The Price of Magic Read online

  “Yes,” he said. “Attarkakhis, take charge of all the warriors. Find Slechtiss and Hunssuss. Report to Tokkenoht for additional orders. She has all my authority. Do you understand?”

  The warrior shot a wary glance at the priestess, but replied, “Yes, Great King.”

  Tokkenoht followed a pair of warriors as they carried Hsrandtuss into the hearth room. They carefully placed him on his mat. Szakhandu, her skin an unhealthy pale, was already laying upon hers, as old Tsollot carefully washed the blood from her. She gave the elder an appreciative nod.

  “Send guards to the king’s offspring,” she told one of the warriors, and then lay down next to Hsrandtuss on his mat.

  A few minutes later, Sirris staggered in. She had a swollen knot on the side of her face that was turning black, but she didn’t seem to be injured otherwise.

  “Szakhandu?” she asked, dropping to her mat.

  “I think she will live,” said Tokkenoht.

  “I will make sure she does,” said Tsollot.

  “And I think the king will, too,” Tokkenoht added.

  Ssu entered a few minutes later and laid down on Hsrandtuss’s other side. Tokkenoht drifted into an unpleasant sleep, waking every few minutes all night, waiting to hear if her husband was still breathing. When morning came, he still was.

  She got up, leaving the others where they were and walked to the throne room, where she found Attarkakhis receiving reports from his men.

  “How is the king?” he asked.

  “He has made it through the night. Is the palace secure?”

  “The palace is secure, and the rest of the city as well,” replied the general. “We found Slechtiss locked in a cell. He was not a part of the coup attempt.”

  “Why did they lock him up instead of killing him then?”

  “Perhaps they thought he might work with them when it was all over. Or perhaps it was because of his wife. She was definitely one of the plotters.”

  “Astalassa? Where is she?”

  “She’s fled the city.”

  “What about Hunssus and Stohlissia?” wondered Tokkenoht.

  “Hunssus was at the quarry. I haven’t accounted for his female yet.”

  “Keep Slechtiss locked up until the king can question him,” said Tokkenoht. “Find Stohlissia. And send out runners to every village from here to Tsahloose. Twenty thousand copper bits for Astalassa, dead or alive.”

  “It will be done.”

  “The offspring are all safe?”

  “Yes,” said the general. “It wasn’t about child-rearing. It was about the soft-skins.”

  “The humans? What about them?”

  “There are a great many who are worried that holding the humans will start a war with them. No one understands their relationships, but everyone knows that certain humans are easily angered over treatment of certain other humans. I’ll be honest; it even worries me. Apparently these would-be revolutionaries thought they could get away with a coup, if they made an issue of releasing the humans.”

  “Are the humans still safe?”

  “They are gone. From what I can gather, they were smuggled north and let loose among the other humans that are mining for gold.”

  “Well, there’s nothing to be done about it now,” said the priestess. “Was that fellow Skarguss involved?”

  “Yes, we have identified a body in the throne room as Skarguss.”

  “Keep vigilant.”

  “It will be done, Priestess.”

  Tokkenoht returned to the hearth room and had just gotten comfortable on her own sleeping mat when she looked at Hsrandtuss to see him watching her with one eye.

  “I’m not dead yet?”

  “As I told you, my husband, I will not permit you to die.”

  “Szakhandu? She threw her body over me to protect me from that spear, you know.”

  “I would expect nothing less,” said Tokkenoht. “I think she will survive. She has great affection for you.”

  “And you?” he asked.

  “I am High Priestess of Yessonar. When would I find time to search for another husband?”

  “What about the other wives? I think this is Ssu trying to push me off my own mat.”

  “Sirris was slightly injured. I am afraid that Kendra is dead.”

  “No!”

  “Yes, I’m sorry.”

  “I’ll kill that Thikkik!” he growled.

  “It wasn’t him. At least I don’t think so. It was Skarguss and others worried about the humans.” She relayed all the information she had learned from Attarkakhis.

