by Danny Macks
A detection spell proved there were no wemyds floating around the house. The yellow was strictly confined to the bodies of the tailor family. Casting the necromancy spell to kill the wemyds, without tracing the sigil physically, took more concentration, but Silva managed it. A small shiver passed through all three of them and all three of the Fenwicks were wemyd free.
Doris eyes grew distant, then he blinked rapidly and smiled. “Now that all three of you are free of the yellow–”
“All three of us?” Mrs. Fenwick’s eyes glistened. “But, we don’t even know your name.”
Silva grinned and nodded. “All three of you. And you might not recognize me, but you know me. I’m Silva Vatic.”
The smiles fled their faces.
“What did I miss?” Doris asked.
Mrs. Fenwick placed a hand on her husband's elbow, then her gaze fell to the floor.
Mr. Fenwick cleared his throat and said, “When we left Winterhaven, we sold our shop. The money was supposed to help us get started in the city.”
What did that have to do with him? He hadn't had anything to do with that. Surely his father wouldn't … a queasy feeling filled Silva's gut. Yes, trying to help somebody when he was incapable of actually helping sounded exactly like something his father would do.
“My father bought your shop.”
Mrs. Fenwick nodded. “He owns most of the town. We hurried and signed over the deed before …" His voice caught. He blinked shiny eyes and started again. "None of us saw a farthing. The enforcers say there's nothing they can do. None of them were willing to risk themselves fetching him and the judge refused a trial without the defendant present.”
“Well then,” Doris said, rising from the couch briskly and rubbing his hands together. “It sounds to me like you were more than fairly compensated today.”
Mr. Fenwick tugged on his mustache and his eyes shifted back and forth as he considered. He nodded slowly. “More than fair.”
Silva didn't understand what Doris and Mr. Fenwick were hinting at. He hadn't really done much. “I don’t have any money,” Silva admitted as he also rose from the couch. “I recently graduated from University myself. But–”
“But let any of your Winterhaven acquaintances know,” Doris interrupted, “Mage Vatic will compensate them for his father’s debts in the same way he compensated you. Once they make an appointment, that is. I’ll get you several copies of his card with the office address.”
*****
“How are we going to get an office?” Silva asked after they left the Fenwick’s home. “We don’t have any money.”
Doris’s stride was so springy he practically bounced. “Now that I know you're a wealthy landowner, we have something more valuable than money. We have collateral.”
“Technically, my father is the landowner.”
Doris flapped aside the objection with his hand. “Technicalities. Just as important, we've established value today. The cost of one Vatic treatment is now the value of a sewing shop in downtown Winterhaven. A price which — thanks to you, you dear, sexy man — is now skyrocketing.”
Silva couldn’t help but grin in the face of Doris's enthusiasm. “Sexy?”
Doris grinned. “Don’t get your robes in a twist. I know your preferences. It’s better if our relationship is strictly professional anyway. And I saw your power levels: that spell didn't take much out of you at all.”
Silva stopped, took a deep breath and controlled his features. The rote from his party robes was still fresh in his memory. He called it to mind and activated it. “Look again.”
Doris gestured, frowned at the faint smudge where an aura had been, then studied Silva's face when his eyes refocused. “Is there something I should know?”
“Just promise you'll never discuss how much or how little power the wemyd killing rote requires. The question will get us in a lot of trouble.”
Doris made a buttoning motion over his lips, but without his earlier enthusiasm. “Consider the matter forgotten.”
They walked for about a block in uncomfortable silence.
“Do you really think I’m sexy?”
Doris laughed. “In a sweet, bristly, cantankerous, furry teddy-bear way, but yes.”
I used to say that about your father. If he was having a nervous breakdown, hearing his mother's voice was at least a pleasant form of insanity.
“There’s a smile,” Doris said, smiling gently himself. “Let’s go find your Kate.”
