by Robert Cole
***
"Prestidigitation. Legerdemain. Sleight of hand." Lady Abigail Moran was expanding my knowledge and expounding her own as our hansom cab edged its way through the crowded streets towards the Alhambra Theatre. It was our third visit this week, and she had discussed the same subject each time.
I nodded as if I were interested. To be perfectly honest, I was far more entertained by our surroundings. Leicester Square is always busy, but this evening, the press of horse-drawn and steam-drawn cabs was little short of intense.
Our hansom cab was finally nearing the front of the queue. I leaned out the window and read on the long—it had to be long, of course—banner draped from the marquee of the theater and lit with the new and dazzling though quite unbecoming electrical illumination.
That world-renowned magician and conjuror, that magnificent showman,
that master of the unknown, that amazing, confounding, astonishing
Sir Dante Everett Adair Thurston Heller—Sir Death!
I was not impressed by the obvious hullaballoo, and I had no compunctions informing Abigail of the fact.
"Tricks," I stated as I nipped nimbly out of the cab as our driver, Jeremiah, nipped into the kerb. I dodged a particularly plump matron who was reading a program in ultimate unconcern whilst standing smack in the middle of the walkway and continued to Abigail. "Distraction, no more, no less. And I must again protest; that cannot possibly be his real name."
Abigail snorted. She has the uncanny ability to snort in the most delightful fashion.
"That is precisely my point, you ninny. Distraction. The hand is quicker than the eye and all that. We can learn new things from this Sir Death—what a taste for melodrama!—my dear Simon," she replied. "We are, after all, in very near the same profession."
I stopped, risking a trampling; I turned and gave her my most severe and reprimanding look, and I meant it to sting! "We are not," I began, then realized my voice was carrying in the hush one gets from time to time, even in the largest crowd. "We are not," I whispered, "fakes. We are hardly magicians, though I do not doubt there are bobbies who would disagree with me." I took her hand in sudden fear. "Abigail. Do not tell me, I pray. Do not mention you've decided to become one of those bounders, and without advising me of the fact?"
With a flick of her elegant fingers, Abigail waved my comment away as so much smoke, but I noticed she did not deign to reply. Instead, an uncanny transformation came over her face. Her lower lip extended, oh, the merest trifle, but enough to make her features less than aristocratic. Her eyes widened and seemed to twinkle in delight.
Let me enter an aside here. Abigail does not twinkle.
Next, she reached up and tilted her already unhappy hat down towards an eyebrow, the left. And worst of all, her lovely, her mellifluous voice rose in strident and painfully coarse accents as she shouted, "Belle! Here we are!"
I swear, she actually raised her arm and waved. I mean, really! In public!
Then I remembered who we were meeting, and as I turned to speak, I fear my own face shifted, my own voice took on the cadences of one born hearing the sound of Bow Bells. "Miss Belle! Mr. Wilkinson! Here we are at last!"
The plump young woman, in a too-small red velvet dress and corseted to within an inch of breathlessness, was waving her own hand as she tripped forward on the arm of her immense papa and his crimson face. His crimson shade clashed horribly with his daughter's red dress.
"'Ere we are at last, then," puffed Mr. Ezekiel Wilkinson, beaming on all and sundry, his enormous face quite split in two only slightly less enormous sections by his—pardon me for saying it, won't you?—by his grin. "Come along now; we've got a box nearly on the stage. Expensive? Of course it is! But isn't my darling daughter worth it?"
His darling daughter giggled, displaying rather crooked teeth of a distressing dark ecru color. She tapped my arm with her fan—she had, I ascertained by her action, been reading Miss Austen. Why must ladies insist on believing the manners of three quarters of a century gone to be so alluring to those of us in trousers? I mean, I ask you as one friend to another!
"Oh, Papa! One does not discuss prices; it's so low class!" Miss Belle squealed in an octave so piercing that several horses nearby twitched in agony. I suspect I even saw a steam man wince, doubt me though you may.
I smiled at the miss as though her screech was purest melody.
Honestly, the things I must deal with in my chosen profession.
Miss Belle took a deep breath, risking her corset splitting, but all the better to display her pearl necklace.
My fingers itched to seize it and run. But Abigail would never forgive me if we did not give her needlessly elaborate plan a try first.
I took Belle's arm, while Abigail seized Papa Wilkinson's elbow and beamed down at him. Abigail is rather tall; what Wilkinson lacked in vertical inches he more than made up in those of the horizontal persuasion.
