A Grimoire for the Baron

by Eon de Beaumont

  Frolic meandered around the huge pistons, noting some ways to make the whole operation more efficient, when a small door caught his eye. Red-gold light spilled from beneath it, and the musical ping of a hammer against metal carried through from the other side. Frolic approached the metal portal apprehensively. He pushed the door open. It swung in without the rusty screech Frolic expected. Obviously someone had thought to oil the hinges. Frolic ventured into the chamber, toward the sound of the hammer. He found himself in a cluttered workshop dominated by an anvil and forge. Various gears and parts decorated the walls in an organized fashion. The metal glinted beautifully in the firelight.

  A figure hunched over a heavy wooden workbench littered with bits of clockwork and items in various states of completion. Frolic hesitated. He watched the broad figure, silhouetted in the light of the lamp on the workbench, as he moved forward. A board creaked beneath his foot, and the person turned toward the sound.

  “Who’s there?” the figure asked. Frolic opened his mouth, but nothing came out. “Hello?” When the figure turned, Frolic could see her. She was plump, strong, with smooth, slightly tanned skin. She wore her strawberry hair in short pigtails that stood shockingly from her head. The strange woman wore a double-buttoned, leather waistcoat, modified goggles, and a complex tool belt. She still held her huge hammer in one hand, clearly ready to defend herself if she had to, and looking quite capable as well.

  “Hello,” Frolic whispered. “I’m Frolic.”

  “Cheers, Mr. Frolic.” The woman relaxed, lowered the hammer, and smiled. “My name’s Cornelia. In the employ of Lord Starling.” She marched up and offered her hand. Frolic stared at the hand, unsure how to react to the unladylike gesture. He’d never really unraveled the complexities of interacting with women or understood why they should be treated differently, but he knew society imposed certain rules. He didn’t want to misstep. His gaze traveled up to her warm expression and earnest smile. Frolic couldn’t help but return the smile, and he shook her offered hand. Rough calluses covered Cornelia’s palms.

  Frolic felt a tad self-conscious. She studied him as she slowly pumped his hand. “Are you a faerie?” she asked.

  “No.” Frolic shook his head. She thinks I’m lying, Frolic thought. I hope she doesn’t start screaming. Maybe I should just go. His fascination with the intricate items strewn over the bench, and with the woman who’d fashioned them, held him in place as she stared down at him.

  “But there’s something,” Cornelia stated. She squinted at Frolic, still shaking his hand. “You’re very pretty. A little too pretty, maybe.”

  “I’m—” Frolic paused, wondering if he should be honest with the odd girl. “I’m a—uh—well. I’m a clockwork. Kind of.”

  “Are you really?” she asked. She stretched Frolic’s eyelid as she peered into his eye, still slowly shaking his hand. He started to feel slightly awkward and wondered how to politely reclaim his hand when she finally released it.

  She circled Frolic excitedly, moving with more speed and frenetic energy than she seemed capable of at her size, lifting his arms, feeling his wrists, pinching and testing his skin. She flipped her goggles down and pulled Frolic’s lips open, inspecting his teeth and mouth.

  Her bizarrely magnified left eye made Frolic gasp. Normally he enjoyed being touched, loved being touched, but he didn’t sense affection from her. Appreciation, maybe, but it felt rather degrading to be examined in such a manner. She had no right to press her sweaty fingers into his mouth.

  Frolic grasped the young woman’s wrist and pulled her hand from his mouth. He pushed her to arm’s length and held her sturdy bones tight in his fist, knitting his brows as he looked into her light green eyes, one of them abnormally huge and detailed beneath her lens. “Just what do you think you’re doing? Do you always stick your fingers down the throats of people you just met? Or do you think it’s all right since I’m only a clockwork?”

  Her round cheeks colored, and she stammered. “I—only a clockwork? Bloody hell you’re strong. Look, I’m sorry. I—I didn’t mean any offense. Sometimes I forget how to act around people, since I spend so much time on my own. It’s just—you’re beautiful. I’ve never even imagined anything—anyone—like you. I got carried away, and I apologize. Can we start again?”

