The Price of Magic Page 11

  “I can contact her if necessary. I would prefer not to bother her with this.”

  Bell sipped his tea and waited.

  “I’ve leased out the new foundry.”

  “That must have been expensive.”

  “Yes, it was. But I didn’t have any choice. I’ve got to melt down some metal, mostly copper and steel, to ingots.” Peter looked around to make sure he wasn’t being overheard. There was no one close to the two wizards and nobody suspicious-looking to be seen. “What I need to know is whether I need any special precautions, since the metal carries a strong enchantment.”

  Bell nodded. “It’s the Result Mechanism.”

  “How did you know that?” Peter demanded.

  “One can’t be much of a wizard if he has walked this town for the past three years and not noticed the thickest aura of magic around that particular building. Have you been to take a look at it? The feeling is palpable.”

  “Yes, I’ve been there.”

  “Melting it won’t remove the enchantment, you know. I don’t know that it will even be weakened.”

  “We expect as much. But at least it won’t be used to mass produce magic spells.”

  “I don’t know that anyone has melted down so much enchanted metal, ever,” said Bell. “I don’t really know what might happen. My suggestion is to be ready to dispel anything that might pop up.”

  “That’s kind of what I thought. No other advice?”

  “No. I don’t think so.”

  “Well, shall we just enjoy our dinner then?”

  An hour later, Peter stood in the shadow beneath a large oak tree and watched as Wizard Bell walked briskly down the sidewalk. He hadn’t needed the older man’s advice about magical metal. Neither did he need confirmation that the wizard knew about the Result Mechanism. He had seen him at the warehouse building where the great machine was stored. What he needed was more opportunity to figure out what the fellow was up to.

  Bell walked to the end of the block and turned left. Peter decided that he must be headed for his apartment on Pine. Spying the trolley approaching, the young wizard stepped out of the shadows and quickly crossed the street to the trolley stop.

  The city of Port Dechantagne maintained a trolley system that was constantly expanding. New lines were being laid, and they supported twelve trolley cars, each pulled by a huge, three-horned triceratops. Recently two additional trolley cars had arrived by ship from Brechalon, and now awaited the addition of at least two more dinosaurs to pull them.

  The triceratops brought her vehicle to a stop, and the driver climbed down to feed her from a large bin filled with shrubbery. Stepping up into the vehicle, Peter dropped a pfennig in the glass box near the driver’s seat, and then sat down to wait. The light in the west was fading and dark clouds gave the city a gloomy feel. The lamplighters were busy, but the yellow globes of illumination did little to brighten up the landscape. Two middle-aged women climbed into the trolley cab and took seats a few feet away from Peter.

  “Such a terrible thing,” said one.

  “Yes it is. Nothing to be done about it, though. It’s all a part of God’s plan.”

  “Terrible thing for the young mother though. Terrible thing. At least she’s got her little girl.”

  “Excuse me, ladies,” said Peter. “I don’t mean to intrude, but I couldn’t help but overhear. What is it that has happened?”

  “It’s the Colbshallows,” said the first woman. “Do you know them?”

  “The chief inspector, do you mean?”

  “Yes. Their wee baby has passed. Crib death, you see.”

  “What a terrible thing for a young mother,” the other woman repeated.

  “A terrible thing for anyone,” said Peter.

  The driver climbed back into the cab and rang the bell. The triceratops started, jerking the trolley into motion. Peter lost himself in his thoughts as the vehicle traveled the ever-darkening streets. The two women got off sometime before he did. In fact, he didn’t even notice them leaving.

  When he stepped off the trolley to walk the last mile to the house he was feeling in an odd mood. He had never quite felt this way before. It was as if he could see his own mortality. He had been in danger a few times in his life, particularly when he was running errands for Master Bassington… his father. He had felt sad when he had found out that his father had died, killed by a dragon here in Birmisia. But it wasn’t quite the same. There was something about the death of a little baby, a miniature little person with all the promise in the world, the way that an acorn held the promise of a mighty tree, which changed one’s perspective about things. Peter wasn’t a child anymore. It was time to make his mark in the world.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a velociraptor, keeping pace with him, but skirting along the edge of the trees. There were probably more in there somewhere. With a single word, he sent a bolt of magic energy blasting toward it. He didn’t know if he hit it, but he saw neither it nor any others of its kind the rest of the way home.

