The Price of Magic Page 3

  “Keep your back straight, your chin up, and don’t flinch,” Iolana told her. “Mind, that’s good advice for any occasion, not just archery.”

  The older girl drew and released, striking a bull’s-eye.

  “So do you know what’s going on with Auntie Iolanthe?” asked Terra.

  Iolana looked at Esther. “Well, what did you find out?”

  “It’s about that ssotook machine.”

  “The Result Mechanism?”

  “Yess. Your mother has two men, looking at it. They are en-gear-nors…”

  “Engineers,” corrected Iolana. “I thought that was one of your vocabulary words.”

  “Well she has these males…”

  “Men,” Iolana corrected again.

  The lizzie gave her a withering look but continued. “These men are sssupposed to take measurements of the machine’s parts, since it is different than it used to be.”

  “It would be, wouldn’t it? The machine came alive and used magic to grow itself… or build itself. In any case, we know it’s different now. Mother doesn’t know about all that, though.”

  “You never can tell,” said Terra. “Don’t underestimate what she might know.”

  “Well,” continued Esther. “The Drache Girl claims the machine, as a magical artoor-fact…”

  “Artifact,” corrected Iolana.

  “Yes. There was something in the colony charter giving the sorceress exclusivity over such things.”

  “Curious,” said Iolana. “You have no problem with the word ‘exclusivity’?”

  “Senta wantsss the machine.”

  “Mother won’t like that.”

  “But she will comply,” said Terra. “It’s not like her to violate a contract.”

  “Maybe,” said Iolana. “But the contract was with a different sorceress. It was with Senta’s mother, Zurfina.”

  “That reminds me,” said Terra. “Do we have time to go to McCoort’s before six? I want to buy a copy of Mr. Wissinger’s new book before anyone remembers to tell me I’m not allowed.”

  “Good idea. Let’s finish our archery and then we’ll take the cabriolet.

  An hour later, the three of them were scooting down Clark Street in the steam-powered Mirsannan vehicle. Smaller than most other cars, the cabriolet featured two large wheels just behind the driver, and two very tiny wheels out in front, steered not with a steering wheel, but with a tiller. Though the vehicle officially belonged to her mother, Iolana was the only one who used it.

  After a quick turn at the corner of Forest Avenue, she brought the car to a stop along the side of the street, not quite in front of McCoort and McCoort Publishing. There seemed to be an unusual number of cars parked up and down either side of Forest. Walking up the steps, they entered the front door, causing a bell above it to ring.

  The publishing house had recently been renovated with the printing presses moved next door to the building that housed the Birmisia Gazette. This allowed McCoort & McCoort Print Shop to expand into a spacious bookstore. A dozen large counters were filled with books, and a glass case along the back wall even featured antique editions. In the center of the room, a table had been set up and a dozen people were waiting in queue to meet and receive an autograph from world famous writer Isaak Wissinger.

  “Why, I didn’t even know Mr. Wissinger was here today,” said Terra, stepping to the back of the line. “Did you?”

  “I confess I had heard words to that effect,” said Iolana, taking her place beside her cousin. Esther fell in behind them.

  It was more than thirty minutes before they reached the front of the queue. Iolana had stoically endured the wait, but Terra had fidgeted the entire time. At last they stood at the table opposite the Freedonian writer.

  “Lady Iolana, Lady Terra,” he said, jumping to his feet. “What an unexpected surprise.”

  “It shouldn’t be a complete surprise, Mr. Wissinger,” said Iolana, offering her hand, which the writer shook. “Our whole family are admirers.”

  “My father had several first editions of your books,” added Terra. “And that was when he lived in Brechalon and you lived in Freedonia. It’s a pity he never had the chance to meet you.”

  “Indeed,” said the writer, sitting back down on the metal folding chair. “Were you interested in this book?”

  At either end of the small table was a stack of 6x9 hardbound books, each about an inch thick. The cover was crimson felt, with gold lettering: A Portrait of Zurfina the Magnificent.

  “One for each of us,” said Terra. “Three in total.”