  Frolic released her arm and nodded. “Sorry. It’s nice to meet you.” He’d overreacted in a way he never would have before and almost hurt someone. Cornelia rubbed her wrist where he’d held it. But after a year of pursuit by people who saw him as nothing more than a tool or a weapon, who wanted to pick him apart without regards for his thoughts or feelings, self-preservation had become his instinctual response.

  “The pleasure is all mine,” she said, pushing the goggles back up over her hair. “Truly. But you are a marvel. If I might—that is, if you wouldn’t mind—I’d love a closer look. Think of it like an apprentice artist admiring a painting.”

  He couldn’t help but smile. Her respect felt sincere, and he noticed she tripped on her words when she grew nervous or excited. Still, she spoke well, more like Reg than Querry—

  “You won’t mind if I have a look at your work? Or bring some of mine down to see what you make of it?”

  “No, not at all,” she answered absently and retrieved an odd, cone-shaped implement from her table. “This is what they’ve given me as a temporary workspace on the voyage. It’s not much, but I’ll make do.” She turned with the strange instrument, lifting Frolic’s hair and poking it into Frolic’s ear. “Hmm.” She replaced the cone and grabbed a small, rubber mallet. “May I?” she asked.

  “I suppose so,” Frolic reluctantly agreed. No sooner had the words left his mouth than Cornelia had a stool hooked with her heavily booted foot, sliding it under his bum as she pushed him to a seated position. She laid her ear against Frolic’s thigh and used the mallet to strike his knee. His foot jumped slightly.

  “Fantastic,” Cornelia whispered. She moved her ear to Frolic’s bicep and struck his elbow. “First rate,” she commented. Cornelia abandoned his arm and leaned into Frolic’s chest. She used the mallet on Frolic’s ribs, and he started giggling. She sprang up, smiling. “You’re ticklish?” she asked, her eyes wide.

  “Apparently,” Frolic answered after catching his breath.

  “Brilliant!” Cornelia exclaimed and placed her ear on Frolic’s head. She struck his skull gently with the little mallet and squealed like a young girl. Frolic heard the metal of his skull resonating pleasantly. He smiled, never having noticed that before.

  “You. Are. Amazing.” Cornelia breathlessly enunciated each word and gathered Frolic into a powerful hug.

  “Thank you.” Frolic hugged her back. “You’re not so bad yourself, Cornelia. I’m sorry we got off to a rough start.”

  “Corny,” she said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Corny. My friends call me Corny.”

  “Are we friends now?”

  “I should say so! This trip is going to be brilliant. I’m so glad we’ve met, Frolic.”

  “I’m pretty fair at clockworks and mechanics, if you should need a hand,” Frolic offered.

  “Grand. I was just straightening the tooth on this sprocket.” Corny held up the item from her workbench. “Want to help me install it in the engine?”

  “Definitely,” Frolic replied. Cornelia grabbed Frolic’s hand and led him to the engine room.

  Chapter 6

  FOR THE next week or so, it rained constantly. Querry could scarcely believe the world contained as much water as the ever-present clouds dumped on the ship. He’d spent the better part of that week sick as a dog, emptying the contents of his stomach over the railing. By midweek he’d decided to just stop eating, and he was annoyed neither Reg nor Frolic had the same trouble. He supposed Frolic couldn’t get seasick, and Reg’s adoptive parents had been able to afford a few sea voyages, giving Reg the advantage of having gotten used to the rocking of the boat. Querry had only ever been on one other boat, a huge, passenger
steamship. Compared to this small vessel and the way it bobbed on the waves and pitched relentlessly from side to side, the steamship seemed as stable as dry land. Querry finally felt safe enough to try a bit of the hard bread from the galley. He sat picking small bits off and eating them as he pondered the ominous weather. It was as if the storm followed them, always overhead like an umbrella. No matter how hard the sporadic winds propelled them, how far they pushed the engines, or how many times they altered course, they couldn’t break away from it. Querry swore he hadn’t seen the sun since leaving Thalacea. For their entire voyage, they’d been suspended in a dank, dusk-like gloom.