"Shall we go in?" I asked.
The theatre was packed and it took us some time to reach our box. We were not speeded on our way by the necessity of maneuvering our charges around others, some nearly as large, and most covered in quite tasty jewels as well. I found the baubles most distracting, and actually assigned quite a few to my mental list of possible future acquisitions. Such a list is de rigueur for those in our profession.
But we managed to reach our box at last. It was, as Mr. Wilkinson had promised, very near the stage. This was a necessity for our plans, but naturally we felt no need to inform the Wilkersons pere et fille of this; what they didn't know couldn't hurt us, if you see what I mean? I had simply persuaded Belle, well in advance and with all the subtly of which I am capable, that Abigail and I pined to sit quite near the stage 'like the toffs' but had never been able to afford such a treat. I confess, my subtly was wasted. Belle had immediately dashed off, insisted her father reserve a box 'right near the stage, if possible, Papa, for as you know I dote upon such things' and we had our box.
We all took some time to settle in while the overture droned on all about us.
"It is most kind of you to bring us, sir; such a treat, isn't it, Simon?" Abigail had to nearly shout to make herself heard. Miss Belle's papa was a bit hard of hearing.
"Not a bit of it, my dear; you and your brother are Belle's friends, and I can well afford it, after all," he said complacently.
I eyed his huge ruby stickpin with calculation in my soul until Abigail gave me a surreptitious kick.
"We are, Mr. Wilkerson sir, and are honored to be so," I sputtered.
Miss Belle gave me a languishing look and laid one hand gently on my arm—the nails were bitten to the quick, I could not help but notice, but the gems in her multitude of rings were real. Thankfully, the house lights chose that moment to dim as the curtain rose.
"Oooh," squealed Miss Belle; her penchant for squealing had more than once gotten upon my nerves, as my perspicacious readers may well have noticed. "I just know I shall faint."
"Don't you worry," Abigail assured her. "Simon will catch you if you do."
I threw Abigail a murderous look. She grinned back at me.
I turned to face the stage, then glanced down at my program. We were to be enthralled by more than Sir Death and his legerdemain tonight, I saw. An Irish tenor came out, looking rather bovine, and sang the tragic ballad of 'The Lady in Love with Her Footman', a story which did not end well. Then, to restore the mood, he regaled us with some humorous ditties, accompanied by the automaton orchestra. Next came another singer, Charles Ross, whom I had seen perform at the Gaiety Theater, who secured overwhelming applause by the rendering of a new song entitled 'She's a Real Good Mother' at which I heard Abigail snicker, though Miss Belle looked confused.
I did not enlighten her, nor did Abigail.
A pair of dancers dressed the latest mode was next, performing a waltz and then a polka, to uproarious applause.
We were spared, thankfully, any animal acts.
Miss Belle turned to me
after the dancers had taken their bows. "He's next, Mr. Simon, he's next!"
I patted her hand. When she turned away, I winked at Abigail. She did not deign to reply.
Behind us, Papa Wilkerson snored like a dozen hives of angry bees.
I believe each and every eye—barring Wilkerson's, of course—was now locked upon the bare stage before us. We were primed, we were ready.
Nothing happened.
Then, the curtains opened—to an empty stage. The backdrops were inky black, their darkness broken here and there with esoteric symbols, or what passed as such in the theater, at least. To me, they looked as if someone had splattered silver paint accidentally upon the drawing room drapes.
Then, with a most thrilling flash of flame that succeeded in startling us all, prepared though we were, he was there. Sir Death appeared as if from mid-air in the very middle of the barren stage; I suspected a well-concealed trap door. The magician was a pale, cadaverous man with gleaming ebony eyes, enveloped in a silk cape which shimmered in the gaslight—not his eyes, mind you; his entire body was so enveloped. His head was covered in dark curles and his mustache gleamed under the electrical lighting. He wore the most solemn expression I have ever seen, much as if his digestion were giving him problems but he was too much of a gentleman to mention his pain.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he proclaimed, tossing his cape back with an elegant air; he was dressed in faultless evening attire. I detected even in those few words a slight accent I could not recognize. "Friends and patrons. You will be amazed."
Well, the introduction seemed a bit flat, but I must admit, he didn't lie, and he made up for it at once. A bevy of comely assistants, dazzling in spangles and tights, appeared—not in a flash of light, but rather more prosaically from backstage. They proceeded to set out a clutter of small tables, each bearing various bits and bobs on top. The charlatan proceeded from one to the next, displaying a flurry of card tricks on one, pulling unlikely items out of hats on the next, making various objects disappear and reappear in the unlikeliest places at the third. At the fourth spot, he turned a bouquet of flowers into a rather surprised-looking maiden.