  “Three?”

  “Yess, the third one is for me,” said Esther.

  Wissinger stared up at the lizzie, his mouth unflatteringly agape.

  “She reads at a post-primary level,” said Iolana, proudly.

  “How long did it take to teach her?”

  “Twenty-two hours a day, seven days a week, for about six years.”

  The writer shook himself and pulled the top book from the stack on his left. In practiced script he wrote, “To my dear Lady Iolana, from one writer to another with great respect, Isaak Wissinger.” In a second volume he wrote, “To my dear lizzie friend Esther, may this book aid in your language acquisition, sincerely Isaak Wissinger.” In the third book he wrote, “My dearest Lady Terra, please enjoy this book, though you should probably skip chapters four through twelve, sincerely Isaak Wissinger.”

  “Thank you,” said Iolana, looking over her shoulder at two men and a woman behind them. “We shan’t hold up your queue any longer.”

  The three stepped to the counter in the rear of the shop, setting the books in front of them. A moment later, Sherree Glieberman stepped out of the door to the back room and peered at them through the thick glasses that made her eyes look so enormous. Sherree was a very pretty seventeen-year-old from a prosperous family and lived not to far from Iolana. Despite this, they had never gotten on. It might have been the three and a half years age difference, or it might have been that the Gliebermans were devoutly religious while the Staffs were not. Then again, it might have been the extreme glee that Sherree seemed to get from tormenting the daughter of the Governor.

  “Are you working here, Sherree?” asked Iolana. “I didn’t think you believed in women having careers.”

  “I’m just helping out my intended,” said Sherree, with a cloying smile.

  “Good for you. Put these three books on account please.”

  Sherree looked around the counter for a moment. “Um, just a minute.”

  She turned and stepped back through the door that she had just come out of. A moment later Maro McCoort stepped out. He leaned over the counter, resting on his elbow, and gave a roguish grin.

  “Well, hello Lady Iolana, and Lady Terra, and Lady Lizzie. What can I do for you today?”

  “We’re buying these books. Would you put them on account, please?”

  “Of course.” He retrieved a ledger book and a tiny pencil from somewhere down near his knees, and then opened to the middle and jotted something down. Then he put the book and pencil back. “All set.”

  “Thank you,” said Iolana.

  “Oh, one more thing,” he said. “Have you gotten your royalty payment yet?”

  “Yes, just the other day.”

  “How about Mrs. Dechantagne’s?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Why?” asked Terra.

  “Well, you see, your mother’s novel has gone out of print. I just wanted to make sure she knew that this would be her last check.”

  A year previously, Iolana’s Auntie Yuah had produced a rather flowery romance novel about a plucky dressing maid who married into a rich and rather notorious family. The story was very much based on Yuah Dechantagne’s own life.

  “You’re not going to do another printing?” asked Iolana. “She is the mother of a viscount now. That should be good for some sales.”

  “Oh, it was because of the Dechantagne name that it sold as well as it did,” said McC
oort. “Unless she becomes the mother of the king though, it’s run its course. Rather like your poetry book.”

  “That’s something we needn’t speak on,” said Iolana.

  Despite her young age, Iolana had written three books, all of which McCoort and McCoort had published. The first was a biology text focusing on the large herbivorous dinosaurs common in Birmisia. The third was a history of Birmisia Colony. Sandwiched in between them was a small volume of poetry, which was very popular for a very brief time.

  “Well, good day,” Iolana told the young man, as the two girls and the lizzie stepped away from the counter.

  “This is going to break mother’s heart,” said Terra.

  “Maybe she doesn’t need to know,” suggested Esther.

  “She will find out eventually,” said Iolana, “but if she didn’t figure it out from whatever note the boys sent along with her royalty payment, we certainly don’t need to be the ones to explain it to her. In fact, why don’t we have dinner out? That way we won’t have to discuss our trip here.”

  “I’ll send a note,” said Terra.