  “The humans are too much trouble. We are closing our lands to them. Order Tusskiqu to drive the humans out of our territory.”

  Chapter Twelve: Something Special

  The lizzies carried the large cogs, springs, and sprockets out of the building and stacked them in the back of the task lorry. The copper and steel parts all looked so normal, like the pieces of a very large clock. But Wizard Peter Bassington could feel the magic radiating off of them like heat from a fireplace. They were parts of the great machine built many years before by Professor Merced Calliere—the Result Mechanism. A huge steam-powered machine designed to add, subtract, multiply, and divide large numbers very quickly, the Result Mechanism plotted out water and sewer lines, created projectile trajectory charts, predicted the movement of the planets, and determined the optimum paths for the city’s trolley lines. It could in fact, compute any series of numbers for any purpose, including creating magic spells. Wizardry was at its heart, nothing but mathematics.

  Anyone who could master advanced mathematics could become a wizard, memorizing the abstract formulas for the eldritch forces that were bent to one’s will. Wizards set these formulas in their brains like a housewife set a rattrap. Then with a single gesture and word, they released the magic. Once that was done, they had to reset the mathematical formula again. Sorcerers on the other hand, did magic without arithmetic. They could detect the magic in the world around them and tap into it naturally. No one could learn to be a sorcerer. You were either born one or you weren’t. For that reason, there might be thousands of wizards in the Kingdom of Greater Brechalon, but fewer than a handful of sorcerers.

  Several wizards had used the result mechanism to formulate spells. As a result, magical energy was drawn to the building housing the great computer. For years, the machine stewed in the magic soup, until it became dangerous—perhaps even sentient. Senta had put it to sleep and now Peter was disassembling it and melting down the individual parts.

  “All right! That’s enough for this load!” he called to the lizzies.

  The one who could understand Brech signaled to the others and they climbed into the rear of the task lorry with the machine parts. Peter locked the solid oak door of the building with a large padlock.

  “You must have just about all of it by now.”

  Peter turned to see the pasty, emaciated form of Wizard Bell, in his seemingly oversized blue police uniform, complete with hexagram.

  “Good day, Wizard Bell.”

  “Wizard Bassington.”

  “I seem to run into you fairly often on this side of town.”

  “Police constable,” he said, pointing at his uniform.

  “I didn’t realize that police wizards walked a tour.”

  Bell shrugged.

  “Yes,” said Peter. “I think one more load, and it will be all taken care of. Sorry to see it go?”

  “No, of course not. Can’t have dangerous magical artifacts falling into the wrong hands. What is your sister planning to do with the building?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose she’ll have to work that out with the governor.”

  “Right,” said Bell, giving a thin-lipped smile. “Well, I’ll be on my way.”

  He turned and strolled north. Peter looked around for a moment and then spotted one of Szoristru’s lizzies. Peter was still paying them to watch the police wizard, though they had yet to find anything worthwhile. Climbing into the lorry’s
cab, he nodded to the driver, who in turn, started the engine.

  It took over an hour to drive across town to the foundry. The large metal-casting factory, a massive building at the southern edge of the city, had only been completed the previous summer. It wouldn’t come into full production mode until spring was well on, and the iron ore that was being mined by the lizzies arrived by train from the mountains. For that reason, it had been relatively easy to rent the facility. Most of what had been the Result Mechanism was stacked just inside the main entrance—now just so many bars of copper and steel.

  By the time the lizzies finished unloading the lorry, the sun was sinking toward the western horizon. Mr. Flint, the foundry manager, stepped over to where Peter was supervising.

  “We can stoke up the furnace and get started on these now, but we’ll run into evening overtime.”

  “Perhaps it’s for the best if we wait until tomorrow,” said the young wizard. “I have an engagement this evening, and I really should go home and get cleaned up.”

  Mr. Flint nodded, and hurried off to see to the closing of the factory for the night.

  “Lance, can you give me a lift home?” Peter asked the driver, who nodded to the affirmative.