  A dark splotch spread across the ceiling of their cabin, where it leaked like an old faucet into a rusted metal pail. Everything reeked of dampness. The coarse sheets and blankets felt heavy and soggy when Querry, Reg, and Frolic got into bed. Querry’s clothes seemed to cling to him, and some of the rivets of the outsides of his trousers started to rust. Worst of all, worse even than the seasickness, he felt restless. The weather kept them inside. Frolic spent time with the tinkerer, an awkward young woman with some brilliant theories about steamcraft and clockwork, but little charm or skill at conversation. Querry found Cornelia a little dull, but Frolic seemed content to work with her for silent hours on end. He worried about Reg. With little else to do, Reg slept much of the day, and when he wasn’t dozing or just lying in his bunk half-dressed, he talked of their inevitable aging and even demise. Sometimes he spoke wistfully of his childhood, talking more to himself about what might have been, ignoring any response from Querry or Frolic. Nothing they said or did banished his melancholy. Frolic looked like he’d been slapped every time he failed to cheer their companion.

  Now, they were sleeping face to face, their limbs twisted up beneath the sodden sheets, their foreheads pressed together. Querry bent and kissed each of them on the cheek. Frolic stirred, smiled, and puckered his lips as if to return the kiss, though his glorious eyes didn’t open. Reg didn’t move at all, even when Querry clutched his hair and tilted his head to look at his face. He swiped the back of his hand down Reg’s cheek. Querry loved Reg so much, had loved him for almost all he could remember of his life, and he just wanted to soothe his dark mood. Querry wanted to appease his dear Frolic’s confusion over his origins and purpose just as desperately, but he couldn’t do that, either. Not finding a solution to something he wished to accomplish felt very novel to Querry. It was so easy just to take what he wanted, or beat down something opposing him. It had been so much simpler on his own, not that he’d ever trade those lonely, meaningless days for what he had with Reg and Frolic. Being powerless just left a sour taste in his mouth, even worse than the one left by his illness.

  Querry pulled on his trousers, rumpled shirt, bracers, and boots. He didn’t bother with a cravat or even a jacket; as wet and miserable as they all were, nobody cared about formality. He made his way to the deck, deserted except for the most essential crewmen. He crossed the saturated planks, ignoring the tepid droplets pelting him. He’d been trying for a week to speak to his mysterious patron. Something difficult to acquire only made Querry desire it more; he knew and accepted this about himself. Therefore, when he reached the door to Lord Starling’s cabin, he didn’t knock and wait to be turned away. He simply entered.

  The aristocrat sat at his rolltop desk in nothing but a pair of loose, Auriental pants. A young, olive-skinned, Thalacean man, as perfect and beautiful as the statues his ancient ancestors cut from marble, reclined nude on the canopied bed. When Querry entered, the young man started, wrapped Starling’s brocade coverlet around his waist, and hurried from the cabin. Querry knew his surprise showed on his face, but the baron remained unaffected. Tom Teezle sat on the floor in the corner, arranging some colored ribbons across his folded knee. When he saw Querry, he quickly balled them up and stuffed them in his waistcoat pocket.

  “Mr. Knotte,” Starling said, raising an empty glass.

  “Please, call me Querry.”

  “Very well. Very well, Querry. Absinthe?”

  Querry shrugged, compelled by sheer boredom to accept.

  “Or can your stomach not take it?” Starling chided.

  “I’m fine now, damn it.” Querry almost growled. “And thirsty,” he added defiantly.

  Starling indicated a wooden chair in front of the desk, and Querry sat. Starling positioned the slotted spoons across the glasses, set a sugar cube on top of each one, and poured the chartreuse liqueur over them. He lit the cubes and let them burn for a moment, careful not to let the flame touch the alcohol in the goblets, before splashing some water over them and dousing the bluish fire. The liquid turned a milky, greenish white, and the baron slid a glass across the desk to Querry.

  Lifting his cup, Starling asked, “To what shall we drink?”