CHAPTER TEN
Although the workshop behind Dr. Poincer’s house was redecorated with tile floors and plaster walls to serve as a living space, square wooden spots on the wall marked the location of horse stalls in the building's past. Throughout the cavernous barn, people in black robes strode back and forth, comparing notes.
Doris and Silva found Kate off to one side, at a large desk. A section of the desktop was tilted at an angle toward her. Doris wandered toward the chalkboards while Silva headed straight to Kate.
“I’ve never seen a desk like that,” Silva said by way of greeting. “Did you design it yourself?”
Kate smiled at Silva. Her eyes appeared tired, but not totally sleep deprived. She had changed clothing into rough trousers and man’s shirt, instead of a proper dress. He would have to say something to somebody, to make sure she dressed according to her station. Silva paused. Now that Kate was a part of society, what was her station?
“Yes and no,” Kate replied. “I showed a sketch to a furniture maker and he said the design existed before the printing machine in your world’s history, back when books were handwritten. I think this follows that desk design more than my sketch.”
Silva studied Kate’s drawing. Her penmanship was precise and crisp, with none of the flowing curves common to the handwriting of people who dealt with sigils. At the center of the paper was a cross section with two long interlocking pieces. Together they formed a cylinder with a ring at each end. Inside the cylinder was a spring and several plates with holes in them. Wavy lines went through the holes like some kind of flowing liquid. “Your idea for the horseless carriage wheels?”
Kate nodded. “It will absorb the shock of bumps on the road, giving the occupant a smoother ride.” The corner of her mouth quirked. “I call it a shock absorber.”
“What spells power it?”
Kate smiled fully. “None.” She waved toward the mages at the chalk boards. “Drudge ran off with my initial sketch. I’m perfecting the design while these gentlemen decide if they need me any more.”
She set aside her drawing and pulled out another sheet of paper. It contained a mundane alphabet with a series of dots and dashes next to each letter. “They understood this pretty easily, but I mentioned the idea of a dedicated line for communication, instead of trying to communicate down a power line and … well … People have been wandering in and out ever since. And all of them want to talk to me before they wander off and ignore me.”
“Kate’s idea is potentially quite radical,” Dr. Poincer said as he wandered over. “If we can create a dedicated ley line, not only does it clear up several issues with signal loss, it also opens up the possibility of ownership.”
He smiled at the incomprehension on Silva's face and explained. “Imagine if you bought a large tank of purified water then sent that liquid down a pipe. If the pipe intersected with a publicly owned stream, the liquid in the pipe would still be yours even though the pipe was surrounded by water. If water levels in the stream dropped, tapping into the pipe to get the water inside would still be stealing. For the first time people would be able to own power, outside of ley stones.”
Silva thought to the pond of ley energy at the Delan estate. If that energy was pumped down a road like water down a drain, more energy from the surrounding ley streams would flow into it, reducing power levels in the surrounding neighborhoods. And when natural power levels were artificially reduced, people would need more … would pay for more. And where would that power come from? Now that he’d cleared the y
ellow, there was plenty of power in Winterhaven. And, after the flood scare and recent exodus, his father owned most of Winterhaven.
Doris appeared at Silva's side as his knees started to buckle. “What’s wrong?”
“If this works. I think I’ll be rich.” Silva swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. “I don’t mean well off. I mean obscenely rich.”
Dr. Poincer frowned. “I think you have the cart well in front of the horse, my boy. This is all theoretical, at this point. Other than the rock tunnel in the Capstock mountains, no one has ever made ‘power tubes’ on flat land before. There’s simply no precedent for even thinking of the idea.”
Silva glanced at Kate. She made a show of ignoring the conversation, working on her drawing. But she was smiling.
As Dr. Poincer started to pontificate, Doris discreetly slipped several coins in Silva's hand, winked, and nodded his head toward Kate.
“Kate,” Silva said, interrupting Dr. Poincer, “may I take you to lunch?”
She threw her papers in a drawer and rose. “I’d love to.”