  There was no lizzie waiting to open the door for him, but once he went inside, he found his little niece sitting with Baxter in the parlor. The man was reading her a story.

  “Hi, Uncle,” said Sen, looking up.

  “Hi, Sweetheart.”

  “Good evening,” said Baxter. “There’s tea on the tray. I just made it. Biscuits too.”

  “Thanks. Where’s Cheery?”

  “I sent the lizzies home for the night. I gave them tomorrow off, except for the nurse, who’ll be in just for the morning.”

  Peter nodded and stepped back into the foyer to hang up his coat before returning and pouring himself a cup of tea. He sat down by the fire and listened to the story Baxter was reading.

  “Come with me,” said the opossum. “I will teach you how to get away from the hounds.”

  At that moment a hunter arrived with four dogs. The opossum climbed nimbly up the tree and sat down on a branch, where the foliage quite concealed her.

  “Open your sack, Mr. Fox, open your sack!” cried the opossum. “Pull out one of your many tricks!”

  But the dogs had already taken hold of the fox and they tore him to pieces.

  “Ah, Mr. Fox,” cried the opossum. “You with all your magic are now food for the dogs. Your pelt will clothe the hunter’s wife. If only you had been able to climb the tree like me, you would not have lost your life.”

  “The End,” read Baxter.

  “That’s a sad story,” said Sen.

  “Not for the opossum,” said Baxter, touching her on the nose. “Just remember, it doesn’t do you any good to have a bag full of magic if you can’t climb a tree.”

  “That doesn’t really sound like much of a lesson,” said Peter.

  “Remember that next time a utahraptor is after you,” Baxter replied, standing up, picking up the little girl, and heading for the stairs. “Time to get your night dress on, little princess.”

  Peter sipped his tea until Baxter returned, this time without the little girl.

  “Did you find out what Bell is up to?”

  “No, not yet. But I will.”

  “Be careful. Wizards are dangerous.”

  “I know. I am one.”

  “Fair enough.” Baxter opened the carafe of Brandy and poured himself a snifter. “Little warm up?”

  “No,” said Peter. “I’m going on up.”

  He drained his cup and headed upstairs to bed.

  The next morning, Peter was up early, well before Baxter, which was an odd enough occurrence. He threw on his coat and passed the lizzie nursemaid as she was coming in, on his way out. He walked until he came across one of the rickshaw operators and then engaged him. Climbing into the cab, he had the reptilian take him to the Lizzie Town.

  Just southwest of the government district, Lizzie Town was a one-mile square area of small square huts, exactly like those that one might have found in a lizzie village. The aborigines were forbidden from owning land in Port Dechantagne, but the l
andowners leased them space here for their traditional domiciles. The rickshaw came to a halt and Peter climbed out.

  “Wait for me,” he told the lizzie.

  Then he found a reptile loitering near the street. The creature was several inches shorter than he was—probably a female or a youngster. He tossed it a five-pfennig coin.

  “Take me to Szoristru.”

  The lizzie led the man through a maze of narrow passageways between the square buildings. Here and there carts were set up, where lizzie merchants were catering to those of their own kind, selling spikey-looking fruits and half-rotten tubers. One was selling feathers. Finally the short reptilian came to a stop and pointed to the animal skin door of a hut that looked exactly like a dozen others situated around it. Peter tossed him another two-toned coin, and then stepped through the door.

  The inside of the hut smelled like smoke, and the embers from a fire tossed up an odd flame or two. A hole in the center of the roof flooded a single spot with illumination. The young wizard could make out five adult lizzies and one obvious juvenile about three and a half feet tall. It was tied to the wall with a rope around its neck.

  “Szoristru?”

