Brasswitch and Bot

by Gareth Ward

  Wrench leant closer. “What do you mean magic?”

  Plum looked directly at her and removed his glasses. His eyes were the deepest purple. He made a sign with his fingers and gestured towards the carriage’s window. Outside, trees and tall hedgerows flashed past, the city left behind as they headed into the countryside. However, Wrench’s focus was firmly on the raindrops that stopped running down the glass and began streaming to a central point, forming an amorphous blob of water. The blob wobbled up the window to a narrow gap where the glass met the frame. Droplets squeezed through the slit, but instead of emerging as a blob they took the form of a tiny humanoid arm. A second arm appeared, and the water gave the impression of heaving its body through the gap until a watery man was standing on the glass. The little man marched to the middle of the window where he bent his legs, brought his arms together and dived into the carriage. He somersaulted downwards and his body froze into a humanoid icicle. With a crack, he shattered across the floor.

  Wrench’s mouth hung open. She forced it closed and frowned. “How did you do that?”

  Plum smiled, and his whole face brightened. “I’m a thaumagician.”

  “A what?”

  “A thaumagician. They call the power that leaks through the Rupture thaumaturgy because if you know how to harness it, you can do magic.”

  “Magic’s not real.” Wrench pushed herself back in her seat. How could it be? She believed in machines, the laws of physics, the science of engineering.

  “Can you explain what I did in any other way?” Plum paused, his eyebrows raising.

  She couldn’t. Like employing aberrations, and the odic capacitor, magic was another secret the regulators kept from the public.

  “Master Tranter says I’m the best he’s seen. Says in another ten years I’ll be better than him.” The smile faded from the boy’s face. “Not that anyone in Cabal Thirteen lasts that long.”

  “Is it hard, doing magic?”

  “Not hard. Sort of knacky, a bit like riding a monoped. It seems impossible at first, then something clicks and you can’t understand what the problem was before. Only a few aberrations can do magic – the gifted, as they call them. Being a Brasswitch you should be a natural.”

  “Can you teach me?”

  Plum sniffed. “Dunno. Maybe. I taught Pippa, much good it did her. She never should have gone with Leech. She wasn’t supposed to leave the train without Bot.” Wrench remembered the sooty smudge on the under-crypt wall and shivered. She’d not even been in the regulators for a day and had already opened a casket that could have contained an NIA, been mesmerised by an Old God through the Rupture and suffered an attack by an angry mob. If this was the life of Cabal Thirteen, no wonder Plum thought he’d never last another ten years. At the moment, making it to the end of the week seemed like an outside chance.

  “So, do we need spell books and wands and magic ingredients?” said Wrench.

  Plum frowned. “There are spell books. Although, written incantations are mostly used for rituals and we don’t do them, rituals are dark magic. All you really need is a good imagination and a heck of a lot of patience.”

  Wrench wasn’t sure that she had either, but she was determined to give it a go.

  “Why do I need imagination? I want to do real magic, not just pretend.”

  “Think of a bright green juicy apple and imagine taking a bite.”

  Wrench closed her eyes and thought of biting into a Ribston Pippin, her teeth cutting through the fruit’s smooth skin and the taste of the juicy flesh sweet on her tongue.

  “Your mouth’s watering, right?” said Plum.

  “That’s not magic. Anyone can do that.”

  “Your body just made water; it controlled it. That’s the start.”

  Plum made a complicated sign with his fingers. “Hold your hand like this. It’s the sigil for water.”

  “Sigil?”

  “It’s how we thaumagicians refer to magical signs.”

  Wrench ignored the arrogance in Plum’s tone, too eager to perform magic of her own. She copied the shape of his contorted fingers and said, “Ready.”

  “Now think of biting into a lemon, the sour taste in your mouth.”

  Saliva pooled in Wrench’s mouth. She stared at her fingers waiting for something “magical” to occur. Eventually, she swallowed. “Nothing happened,” she said.

  Plum smiled. “Even for a Brasswitch magic isn’t that easy. You’re just learning the feeling. Master Tranter calls it anchoring. You need to keep practising the sigil and think of things that make your mouth water.”