  Borrowing a scrap of paper and a pen and ink from the shop’s counter, she penned a quick missive and took it out the front door. In front of every establishment in the city, one could find at least a few lizzies looking for ad-hoc employment. They would carry parcels or run errands. Iolana knew that her cousin would hire one to deliver the note to their home, just as she knew the girl would pay too much for it.

  As she and Esther made their way to the front door, they noticed that Mr. Wissinger was folding his chair and cleaning up his table, the queue for his autograph now empty, as it was nearly time for the shop to close.

  “Mr. Wissinger, my cousin and I are going out to dinner, and were wondering if you would care to join us.”

  Esther made a gurgling noise.

  “And of course Esther will be joining us,” the girl quickly added.

  “I don’t know…”

  “Oh, please say yes. We’re all very passionate about literature, and with you being a friend of my father, there’s absolutely nothing inappropriate in dining in public.”

  “I don’t know that your father would call me a friend…”

  “But he admires you very much,” said Iolana. “And Esther makes the perfect chaperone.”

  “I do,” said Esther.

  “Well I would like to talk to you about Esther… I mean talk to Esther… well, I mean to and about, I suppose…”

  “Then it’s settled,” said Iolana. “Come along. We can all fit in the cabriolet.”

  It was a slightly tight squeeze with Terra and Esther both shoehorned into a back seat that was really only designed for one person, and that in an emergency, but it wasn’t quite two full city blocks to Café Etta, which sat at the corner of Forest and Terrence Dechantagne Boulevard. There were a few patrons waiting for a table, but the host on duty, not Alwijn Finkler, but rather one of his trained staff, ushered them directly to a spot in the center of the restaurant. He held the chairs, first for Iolana and then Terra, while Mr. Wissinger and Esther seated themselves, the latter turning her chair sideways to accommodate her tail. Though the seating was outdoors, it was covered by an awning, and large gas heaters on either side made it toasty warm for the diners.

  “Some tea for the ladies?” asked the host, waving a waiter over.

  “That sounds very nice,” said Terra.

  Iolana nodded.

  “And for the gentleman?”

  “I’ll have the same,” said Wissinger.

  “Right away,” said the host, snapping his fingers at the waiter and then turning away.

  “I’ll have tea as well,” said Esther.

  The host stopped so suddenly, his shoes skidded on the tile floor.

  “Four cups of tea,” he said, without turning around, and then he was gone.

  “Well, that was rather rude,” said the writer.

  “I’m used to it,” said Esther. “What was it you wanted to ask me?”

  “You see,” he said slowly. “Well, it’s the labial phonemes.”

  “Sss?”

  “He’s wondering how you talk so well,” offered Terra.

  “Specifically, the M and B sounds,” said Iolana, nodding.

  “I’ve met a quite few lizzies that could speak passable Brech,” said Wissinger, “and one or two that spoke exceptionally well—perhaps better than I do, not being a native speaker myself.”

  “Nonsense,” Iolana interjected. “Your Brech is beyond reproach.”

  “Thank you. But of all the lizzies I’ve met who have spoken excellent Brech—King Khassna’s envoy in Tsahloose comes to mind—even the best tried to avoid labial phonemes, such a M, B, and P too.”

  “It’s because they have no lips,” said Iolana. “But as with all handicaps, it can be overcome if one is willing to put forth the effort. By pressing her mouth closed, Esther can come very close to the sounds we make with our lips. Esther, recite your practice phrase for Mr. Wissinger.”

  “Mister Masters buys bottles of Billingbow’s most Mondays. He pays exorbitant prices for many bottles.”

  “I can see how saying that ten times a day would be effective,” he said.

  “Try one hundred times a day,” said Esther.

  “Don’t exaggerate,” said Iolana.

  “I don’t think she is exaggerating,” said Terra. “I remember when you trained me not to slur my S sounds. I must have said ‘Sandy systematically sells sausages, sometimes Saturdays,” 37,000 times.”

  The waiter chose that minute to return, carefully setting down the four teacups and the filling them from a large teapot, which he placed in the table’s center.

  “Might I recommend the lobster?”

  “Beef Dechantagne for me,” said Iolana.