  One of the lizzies stood up. He was almost seven feet tall and powerfully built.

  “Sembor uuthanum,” said Peter, waving his hand through the air and then touching the lizzie on the snout.

  “Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, I understand you,” replied the lizzie. He was speaking spit-n-gag, but Peter heard it as Brech, thanks to his spell.

  “You know why I’m here?”

  “You want us to watch someone for you—a human. We can do this. This is what those of my hut do.”

  “Good. His name is Bell. He’s a wizard and works for the police department. I want him watched constantly. I want to know everything he does, where he goes, whom he speaks to. How much?”

  “One thousand copper bits for each day,” said Szoristru.

  “Expensive.”

  “We are good at what we do, and we are discreet.”

  “Fine.” Peter pulled out his wallet and drew out three twenty-mark banknotes. “Here is payment for the first six days. Do your job well and you may expect a bonus.”

  Thirty minutes later, he was back in the cab of the rickshaw as the lizzie pulled him up Bainbridge Clark Street toward Forest Avenue. They finally stopped at the Bassett home, which was about a mile west of the train station. It was a large, comfortable home with a white picket fence and a broad front lawn.

  At the top of the steps, Peter knocked on the front door. It was opened not by a lizzie servant, but by Abigail Bassett. She was clad in a very modest violet tartan day dress, with a navy blue panel in front, and a matching navy collar and cuffs. It showed off her figure remarkably well for something that left very little actual skin uncovered, because Abby was quite slender, but possessed of a more than ample bosom. Her chestnut hair was pulled back, falling to her shoulder in extravagantly plated curls, which she no doubt had just finished putting in. The fringe in front highlighted her sparkling blue eyes.

  “What are you doing here, Peter?” she asked, clearly surprised to see him. “I didn’t think we had plans. Did we?”

  “No, indeed we didn’t. But I have something very important to talk to you about, and I thought that perhaps we could go out to breakfast.”

  “We were just sitting down. I can’t skip out now.” She frowned. “Why don’t you come in and join us.”

  “I don’t want to put your family out.”

  “Nonsense. There’s plenty of food. Come on in.”

  She held the door open and Peter entered. Once she had closed it, she led him through the parlor to the dining room. Here, around a relatively small circular table, sat the entire household. It consisted of Mr. Bassett, a stout fellow with a greying handlebar mustache, and his wife, an older but still attractive version of Abigail. Then there was Abby’s seat and, across from her, an empty place.

  “Mother, Father, Peter came by to take me to breakfast, so I invited him to join us.” She pointed to the empty chair. “Sit down while I go and fetch another place setting.”

  Peter sat down and looked at the array of food on the table. There was plenty enough for four people. Maybe five. They had scrambled eggs, beans, sausages, black pudding, and toast.

  “So what are you about this morning, young man?” asked Mr. Bassett.

  “Well, I was hoping to talk to Abby before I talked to you,” said Peter, “but perhaps it’s all for the best. I want to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage.”

  A loud crash at the back doorway drew everyone’s attention to where Abigail had dropped both a plate and a teacup, breaking them. She stood with mouth open, silverware still clenched in her fist.

  “Let me help you with that, Bitty,” said her mother, getting up from the table and rushing to her.

  “Well you won’t be able to surprise her by asking for her hand,” said Mr. Bassett. “I know you’re a wizard, Mr. Bassington, and of course I know your sister. I like her too. What else can you tell me about your suitability for my daughter.”

  “I’m working as an agent for my sister at the moment, and I suppose I will be for the foreseeable future. I expect that I’ll have plenty of prospects, considering my skills, should that ever end. Wizards are much more uncommon here than they are in Sumir.”

  “You plan on staying here then?”

  “Oh, definitely.”

  “But you haven’t asked Abigail her feelings on the matter?”

  “Well, no. I know she likes me, but I don’t know if she’s given any thoughts to us long-term.”

  “I suspect she has. Women always think in the long-term, my boy. That’s something that you’ll learn in time, I dare say. Well, since I married my first off to a merchant seaman, I suppose a wizard has to be a step up. Don’t get me wrong, I like Drake.”