  Querry rolled his eyes. “Can’t think of much to toast so far on this job, to tell the truth. Bit of a mucky mess, isn’t it?”

  He didn’t know why, but Querry looked at Tom, sitting cross-legged in the corner. The fey showed him a satisfied smile, his green eyes glistening.

  “Why not offer Tom a drink?” Querry asked, again unsure of his intentions. Tom’s clever grin, beautiful in the way only a faerie could manage, made it worthwhile.

  “If it pleases you,” Starling said slowly, repeating the absinthe ritual a third time.

  When he finished, Querry took the glass to Tom, kneeling to his level, and then deciding to sit on the floor in front of him with his back to the aristocrat. If unattached, Querry might have been quite captivated by Tom and probably even pursued him. “Cheers, Tom,” he said, lifting his glass. Then, remembering something his gentleman had once said, he made a toast. “To the Endless Summer.”

  Genuine delight lit the small fey’s face, multiplying his beauty, as he raised his glass. “The Endless Summer.”

  “Does it give you a feeling of power to dismiss me, Querry? To ignore me so blatantly?” Starling said in a flat voice.

  “Does it give you a feeling of power to keep Tom as a servant?” Querry countered. As a barb, he added, “Do you feel superior by keeping him in bondage? Can’t you find yourself loyal, willing followers? Maybe there’s not much to inspire others to follow you, though.”

  “It would satisfy you if I got angry, if I retaliated, wouldn’t it? I won’t besmirch myself so.”

  “Arrogant prick,” Querry muttered.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Why the animosity all of a sudden, Mr.—Querry?”

  “All of a sudden? You trapped me, us, into this mess. Just like I’m sure you snared poor Tom here. Go on, deny it.”

  “I will not. There is a long tradition of wizards taking fey servants. That’s not why you hate me, though, is it? You hate the aristocracy, the rich.”

  “And why not? A few of you live off the suffering of thousands, and you couldn’t care less.” Querry downed his drink in three large gulps. It left his throat and nostrils burning. He wondered if his stomach could take it, though he’d never give Starling the satisfaction of knowing that. “You don’t even care. You think it’s your due, because of the silly title you inherited. Bollocks. I think I’ll go. I’m sorry I wasted your time. Tom, I hope we’ll speak again sometime.”

  Without waiting for a response from either of them, Querry stood, dropped his glass on Starling’s desk, and left the cabin in a far fouler mood than he’d entered it. More rain greeted him outside, drenching his clothing in only a few minutes. Querry didn’t care. He felt so confused. What had spurred his anger at Lord Starling? Sure, his oppression of Tom wasn’t right, but why had it come out in such an uncontrollable current? Was it just Querry’s boredom and frustration? He’d been so eager to find out more about his patron, but he’d spoiled it with his temper.

  Damn it.

  Querry shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and just stood on the deck, letting the rain soak him to his bones. How had he come to a point in his life where he found hi
mself beneath the thumb of a self-important aristocrat? Had all his decisions led him here? Querry never puzzled over his choices; he simply did what he felt the moment dictated. So far it had served him, but now—

  A sharp shove against his shoulder dragged Querry back to the present. He looked up to see one of the men in the mismatched military attire—one of the mercenaries, he wasn’t a fool—glaring down at him.

  “Outta my way, pretty boy,” said the big man with the close-cropped, graying hair. His accent belayed a bit of the north of Anglica. His associates, two tall, lank men with dark hair and neat beards, obviously brothers, chuckled as they watched Querry through eyes squinted from decades of campaigns.

  Querry reacted without thinking, as always. Almost on its own, his hand raised and shoved at the chest of a man half a foot taller and probably fifty pounds heavier than himself. “You have some sort of problem with me, mate?”

  “Yeah, you might say that,” the other man said. “You’re a filthy sneak thief, ain’t ya?”

  “I’ve done what I had to,” Querry said.

  The three mercenaries traded grins, before their leader said, “Sad. Absolutely fucking sad, ain’t it, lads? He thinks he’s had such a rough life. Let me tell you something, boy. You ain’t got no idea how hard life can be.”