Despite the mundane name, The Charging Bull was one of the best restaurants in the capital. Silva hesitated at the base of the stairs. He’d wanted to take Kate somewhere nice, but she was still dressed like a field hand. While he lingered, a man dressed in similar rough attire scampered up the steps. The rote on the door glowed when he activated it, and he slipped inside. Silva relaxed. He was fretting for no reason.
“What does that do?” Kate asked, gesturing toward the rote on the door as she followed Silva up the steps.
“Hm? Oh, that’s a security rote. The glowing when it was activated is only a bit of showmanship woven in. It’s designed to keep children and riff raff out.” Silva activated the rote and held the door open for Kate.
Kate froze outside the door, staring at the rote sourly.
“Your clothes look fine,” Silva said.
Kate scowled at him. “On second thought, this bit of riff raff remembered she has a lot of work to do.”
“You’re not riff raff. You’re with me.”
“Go in without me.” She turned, ran down the steps, and strode away without glancing back.
Silva stood there, holding the door. What had he done wrong?
*****
Life settled down for the next two weeks. Doris's connections brought in sons and daughters of wealthy patrons who had — perhaps on a dare — visited Winterhaven. Patrons who didn't care if Silva's ability to kill the slight green in their auras was approved by the board. And Winterhaven refugees arrived, as well, to remind Silva some sacrifices were worth the moral price.
He sent Kate dinner invitations a few times. She always wrote back, but always politely declined.
Silva was reading one such letter when a tall muscular man shuffled into his office late in the day. Expecting it was a late patient, he was slow to look up. His gaze fell on the black robe, then the sleeve: a band of red with a grey stripe overlaid on it. An inquisitor.
Silva shivered, resisted the wild urge to jump out the window, clamped down his facial expression, then cursed himself for his laxity. What had he revealed in that first second?
The inquisitor chuckled. “Don’t trouble yourself too much. I'm used to fear. It's a common reaction: a side effect of meeting too many people with guilty consciences.” The inquisitor’s voice was a grave deep bass, at odds with his faint attempt at levity. He sat down across from Silva's desk, his body language conveying practiced ease. “And thank you for not jumping out the window. I only have a few questions then I’ll let you get on with your day.”
Liar. Silva didn’t believe the facade for a second. In his own interview with Officer Neran, he’d trapped her into a confession only because she hadn't known what she’d done wrong. Silva didn't have that excuse. Every day, whether treating a Winterhaven refugee or a well-to-do patron with only a touch of green, he had to remind himself he was doing good. The ends did justify the means. He moved slowly so as not to arouse untoward suspicion, but would keep treating patients until the end. If that end was today, so be it.
The enforcer waited, his countenance one of quiet inquiry. “I am aware your operation here is only quasi-legal. Your business manager has done an excellent job of insisting every patient sign an indemnity agreement acknowledging they are aware they are undergoing an experimental procedure, not approved by the board. At the same time, he submits extensions delaying submission of that same rote for approval. Some of my co-workers have a betting pool on how long you can keep it up.”
“Isn’t gambling among enforcers discouraged?” Silva asked, attempting to parrot the inquisitor’s relaxed manner.
The inquisitor gave a smile which said, We’re all friends here. “I only have a few questions then I will let you get on with your little scam. How well do you know Drudge Delan?”
Silva blinked in surprise. “I stayed at his house one night a couple weeks ago, shortly after arriving in the capital. I haven’t seen him since. We hardly know each other.”
“Then why do I sense you hate him?”
“Hate is too strong a word,” Silva lied. “He caught the eye of a lady I fancied.” Had Drudge been injured? No, inquisitors didn’t investigate non-magical crimes.
The inquisitor nodded, apparently accepting the answer at face value. “One more question. Have you ever heard the word verbos?”
Silva furrowed his brow before he noticed his lack of control and smoothed his features. It didn’t even sound like Sparian. The inquisitor’s investigation had nothing to do with him. “I’m sorry. I haven’t ever heard that word.”