  “Great. If I practise hard I’ll be able to do the magic of dribbling.”

  “You have to be able to cause your mouth to water by just making the sign, then the feeling’s properly anchored and you’re ready to start controlling water outside your body.”

  With the toes of her boot Wrench prodded a piece of ice on the floor, possibly the remains of the tiny figure’s head. “And how long until I can do what you did?”

  “Water is the easiest element to control. It only took me a year to have a handle on it.”

  “A year!”

  “You’ll probably have the basics in six months. Master Tranter says, if it was easy it wouldn’t be magic.”

  “Yeah, well, Master Tranter sounds like a chuffing great –”

  An explosion rocked the carriage. It slewed sideways and crashed lopsided to its knees. Hurled from her seat, Wrench slammed against the door. Outside the staccato rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire rent the air. The rattle of lead pinging from the carriage’s metal plates drowned out the drumming rain. A burst of bullets smashed into the door’s lock and with the click of turning cogs it sprang open. Wrench tumbled sideways into the mud. Greenery lined both sides of the narrow country road, although a section of the hedgerow was blackened and burned, a result of the explosion that had crippled their walker. Ahead, an armoured walkomobile squatted, blocking the puddle-strewn country lane. Atop its roof a stream of brass cases ejected from a maxim cannon that sent a hail of lead slamming into the driver’s dome.

  Starbursts blossomed over the armoured glass hemisphere and it deformed, sagging under the onslaught of bullets. In an explosion of sparkling shards Bot leapt through the weakened glass. He thumped into the muddy road and with surprising agility rolled sideways, dodging the lethal stream of projectiles that followed his course.

  A pair of armoured boots squelched into the mud beside Wrench. Above her towered a brown-clad soldier, his leather and ceramic armour making him look more mechanical than human. The goggles on his respirator helmet cast a red glow. The soldier raised his machine musket and aimed at her head. He pulled the trigger. Wrench pushed her mind into the mechanism and the firing pin shuddered to a halt a fraction of an inch shy of the bullet’s percussion cap. The soldier dragged the bolt back, trying to clear the stoppage. Wrench’s focus moved from the gun’s clockwork to the man’s goggles. They shone intensely bright and burst into flames. The soldier staggered backwards clutching at his face. Behind him a similarly dressed comrade took aim with a sabre-rifle.

  Cracks propagated through the mud surrounding Wrench, the road becoming suddenly parched. From the desiccated ground a wall of water reared up in front of her.

  The second soldier’s finger tightened on the sabre-rifle’s trigger and the weapon fired.

  Cold enveloped Wrench and the wall of water transformed into ice that shattered under the bullet’s blow.

  “Get back in the carriage,” shouted Plum, his purple eyes wide with fear.

  The soldier sprinted closer and lunged, the sharpened point of his sabre-rifle heading straight for Wrench’s heart.

  Bot grabbed the blade, stopping it instantly. With a ferocious growl, he ripped the rifle free and flung it into the surrounding fields. His palm slammed into the soldier’s chest plate. The ceramic armour fractured, and the soldier flew backwards into a hedgerow.

  Puffs of dust exploded in the dried mud around Wrench, the maxim gu
n barking with renewed vigour.

  Bot leapt into the path of the bullets and they ricocheted from his armour. “Brasswitch, stop that cannon!” he shouted.

  Wrench peered from behind the mechanoid’s legs. Her eyes narrowed and her face tightened with concentration. She pushed her mind into the machine gun and fused the carrier bolt to the breach. The weapon jammed.

  “Excellent. Get back in the carriage while I finish this,” said Bot. His metal-jointed knees bent as he prepared to charge.

  “Wait!” yelled Wrench. “I can do it.” She clenched her teeth and forced her mind into the walkomobile’s firebox, turning up the heat while locking the boiler’s safety valves closed. Wisps of steam vented from the armoured gun slits and then the vehicle’s doors flew open. The crew scrambled out in a state of panic, surrounded by scalding white clouds. Wrench concentrated on the boiler, superheating it. The walkomobile shuddered, then with a boom it exploded, sending the maxim gun cartwheeling through the air.

  Bot nodded his approval. “Nice.”

