excuse to get out of the city and away from his family. Either way, he was never coming back.

  His mother, of course, believed that his father would return one day with a cart full of diamonds and enough money to take them out of the slums. But deep down, Parker assumed that the guy found his personal way out of Queen Bitch Boulevard, and the rest of them were left to fend for themselves.

  “Thanks, Mac. I won’t let you down.”

  Ezekiel sat at the city gate, resting his legs. Traffic picked up, and a long line of people waiting to make their way into Arcadia had formed. He watched in amazement as travelers took turns passing through the large gate.

  A pair of Capitol guards lounged on either side of the roadway. Their inspections were done with a certain level of casualness, if at all. Most of those entering were farmers who made up the region immediately outside the city. The land surrounding Arcadia was lush, and agriculture thrived for miles beyond the walls. It was part of what made Arcadia great; why it was founded here to begin with.

  The city had access to enough fresh produce and meat for its population to grow, and due to Capitol regulations, farmers had to sell within Arcadia’s markets if their land lay within ten thousand paces of the gate.

  After a mile of farm carts had rolled through, a half-dozen mystics, with gentle faces and perfect
robes, ambled into the city.

  The guards stood back, giving them more room than was necessary. The aura surrounding these monastic people preceded them, and most Arcadians offered a wide berth. Tales flowed like Mule Head Mead concerning the abilities of the mystics, though no one in town had ever seen their powers manifest.

  Adrien had forbidden it within the city limits. Nevertheless, it seemed as if this small group of men and women still found it worthwhile to make the long trek from their mountain temple. They brewed a potent drink in the mountains, and were happy to sell it in Arcadia.

  From what Ezekiel could tell, Arcadians were happy to buy it—but it came at a high price, one only the nobles could afford.

  Ezekiel smiled as they passed; an aura of power flowed from their serene figures, one with which the old man was quite familiar. The demon mask he had used was a form of magic like their own. He considered reaching out to them, but held back.

  Adrien had changed much in his absence. Maybe these people, whom he had once known so well, were his friends no longer.

  Behind the mystics, a group of men several days’ journey away from their homes trudged along. They pulled a cart along with them, filled to the brim with game and the pelts of smaller animals they had cleaned in the field.

  When Ezekiel was forty years younger, before he had left on his half-century sabbatical, Ezekiel had hoped that Arcadia would become a place like this—a place for the nations, a place that would welcome all people.

  And, at least in part, it had.

  But in his absence, the city had become something more. More powerful than he could have imagined, more prosperous, and unfortunately, crueler. He had seen that firsthand in the alleyway outside the market square.

  Stretching his legs, Ezekiel stood, then went back into town.

  He had already seen the marketplace and all that it had to offer the city. Its bustling crowds and eager vendors were appropriate for a city the size Arcadia. And although it also attracted less seemly characters, it wasn't far from what he had imagined the marketplace would be.

  Just south of the market, he had experienced Queen’s Boulevard; what the locals called Queen Bitch Boulevard.

  Named after the Matriarch, Irth’s God-Queen of old, QBB had the lowest elevation of any of the quarters. The nobles liked to say, “Scum runs downhill in Arcadia.” And in a way, they were right.

  In contrast to Ezekiel’s hopes, not everyone thrived in his city.

  The slums were an irritating aberration whose cause Ezekiel had yet to learn. But the inhabitants persisted through their squalor, and, for the most part, were good folks. Nevertheless, some of the dwellers, down on their luck and desperate for survival, did things that would make a prostitute blush.

  Queen’s Boulevard remained the most disconcerting of Ezekiel’s experiences in the city he had once loved. The promise of magic and the hope of what it could offer shouldn’t have resulted in a place like this.

  The power of the art was meant to keep poverty and suffering at bay—to enhance prosperity and progress for all. Clearly, something had gone desperately wrong. The old man needed answers. And with the right information in hand, he could bring change.

  He’d make a trip to the Academy later. Along with the Capitol, it made up its own quarter, the most prestigious of all. But before making his way to the halls of higher learning, he had something else to do; someone to find. An old friend who lived in a humble home among the nobles.

  4

  She knew that the wool hat pulled down over her forehead looked ridiculous on the warm summer morning, but Hannah had to hide the mark of the Hunters somehow. Walking around with the tag on her forehead was an invitation she didn’t need to make, and the ratty knit cap was the best disguise she could find.

  Hannah hoped that the men who nearly stole her final shred of innocence might be in the hospital after what that demon put them through. Despite the terror she had felt when his hood fell off, today she thought of him not with disgust but with appreciation. He’d saved her life.

  Winding her way through the crowd, she found a spot behind a group of rearick near the front of the Pit.

  The rearick were short, stocky miners and craftsmen who made their home in half-buried cities in the mountains south of Arcadia called the Heights. Although these men were adults, Hannah stood a little taller than them.

  Her dad always said that a life working in the caves made them short but ridiculously strong. The rearick unloading ore and crystals here in Arcadia had decided to take a break to watch the show.

  There was no better entertainment in Arcadia than the fighting Pit. The audience for the first fight of the day was thicker than usual, and she wondered if her plan would work.