The inquisitor rose, produced a card, and set it on the desk. “Thank you for your time.”
After the Inquisitor left, Silva adjusted his vision and noticed a small trickle of power feeding into the card. He didn't know what the spell did, but dispelled it anyway. Verbos, verbos … Was the word in Kate’s language? It could be, and if Drudge was involved, that could mean Kate was in trouble.
“If you go rushing out of the office,” Doris said from the doorway as Silva started to rise, “I guarantee you'll be followed. You won’t be rescuing anybody.” Doris held up a hand. “And I don’t need to know. I don’t have to lie about secrets I don’t know.”
“What would you suggest I do? I can’t just sit here.”
“How about you visit your Father? If nothing else, he needs to know what is going on outside the hospital before somebody asks him to sign over the Winterhaven deeds. Unless whatever is going on involves him.”
Silva shook his head. Father was not involved with Drudge at all. If he was followed, he wanted to lead the inquisitor as far from the capital as possible. Silva hadn't seen his father since carting him out of Winterhaven. The Home for the Misshapen would be perfect.
The next day, ten miles west of the Twenty Mile Inn, Silva crossed a bridge over a stream choked with mud. It looked like the after-effects of a flash flood. Upstream, the sky was cloudless. A dead fish floated by, on top of the thick brown liquid.
He glanced down the westward road and sighed. It wasn’t actually urgent he see his father. It wasn’t like the old man was going anywhere. Silva slid down the side of the road and followed the muddy pollution to its source.
About a mile upstream, Silva found a small dam and a tower constructed of timbers. A long hose, as thick as Silva's leg, siphoned clean water out of the stream from above the dam, to the top of the tower, where a pipe transported the water across the top of several other towers. Below the towers, a canal traveling back from the same direction sluiced hundreds of gallons of muddy waste water into the stream, downstream from the dam.
Drudge, what have you done? Silva followed the line of towers.
At the end of the water tube, several guards patrolled the edge of a large hole in a hillside. A man rode atop some type of massive metal nozzle, directing a stream of water at the side of a hill. Downhill, a crew of drudges with ropes around their waists labored with shovels to keep the muddy
soil moving away from the strip-mining equipment. One of them slipped under the mud. The other members of his team pulled him up by the ropes. He struggled to his feet, muddy and sputtering.
A guard spotted Silva and headed his way, a rifled slug-thrower in his hands. Silva adjusted his vision. The large quantities of flowing water had ruined any ley streams in the area, but the gunman had enough personal energy to use his device several times. Unshielded, one slug would be enough to kill.
Silva held out his hands in what he hoped was a non-threatening gesture and met the guard half way.
“Like we told the other mage," the guard began, "we have a permit from the capital to be here. This is a legal operation.”
Silva frowned. “Legal doesn’t make it right.”
The guard shrugged. “Not my call. And not yours either. You have a complaint, go to the capital.”
A large pile of dirt fell in a slow avalanche as the water cannon cut the soil out from beneath it. The drudges rushed out of the way, then fell on the pile with their shovels, shoving the mess back toward the improvised canal leading back to the stream. Silva balled his fists and the guard moved the muzzle of his weapon in his general direction.
None of this was the guard’s fault. It wasn’t the fault of the man operating the device, either. They were both simply doing what they were told. Drudge Delan, on the other hand, had a lot to answer for.
The mud on Silva's shoes had mostly dried by the time he reached the small inn outside the Home for the Misshapen. As he approached, a woman in front of the cobblestone building dumped water into a cheesecloth to reduce the mud, before running the water through a pipe with a filtering rote, obviously stolen from someone’s shower. She was haggard in the mind-numbing way of someone who expended too much ley energy. Even with the mud filtered by the cheesecloth first, the filtering rote wasn’t designed to deal with something like this.
She saw Silva, set down her improvised equipment and dried her hands on her apron. “Welcome, sir. If you’ve come for supper, you’re in luck. We got a bit of a late start and the food is just about ready."