  Wrench grabbed the carriage step and pulled herself to her feet. Her legs felt like jelly and she thought she might puke. Bot rested a hand on her shoulder. “You did well, Brasswitch, but next time stay in the carriage with Plum.”

  “You think there’s going to be a next time?”

  Bot’s head tilted. “There’s always a next time.”

  The mournful twang of melting clockwork punctuated the crackle of the burning armoured car. Wrench probed the workings of their own carriage, tweaking valves and rerouting steam pressure in an attempt to get them mobile again. Silhouetted by the flames, the chunky form of Bot scouted the ambush site. Plum had been instructed to keep watch, although how he could do that cowering in the carriage Wrench wasn’t sure.

  Returning to Wrench’s side, Bot said, “The perimeter’s clear. They all seem to have scarpered.”

  Wrench heaved at a metal sheet that the explosion had pushed against one of the walkomobile’s legs. “Who were they? And why did they attack us?”

  “The who is easy. They’re the Future Watch. The paramilitary wing of the Epochryphal Brotherhood. Why is straightforward too: we were on our way to raid the Brotherhood’s Priory. The question you should be asking is how?” Bot leant down and with one hand pulled the crumpled metal clear of the leg.

  “How?”

  “Indeed. How did they know we were coming?”

  Wrench ran a hand over the walkomobile’s dented armour. When she’d first seen the carriage at Clifford’s Tower she’d thought it was ridiculously over engineered. Now she owed her life to the angular plates covering the vehicle. “Somebody at the regulators must have told them.”

  “Unlikely. The Brotherhood have been in our sights for some time. We’ve had suspicions that they’re sheltering aberrations, possibly even using them.”

  “Using them for what?”

  “We don’t know. I hope to discover more when we get to the priory. Will the walkomobile make it that far?”

  “It’s not pretty, but it’ll get the job done.” Wrench patted the carriage’s sides. “A bit like you.”

  Bot’s green eyes widened. “That’s all the thanks I get for saving your life?”

  “I told you before, if you wanted nice you rescued the wrong girl.”

  Plum poked his head out of the window, his face pale. “Surely we’re not still going. They’ll be expecting us now.”

  “No. They were expecting us. Now they’ll think they’ve bought themselves some time, so we have the element of surprise.”

  “Because only someone suicidally stupid would carry on with their original plan,” said Plum.

  “Exactly.” Bot clapped his hands together. “He who dares, wins.”

  “Or dies horribly,” mumbled Plum and slumped back into the carriage.

  “I should stay and guard the carriage,” said Plum, cowering behind Bot.

  The mechanoid squatted next to a high, ivy-covered wall that surrounded the priory. Gears ground beneath his chest plate, making a rumbling chuckle. “Oh, Plummy, you do make me laugh. We need you, and not just for your sense of humour in times of mortal peril.”

  “I wasn’t joking,” complained Plum.

  “Nor was I,” said Bot. “This is dangerous; keep those magic fingers at the ready.”

  Wrench peered through a wrought-iron gate barring their way. The priory dated from before the Rupture and the crenellated rooftops gave it a medieval air. Four long, dark windows, not much wider than arrow slits, stood sentry over a metal studded door set deep in the thick stone walls. An array of broader windows divided by masonry pillars bestrewed the remainder of the priory in a seemingly random pattern. Low gardens and a considerable distance of open lawn lay between them and the L-shaped building. The rain had stopped but heavy cloud hung thick in the sky, covering the moon.

  “Coast’s clear. Let’s go,” said Wrench. With the tiniest of mental nudges the gate’s lock clicked open.

  They stole across the sodden grass, the squelch of Bot’s footsteps uncomfortably loud, his chunky feet leaving deep divots in the turf. Ahead, a bulbous shadow with what looked like giant horns detached itself from a bush and prowled towards them. Wrench froze, her heart thumping. “What is it?”

  “Trouble,” said Plum.

  The shadow began to pant, gulping down giant breaths of air and the black outline of its body expanded.

  “It’s a Scotch dog. You need to stop it, now,” said Bot, but it was already too late. The shape emitted a low droning sound then the distinctive skirl of bagpipes filled the air.