All the usual tricks of any self-respecting magician, in fact. The assistants posed, preened, and smiled as if they hadn't seen each and every trick a dozen, nay, a hundred times. Several rabbits hopped about dispiritedly then disappeared into the wings.
I envied them rather.
Miss Belle squealed.
Repeatedly.
Her papa slumped, his row of chins on his chest, his immense derriere quite covering two of the small chairs in the box, and snored.
Abigail watched Sir Death intently, no doubt taking notes in that amazing mind of hers for future reference. For all I knew, she planned on taking to the stage herself one day. It would not surprise me.
I, on the other hand, was just able to conceal a well-bred yawn.
At last Sir Death reached the particular trick which had made all of London, and no doubt a few of the outlying districts, agog with excitement.
"Now, dear ladies and gentlemen," he said as his assistants cleared away the debris to leave the stage as barren as Miss Belle's mind, "prepare to be astonished."
Abigail sat up straighter. She might not be ready to be astonished, but she was certainly ready. She sat to the far right of the box nearest the stage, as we had planned, with Miss Belle between her and me, while Papa Wilkinson dozed behind us in the shadows.
Sir Death gazed about the theatre, his ebon eyes gleaming as brightly as his shaved pate. I glanced around myself; every eye in the audience was locked upon him.
"The astounding, the colossal, the stupendous…Destruction and Resurrection!"
Applause; it quite rocked the house, I must say.
Sir Death raised his hands, fingers spread wide. "I need something precious, something wonderful, something unique, something of enormous value," he said. "Will anyone here be brave enough to trust in the magic of the ancients, the glory of the great old ones?"
Well, naturally, Miss Belle squealed out her own bravery—thank the gods, as else I would have had to prompt her.
"I will!" She waved her hand, the light twinkling on her many rings.
Sir Death turned his darkly glowing gaze upon our box. "Ah, a lovely lady who is also brave." He stalked toward our side of the stage like a heron on stilts and smiled up at Miss Belle. "And what, fairest one, do you offer to the power of…Sir Death?"
Belle reached up to unsnap her pearl necklace. Abigail turned to help her and took the gaudy thing as it fell. The rows of pearls quite filled Abigail's palms and draped over into her lap, where they glowed like milky stars against the emerald velvet of her skirt. The heavy strand tried to escape her lap, foolish thing. I heard her make an irritated little sound—which is usually represented as 'tsk tsk' I believe—as she bent over to retrieve the necklace from beside her slipper.
The particular trick we were about to see performed was Sir Death's piece de resistance. He took a valuable bit of jewelry from some brave soul in the audience, conjured up a blazing fire in a bowl, burnt the bit to ashes, went through some other passes and such, then snatched the unharmed bauble from thin air. Quite a decent trick. I was looking forward to seeing it again. Abigail and I, of course, had watched Sir D do the trick several times already, without quite being able to ascertain how he managed it. Still, it made no matter to us.
In fact, neither of us cared a bit.
Abigail turned and leaned over the edge of our box. She held Belle's gaudy necklace looped several times over her palm.
Sir Death took the necklace and held it up, tossing his cape dramatically over his lean shoulders. A wave of applause washed over him.
I forgot to yawn as I watched him set about his trick. First, he stalked back towards the center of the state, where one of his scantily clad assistants had set a small gate-legged table topped with a large silver bowl. Sir Death, the necklace still in one hand, took the edge of the bowl between his long fingers and held it up, displaying its utter emptiness to all and sundry. Then he set it back on the table with a clang of metal and made a couple of passes over it with his now unencumbered hand.
Flames sprang up from the bowl, crackling and popping cheerfully. The audience gasped in amazement. Belle grabbed my hand and squeezed it.
"Behold," said Sir Death, throwing his arms wide as instructed, no doubt, in the regulation magician's handbook. "Behold and wonder at…The Destruction!"
And the silly beggar flung the pearl necklace into the rising flames in the silver bowl. I mean, the thing probably cost Papa Wilkinson upwards of ten thousand pounds, and here Belle was allowing it to be used as kindling! What fools are the rich.
Not that I'm not delighted of the fact; after all, feeding off their foolishness is how Abigail and I make our living.