  “Wildman” Hank paced the ring as the people cheered on their champion. “Wildman. Wildman.” He deserved his nickname. He had been winning for nearly a year, ferociously tearing through anyone stupid enough to challenge him.

  Hank had thrown the entire gambling system out of whack. The only way people bet on his opponent was if they were desperate enough to hope a long shot might pay off.

  Shirtless and ripped, the Wildman slapped himself across the chest, muttering words to the sky. The crowd had become familiar with the tradition, but no matter how many times he stepped into the ring, he could still whip them into a frenzy.

  Mac, the bookie in charge of the Pit, slid between the ring’s ropes and waved his arms to quiet the crowd. Finally, the frenzy died to a murmur.

  “Welcome to another day in the Pit!” Cheers rose and Mac’s smile grew with their volume. “Now, I must be honest with you, good people of Arcadia. I was afraid that the Pit wouldn’t get much action today.” The crowd quieted, concerned that their beloved pastime was in trouble. “Because of the Wildman’s violent performances these past months, I’ve been finding it harder and harder to recruit a suitable opponent, one brave enough to step into this ring.”

  “That’s ‘cause Ralph is still half-dead!” a voice shouted from the back of the crowd. The onlookers all laughed, but Hannah’s stomach turned as she thought of her neighbor, who might not walk again, at least not without a limp.

  There was no way Ralph, who used to be a baker before his shop went under, was ever going to make it against someone like Hank. But desperate times called for desperate measures, and the Boulevard was nothing if not desperate.

  “We were even close to canceling today.” Mac paused to let a round of booing pour out of the audience. “But thankfully, the Patriarch was with us! We have a newcomer who has, for good or ill, chosen to cut his teeth in the ring against the champ. Let me introduce to you, Parker the Pitiable of Queen Bitch Boulevard!”

  A pathway cleared, and Hannah watched a young man her own age cut through to the ring. As he made his way to the front, in his ordinary pants, shirt, and cloak covering what looked like a thin frame, the crowd hushed.

  “Throw him back in the water, Mac. This one has some growing to do!” a voice shouted from the back.

  Mac laughed for the crowd. “Who am I to deny such a brave lad his chance for glory? But if you all are so sure of his defeat, I will happily take your bets at my table.”

  Parker stepped through the ropes and extended a hand to the goliath standing across from him. Looking the kid up and down, Hank grimaced, as if offended by the amateur in the ring with him. The Wildman reached out and grabbed Parker’s hand as if to shake, but then at the last second, he pulled Parker toward him and smashed his giant head into the young man’s.

  Parker stumbled backward, clearly dazed from the underhanded move. Even from where she stood, Hannah could see blood dripping down his forehead.

  The crowd burst into laughter. They came for blood, after all.

  Mac quickly separated the two combatants. The fight hadn’t even begun, but it already didn’t look good for Parker.

  The rearick in front of her talked amongst themselves.

  “Wish I put all I had on me in dis fight. Kid’s a goner,” o
ne said to the other.

  The rearick dialect always tickled her ears. Hannah tapped him on the shoulder. “How much you have?”

  “I’ve still got half my earnings from dis month’s shipment, lass, but if I had bet dem all, I damn sure would be leaving Arcadia with a heavier sack.”

  The stocky men flanking him laughed. “Don’t talk to da pretty girl about yer sack, Kegan.”

  She watched the man blush, then she put her hand on his shoulder. “Trust me, I’m old enough to know you hillmen aren’t the only ones worried about the size of your sacks. I’ll take your bet if you give me ten-to-one.”

  The rearick snorted and looked at his companions. “Ye should run along, missy. The Pit isn’t a place fer young women like ye.”

  “Hmm,” Hannah sighed. “If you’re not willing to risk a bet on such a sure thing, then I’d say the Pit isn’t a place for girls like you.” She shrugged, looking at his friends before she turned back to him. “I guess you have no sack at all.”

  The men surrounding him and some other onlookers laughed at her insult. She lifted and rattled the small bag of coins she had saved up and hidden precisely for a shot like this. It represented all her savings, and she had taken every ounce of precaution to hide them from her drunken father. It was a risk, but with the right idiot and the right odds, she might just get lucky.

  “With a mouth like yers, maybe ye do belong at da Pit,” the rearick said with a grin of admiration breaking through his beard. “I’ll take yer bet for eight-to-one.”

  Hannah nodded, keeping her eyes on the kid in the ring as he removed his cloak.

  Parker and Hank circled each other as the crowd swelled around the ring. People were hungry for a good fight, and although they didn’t expect one, they’d gladly pay to see a nobody like him get pummeled.

  Watching the Wildman for any tells, Parker kept his eyes trained on his opponent. He had spent enough time hanging around the fights to know Hank had seen everything. Well, nearly everything. Parker hadn’t been in a fight for years, and that childhood nonsense had meant nothing compared to Hank’s experience. But sometimes, if your opponent was cocky enough, inexperience could be used to your advantage. It was just about the only advantage Parker had.