  “Run,” shouted Bot and sprinted for the priory.

  Electricity crackled, and giant spot lamps burst to life around the house. The Scotch dog consisted of a set of bagpipes with four clockwork legs. What would normally act as the mouthpiece wagged like a tail, sucking in air. The chanter formed a head-like structure, mechanical valves opening and snapping closed to elicit the tune, while three different-length drones ranged along the top of the bag like spines. Excited by the light, the Scotch dog pranced over the grass, its tartan bag body puffing in and out, fuelling the rendition of ‘Flower of Scotland’ that droned from its pipes.

  Wrench dashed past the beast. Her mind dug into the machine’s innards and she froze the master cog on the air bellows. With a mournful wail the droning died.

  The metal studded door in the priory house burst open and out charged a brown-habited monk. He held a giant cross in one hand and a giant crossbow in the other.

  The monk slammed the sharpened end of the cross into the turf and rested the crossbow on top. He dropped to one knee and took aim.

  Wrench reached out with her mind, but the weapon’s mechanism was somehow fuzzy, almost resistant to her thoughts.

  Bot detached a bronze star from his collar and held it out in front of him. “Regulators. Lower your weapon,” he commanded, his voice booming.

  The bow twanged then a crack rent the air, the steel-tipped bolt ricocheting from Bot’s skorpidium-carbide armour. “That hurt,” he said and hurled the brass star. “Admittedly only my feelings, but it hurt nonetheless.” The monk collapsed to the floor, clutching his neck where the brass star had embedded.

  “So much for the element of surprise,” grumbled Plum.

  The door the monk had used led into a large, warm kitchen. Heat radiated from a chunky, cast-iron Yorkshire range set into a wide chimney flue. Coals glowed beneath the stove’s firebox, which had been well stoked to keep it smouldering through the night. A pile of unwashed vegetables graced a counter below the window, somebody’s chores for the day to come. On a solid and well-worn table that squatted in the centre of the kitchen rested a stack of crockery. Sprigs of herbs hung from the gnarled oak beams, and the scent of rosemary flavoured the air.

  Bot picked a meat cleaver from a hook on the wall and weighed it in his hand. “Brasswitch, discover what they’re up to.’

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  “There’ll be a
significant machine involved; feel for it.”

  Wrench cast her mind about. A strange energy thrummed through the air, like a sound you couldn’t hear. Not electromagnetic and not thaumaturgy, the pulses were powerful yet alien. She walked to one of the kitchen’s three doors, letting her feelings guide her. “It’s that way and underground,” she said.

  Moving with the same caution he’d shown in the under-crypt, Bot joined Wrench at the door. “Master Regulator Leech’s desk diary is harder to decipher than a doctor’s prescription note. The one thing I could make out was a line connecting the casket and the Epochryphal Brotherhood.” Bot grabbed the doorhandle. “The Brotherhood were excommunicated by the church for their tolerant views towards aberrations and if they’re involved with the NIA we can only assume the worst. This could be dangerous, stick behind me.”

  Plum rolled his eyes. “It wasn’t like I was thinking of taking the lead.”

  Raising the cleaver, Bot pulled the door open. The corridor beyond had rustic whitewashed plaster walls covered in clocks, watches and hourglasses. However, its most noticeable feature was the brass automaton armed with a four-foot long Draeger tank rifle.

  Bot slammed the door closed and pushed Wrench and Plum against the wall. “Change of plan,” he said. The cleaver clattered to the floor and he embraced them in a metallic hug, his bulk acting as a shield. A massive explosion rocked the kitchen and the door disappeared in a shower of splinters.

  An armour plate on Bot’s leg slid open and he withdrew a hefty-looking hand cannon. “Time for the big guns.”

  “His is bigger,” said Plum.

  “Always with the glass half empty Plummy boy,” said Bot and stepped into what remained of the doorway.

  Wrench clasped her hands over her ears. Jets of flame spurted from the hand cannon, sending a deluge of titanium-tipped carnage along the corridor.

  Bot lowered the smoking weapon and strode through the doorway. A tangled mess of brass lay scattered across the floor. In its midst rested the angular Draeger, a dismembered metal hand still clutching the stock.