The red and orange flames in the small bowl reached up so high I was afraid for Sir Death's eyebrows—or would have been, if I had been able to detect the faintest sign of any. I suspected he had lost them, and possibly his hair, during some previous performance of this very trick.
While the flames rose and rose, Sir Death capered about, waving his arms while intoning various nonsense words, abracadabra and such, if you take my meaning. Finally, the crackling died away and he waved two assistants forward, one wearing thick leather gloves; the other bore a crystal pitcher full of water all beaded with condensation. The pitcher-bearer flung the water into the bowl, which hissed and sizzled and complained and set up all sorts of ruckus. The thing was obviously scalding hot. The other assistant—a charming little minx with yellow hair—seized the still sizzling bowl with her gloved hands and tipped it over the gate legged table.
A clunk onto the heavy wood was audible throughout the hush which had fallen in the massive theatre. Sir Death strode forward. He leaned down to grab the misshapen and charred bit of junk which had so recently adorned the rather grimy neck of Miss Belle Wilkerson.
"Behold the Destru
ction of Beauty!" he shouted.
Really, one wonders what hack writes his lines.
The conjuror waved the bit of blackened metal and charred bits around, leaned over to the front row to let one man examine it before he strode towards our box.
Belle had one hand on my arm, her grip as powerful as a blacksmith's. The other flew to her mouth. Her eyes were wide and full of excitement.
"Fear not, lovely child," said Sir Death as he paused before us. "Next comes the glorious, the astounding, the extraordinary, the unbelievable…Resurrection!"
His little visit gave time for yet more assistants to appear on stage—really, one cannot help but wonder what his weekly outgo must be. Two flaunting females set up a long bench with a series of, this time, golden bowls—well, polished brass, perhaps—in graduated sizes. Sir Death positioned himself before the largest bowl at the end of the stage farthest from our box, and he dropped the charred bit of former necklace into it. It gave out a resounding and oddly satisfying clank. He waved his hands about. Flames shot up from the golden bowl, this time as green as Abigail's eyes. Sir Death reached one long white hand directly into the flames—amidst general gasps of horror and dismay—and drew out what appeared to be the selfsame bit of rubbish he had just dropped in.
Sir Death looked the faintest bit concerned. He shook his head. He clasped the burnt bit to his chest and muttered over it. He looked up at one of his assistants. The minx held the back of her hand against her open mouth and turned her head away.
Yes, we the audience were all concerned and worried along with those on the stage, I do assure you.
Sir Death plastered a look of fierce determination on his narrow face. He proceeded to the next of seven bowls—seven being some esoteric magical number, no doubt—to perform the trick again. Flames rose up. The only difference was their color, these being quite blue. He removed…what appeared to be the self-same bit of charred necklace.
On to the next bowl, and the next, each with different colored flames, each smaller than the last. I wondered exactly how he managed the different colors; the beggar was a consummate showman, I'll give him that.
Finally, he waved away the icy silver flames over the tiny last bowl, reached in…and drew out Miss Belle's pearl necklace, untouched, unharmed and as lovely as when it had last encircled her doughy neck.
General applause flowed through the house, a veritable ocean of appreciation. Sir Death waved the necklace about, his face beaming in relief. He stalked back and forth across the boards, his boots oddly silent, his cape flapping behind him.
He raised the necklace to his face and kissed the pearls in overdone relief.
Massive applause mingled with laughter.
Then Sir Death brought her necklace back to the awestruck and admiring Miss Wilkinson. He reached up, the gaudy thing draped over his spidery fingers, the pearls sparkling in the gaslight.
Abigail slid her chair back out of the way and urged Belle to take the thing herself. She did, and I gallantly fastened the necklace around her neck.
Well, any other tricks would have been anticlimactic, I'm sure you agree. Sir Death took numerous bows as his beauteous assistants cleared away his paraphernalia.
We sat in our box and discussed the show as the audience gathered their things and prepared to exit as the orchestra played cheerful martial airs.
Later, when we had managed to at last awaken Papa Wilkinson and were leaving the theatre, Belle could talk of nothing but magic.
"However do you think he did it, Abigail, Mr. Simon? However could he manage? He must have marvelous powers that are not gainsaid to those of us who are mere mortals, do not you think?"
Really, a steady diet of Miss Austen flavored with liberal amounts of penny-dreadfuls can create the most amazing balderdash, can it not?
I beamed at her and shook my head in wonderment as I handed her into her carriage. "I cannot imagine, Miss Belle. To have such abilities! It is a miracle, I do not doubt."