  “More work tomorrow, same place,” he told the lizzies, peeling off a five mark note for each, double for the interpreter.”

  Then he climbed back into the lorry cab and the vehicle zoomed up the street.

  “Home in time for dinner,” said Baxter, when he passed through the parlor. “That’s something new.”

  “Just stopped by to clean up and change clothes. I’ve got a date with Abby tonight.”

  “I like that girl. Shame she had to end up with you.”

  “I feel the same way about you and Senta… and Senta,” said Peter. “Where is my niece, anyway?”

  “I’m hiding under the table, Uncle Peter!” Though hiding, she was clearly visible once one knew where to look.”

  “Why are you hiding under the table?”

  “We’re playing Hide and Go Seek! Don’t tell Daddy where I am!”

  “And if I don’t, how will he every find you?”

  “Hurry up and get ready for your date,” said Baxter, “before that poor foolish girl figures out what she’s gotten herself into. I hope you’re taking her someplace nice.”

  “Café Idella.”

  “Well, perhaps the food will make up for the company.”

  Peter jogged up the stairs to his room. Thirty minutes later, he descended, dressed in a sharp new black suit with a green waistcoat.

  “How do I look?”

  “You look great, Uncle,” said Sen, now in Baxter’s lap reading from a large picture book.

  “You seem to have made yourself presentable, much to my surprise,” said Baxter. “Do you have enough money?”

  “Yes, I’m fine,” said Peter, checking his pockets to make sure he had his watch and wallet. “Don’t wait up.”

  “Is my rickshaw here?” he asked the majordomo. “I said 5:30.”

  The lizzie nodded.

  “Don’t wait up,” Peter called again, as he headed out the door.

  He had hired the same lizzie rickshaw driver several times over the past few weeks. The big fellow was prompt, which was not always the case with the lizardmen. He had gone over the night’s itinerary when he had hired the lizzie, so as soon as he was situated, they started off. The Bassett home was not all that far from the foundry, so the trip covered much of the same territory that the young wizard had traveled only a short while before. This time it took longer, even though the distance was slightly less, because no matter how strong a lizzie puller might be, he couldn’t keep up with a lorry.

  It was the end of Festuary, and unseasonably warm. All the snow had melted. It was still very nippy when the sun went down though. It was dark when they reached the Bassett home.

  Peter knocked on the front door, which was opened by Mr. Bassett.

  “Hello, my boy!” he boomed, slapping the young wizard on the shoulder. “How are you on this fine evening?”

  “Good, sir. And you?”

  “I’m always good. There’s no profit in being anything else.” He turned his head toward the stairs. “Abigail! Your young man is here!”

  “He can sit down and wait, can’t he?” called back a shrill voice that could only have been Mrs. Bassett.

  “Have a seat and relax,” said Mr. Bassett. “Can I offer you something to take the chill off?”

  “Nothing too strong. I didn’t have time for tea today.”

  “I’ve got just the thing—a little aperitif, as they say in Natine.” Mr. Bassett stepped to the wet bar and poured a concoction into a small glass, which he brought to the young wizard. “Sweet vermouth with seltzer, and a slice of pickled lemon. Not only will it warm you up, but it keeps away the intestinal parasites.”

  “Well, I’m all for that,” said Peter, taking a sip.

  He winced a bit at the taste. He was not a big drinker. Thankfully, he was saved from having to take another sip by the arrival of Abigail Bassett at the bottom of the stairs.

  Abby was resplendent in a crimson evening gown, with a faux-corset lacing up her waist and a fall of black taffeta down the front. Black lace around the sleeves and collar matched the black underdress that just peeked out around her feet. Her long ash brown hair was up in an arrangement of bows and braids and swirls that was so complicated, it was almost impossible to grasp, let alone describe.

  “Good evening,” she said. “I hope I look nice enough to dine at Café Idella.”

  “If you were wearing the moon as a broach and stars as earrings, you couldn’t look more lovely than you do right now.”

  “Ooh, a wizard and a poet,” said Mrs. Bassett descending the stairs behind her daughter.