  “Yes, I like him too.”

  “I give you my approval to ask for my daughter’s hand. Mind you, both my daughters have grown up with minds of their own, despite my best attempts to tame them. So whether or not I approve has very little to do with your ultimate success or failure in this arena. Abigail will make up her own mind. She always does.”

  Abigail and her mother arrived and quickly set out a new plate, teacup, and silver for their guest. Then they dished out the meal to all four.

  “If I might,” said Peter, spreading out his hands. “Uuthanum.”

  The three Bassetts looked questioningly at him.

  “A little warming spell. After all, it’s my fault that your breakfast has gone cold.”

  “Thank you, my boy,” said Mr. Bassett. “I particularly hate cold toast, though that’s what I’ve been served my entire life. I ask you, as a smart young man, what’s the point of serving toast in a toastrack? All it does is encourage it to cool. Wouldn’t it be better to simply lay the toast in a pile? That way at least the ones on the bottom would stay warm.”

  “Perhaps we could drape a cloth over it to hold in the heat,” suggested Peter.

  “By Kafira!” shouted Bassett, slamming his fist on the table so hard it knocked the lid off the sugar bowl. “Now that is capital thinking!”

  Chapter Nine: Dragon Fortress

  Senta looked at the fortress at the top of the hill. Set against the shadows of the mountain, one could almost be forgiven for thinking it was part of the rocks. Ringing it for almost a mile in every direction was a sea of mud brick and stone buildings. They were homes of lizzies, but up here, where the only trees were scraggly dwarfs, they couldn’t use lumber as their primary building material. She looked back to see the coral dragon curled up in a ball, floating a foot above the ground. Zoey had been asleep for five days, relying on her mistress’s magical floating disk to convey her along.

  “Wake up, you silly dragon. We’re here.”

  “Whoop-tee-doop,” said Zoey, without opening her eyes.

  “It’s quite an impressive fortress. It looks ver
y different than when I was here last.”

  “Yes, it’s crawling with lizzies now,” said the dragon, peering up with one eye. “And there’s a veritable stream of them coming up that road.”

  “That’s the road of supplicants,” said Senta. “They’re coming to worship Bessemer.”

  “No wonder he’s so full of himself.”

  Senta waved her hands and the magical disk vanished, but like the proverbial cat, Zoey landed on her feet, seemingly with no effort. Senta continued on and the dragon followed. As they neared the road, Senta could see that Zoey had been correct. There were literally thousands of lizzies on it, making their way to the fortress and to the god who lived within. They weren’t all walking though. A mile from the great gate, there was an arch over the road. Upon reaching it, the pilgrims dropped down onto their bellies to crawl the rest of the way, dragging their tales behind them. As Senta approached, the line of lizzies came to a stop as they all watched her. She stepped up onto the road and strode through the archway, then stepped over the crawling lizzies. As she passed each one, he too stopped and stared up at her.

  She was still walking up the road, her path weaving around prostrated reptilians when she spied a lizzie rushing down the path toward her. He was an ornately painted male, wearing a bright red cloth cape. He was hissing as he hurried. Senta reached up and plucked one of the glamours from around her head, activating the spell stored within. Once it was in effect, she could understand the lizzie’s words.

  “You should not be on this road, human! What do you think you are doing?”

  Suddenly the red-caped lizzie spotted the small dragon behind her. He was so startled that he tripped on one of the prostrate lizzies, falling in a heap at the sorceress’s feet.

  “Now, what are you going on about?” asked Senta, looking down.

  “You’re her?” said the lizzie, looking up from the dirt. “Yes of course you are. The Great God said you were coming, but I didn’t recognize your paint and feathers. I thought you were a male human.”

  Senta looked down at herself. She was dressed in what she often still thought of as her Zurfina garb—black leather pants and high black boots, and a black leather bustier in place of a shirt. Of course the entire ensemble carried magic spells to make it her most comfortable set of clothing. She reached up and cupped her breasts.