Abigail waved to Belle and then took my arm as we walked towards our own conveyance. Our faithful Jeremiah, prince of cabbies, was feeding bits of coal into his steam man Old Lamentation's chest and had built up a roaring head of steam.
I held out my hands to the glowing steam man; it was a chilly night.
"Everything go well, Lady Abigail?" asked Jeremiah as he touched his hat.
"Yes, Abigail, did everything go well?" I asked.
The darling girl glanced around; we were on a side street and no one was near. She reached into one of the numerous pockets in her green velvet skirt and drew out Miss Belle's gaudy pearl necklace.
"Naturally everything went well," said Lady Abigail Moran. "Legerdemain, my dear, dear fellows. The hand is quicker than the eye. However, I'm sure Sir Death is rather angry with us. After all, he's going to find out the necklace he slipped into his pocket before he appeared to burn and resurrect a copy, was indeed, nothing itself but a copy—and a rather better one than his at that. I am sure he is, at this particular moment, somewhat morose, if not even downhearted, I fear. I say, Simon. Shall we stop off for a meal somewhere? I'm feeling rather in the mood to celebrate."
"The Criterion?" I asked.
"Why not?" she replied. "We shall soon be in funds, after all."
We climbed into the hansom cab and Jeremiah set Old Lamentation into motion.
####
About the author of Lady Abigail and the Morose Magician: a Gilded Cages Adventure
K.G. McAbee has had several books and nearly a hundred short stories published, some of them quite readable. She takes her geekdom seriously, never misses a sci-fi con, loves dogs and iced tea, and believes the words ‘Stan Lee’ are interchangeable with ‘The Almighty.’ She writes steampunk, fantasy, science fiction, horror, pulp, westerns and, most recently, comics. She’s a member of Horror Writers Association and International Thriller Writers and is an Artist in Residence with the South Carolina Arts Commission. Her steampunk/zombie novella, BLACKTHORNE AND ROSE: AGENTS OF D.I.R.E. recently received an honorable mention in the 3rd quarter Writers of the Future contest.
Horror
Queen Elizabeth's Wizard
E.U.C.B.
Mightier Than the Sword
Monarch of the Seas
Double Double Cross
Lord Ghul and the Rat Princes
Double Double Cross
Dark of Night
When the Last Light Fades
Aunt Clytie's Canning Jars
Fantasy
With Murderous Intent
A Dilemma of Dark and Dangerous Dimensions
Currents of Doom
Soul of Diamond, Heart of Glass
Out of Time: An adventure of The Spectre
Cast Away the Works of Darkness
Oblique Vengeance
Not Poppy Nor Mandragora
The Beauty in the Beast
End of the Beginning
The Fearful Fort
The Malmillard Codex
Lost and Found
Steampunk
Lady Abigail and the Morose Magician
Professor Challenger and the Creature from the Aether
A Rollicking Band of Pirates We
Riders of the Purple Stage
Science Fiction
Ray Was Right
Me and the Bank
Time Is of the Essence
Souls Touched—Reasonable Rates
Optical Orifice of the Beholder
Captain D'Artagnan Jones and the Felspindyll from Zardogaz
Historical
The Case of the Sinister Senator
Luke Zane and the Claim Jumper
Luke Zane and the Bushwhacker
And don’t miss Tales from Omega Station:
Omega Station, aka the Rock. A barren, airless asteroid on the outermost edge of the galaxy, home of the richest of the rich and the poorest of the poor. Dotted with commercial, military and residential domes, the outer surface is the place to live for those who can
afford it or are lucky enough to work there.
But the vast majority of the Rock's residents don't live in the surface domes; instead, they have tunneled downwards, moving ever further towards its fiery heart. The upper levels are safe, comfortable, secure—or as secure as anyone can be on Omega Station. The lower levels, now; they are home to the detritus of a double dozen races and species, all living in uneasy juxtaposition, fighting, loving, eating—and being eaten.
The Rock's location in space, the last real port before exiting the galaxy, has made it a valuable commodity to many governments and private corporations, as has the addictive drug straz, which grows only in its recycling vats. Control has been taken and given in a hundred bloody battles over the years, but those who live in the lower levels—and further down, in the Depths—are often barely aware of whoever claims to be in charge.
No one, really, rules the Rock, whatever they may claim, however many weapons and warriors they throw against it.
For the Rock is eternal…and it has many stories...
Tales from Omega Station: the Omnibus Edition