  “Café Idella,” remarked Mr. Bassett. “That’s pretty pricey, and I understand you eat there fairly often.”

  “Um, no, not really,” said Peter, remembering his dinner there with Miss Hartley. “Well, being a bachelor and all, I haven’t had the benefit of many home-cooked meals.”

  “Abigail is a wonderful cook,” said Mrs. Bassett. “She received an honorable mention at last year’s Spring Pudding Festival.”

  “Well, we should be going,” said Peter, taking Abby’s elbow and guiding her toward the door.

  He stopped and helped her into her coat.

  “Don’t leave without your muff!” cried Mrs. Bassett, much closer to hysteria than seemed necessary in present the situation.

  Abby smiled sweetly and picked up the fur hand warmer. Then they were out the door and quickly down the walk to the waiting vehicle.

  The lizzie puller was waiting. Considering the temperature was in the balmy low thirties, Peter half expected the big fellow to be shivering. But lizzies didn’t shiver, even when they, like now, wore nothing to stave off the cold. Once the two humans were aboard, the lizzie started off. He moved slower than he had before, and most people expected the lizzies’ speed to correlate with the temperature, but Peter had seen them move quickly when they wanted to, even hip deep in snow.

  Dressed as they were, the couple was still feeling warm enough, when the arrived at the restaurant some thirty-five minutes later.

  “If you want to go somewhere and get warm,” Peter told the lizzie. “You can pick us up back here at 8:30.” He stopped to think for a second. “You do know how to tell time?”

  The lizzie pointed at the clock just above the trolley station, illuminated by the gas street lamp.

  “Yes, even so. Eight-thirty it is then.”

  Alwijn Finkler himself greeted them at the door.

  “Well, Wizard Bassington. How good it is to see you again.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Finkler. It’s good to be seen. Do you have a table available?”

  “For good friends? Always. Right this way.” He led them through the busy, but not quite full restaurant.

  “Business slow tonight?” wondered Peter.

  “You�
��re between rush hours. The older people have already eaten. The younger crowd will be in a bit.”

  “I wonder what that makes us,” said Abby.

  “It makes you my favorite customers,” said Alwijn. “You keep the staff busy without overwhelming them. Here we are.”

  He stopped at a table near the center of the room, and pulled out a chair for Abigail. Waving over a waiter, he said, “A bottle of sparkling wine for Wizard Bassington and his young lady. On the house.”

  “Well, that’s very nice,” said Abigail.

  “So, is this a special occasion?”

  “No,” she smiled. “Just dinner with a handsome man.”

  “Every night with Abigail is a special occasion,” said Peter, to which she blushed.

  “Will you put yourselves in my hands this evening?” asked Alwijn. “I’ll have something special brought out for you.”

  “That would be wonderful,” said Abby.

  Peter nodded.

  “Isn’t Mr. Finkler a real role model?” she asked, once the restaurateur had stepped away.

  “He is married, you know,” Peter grumbled.

  “Well of course. His wife is a very good friend of Gabby’s. Let’s not talk about them, though.”

  “Whom should we talk about?”

  “Let’s not talk about anyone else. We should talk about us.”

  “What do we need to talk about?” asked Peter. “I’m very fond of you. What else do you need to know?”

  “I know you’re fond of me, but what do you know about me? What is my favorite color? What is my favorite flower? My favorite dessert? What do I like to do for fun? What books do I like? What’s my greatest accomplishment? What am I most embarrassed about? Don’t you want to know all those things?”

  “I suppose,” said Peter, “although I’m not that keen about you knowing all those things about me.”

  “Of course, we will come to know all those things and many more over time. Still, it would be nice to know more about one another.”

  “All right. Let me take a guess. Your favorite color is red, favorite flower is the rose. Trifle is your favorite dessert. You like dancing and music and romance books. Your greatest accomplishment was honorable mention at last year’s Spring Pudding Festival, and your greatest embarrassment was when one of your puddings fell.”