  “Yes, for me too,” said Terra.

  “Um, all right,” said Wissinger. “I suppose I can’t very well go to dinner with a Dechantagne and not eat, you know… Beef Dechantagne.”

  “I’ll have the lobster,” said Esther.

  “You don’t have to have it just because he recommended it,” said Iolana.

  “No, I like lobster,” insisted the lizzie.

  “Now that you’ve satisfied your curiosity about reptilian education,” said Iolana, after the waiter had gone. “Perhaps you could give me a few words of wisdom.”

  “If I can,” replied Wissinger, taking a sip of his tea.

  “You’ve moved from fiction to non-fiction, having written a narrative and two very successful biographies.”

  “I suppose so. It wasn’t part of any plan. Important events that I had to write about, just seemed to overtake me.”

  “I’m thinking of taking the reverse course. I have an idea for a novel, and I was wondering what advice you could offer.”

  The man smiled and leaned closer.

  “I don’t know that I have any advice for you, Lady Iolana. You’re ten times the writer I was at your age.”

  “Nonsense. I’ve read your first novel, Red Heart, and it was brilliant. And The Man Who Loved His Gardener rivals anything Garstone ever wrote.”

  “Thank you, but you’ve proven my point. I was twenty-four when I wrote Red Heart, and I was in my late thirties when I wrote the other book.” He glanced at Terra. “Which is probably not appropriate for young ladies.”

  “I haven’t read it,” said the girl. “Though I plan to now.”

  The appetizer course arrived, which was fruit salad for the humans and oysters for the reptilian.

  “How old were you when you wrote A Study of Large Birmisian Herbivores?” asked Wissinger.

  “I started when I was eight, but it took me two years to finish.”

  “Fantastic,” he laughed.

  “What are you writing now, Mr. Wissinger?” Terra asked him. “I can hear about what Iolana’s doing any day. In fact, I hear about it everyday. I’d much rather hear about you.”

  The writer glanced at the older girl, but she didn�
��t seem bothered by her cousin’s comments. She was instead inspecting her fruit salad. He took his fork and speared a pair of winterberries.

  “I do a little writing each day. I haven’t done anything substantial for a month or so, though. That’s how it usually is with me. Once I finish a big project, I don’t usually start another one for six months or a year. That’s probably why I’ll never be rich.”

  “I can’t believe you’re not getting a very large income from your last book,” said Terra. “It’s the best selling book since The Holy Scriptures.”

  “Well, that’s true. It has done very well.”

  “I imagine that this new book will be an even better seller than the last, too. I mean, who doesn’t want to find out all the juicy details of Zurfina the Magnificent, the woman who changed the course of history?”

  “I suppose.” He paused for a bite of melon. “You know, I keep expecting something to happen—for the warehouse to burn down or for all the pages to suddenly go blank. Zurfina wasn’t exactly keen on celebrity.”

  “She certainly achieved notoriety though,” said Iolana. “And she did it all on her own, without any writer’s help.”

  It was quite dark outside by the time the main course came, though gaslights in colorful sconces lined the perimeter of the restaurant. The beef was perfectly done, wrapped in delicate pastry. Esther certainly seemed to enjoy her lobster.

  “Is lobster a traditional food for your people?” Wissinger asked her.

  “They’re not really my people,” said Esther with a shrug.

  “Esther’s never lived as a lizzie,” explained Iolana. “She’s only lived in a human household.”

  “Most of the other lizzies don’t know what to make of her,” said Terra. “They think she’s khikhetu tonahass hoonan—human on the inside.”

  “I’ve heard there was some prejudice against lizzies who are too close to humans,” he said. “You’re not in any danger from the others, are you?”

  “Not really.”

  “In a way, her difference has shielded her from them,” said Iolana. “She’s not just a lizzie that has a few human affectations. She’s so totally immersed in our culture and our language that the others are a little frightened of her. I mean, look at her. She’s not just human on the inside. She’s human on the outside too. She speaks Brech almost as well as I speak spit-n-gag.”