by Sean Wallace
“It’s true,” Jessaline said, stalling desperately in hopes that some solution would present itself to her. “This man refused my request to build the device.”
“Then why did you come back here?” Forstall asked, tightening his grip on Eugenie so that she gasped. “We had men watching the house servants, too. We intercepted orders for metal parts and rubber tubing, and I paid the glassmith to delay an order for custom vacuum-pipes—”
“You did that?” To Jessaline’s horror, Eugenie stiffened in Forstall’s grasp, trying to turn and glare at him in her affront. “I argued with that old fool for an hour!”
“Eugenie, be still!” cried Norbert, which raised him high in Jessaline’s estimation; she had wanted to shout the same thing.
“I will not!” Eugenie began to struggle, plainly furious. As Forstall cursed and tried to restrain her, Jessaline heard Eugenie’s protests continue: “ … interference with my work … very idea …”
Please, Holy Mother, Jessaline thought, taking a very careful step closer to the gun on the sideboard, don’t let him shoot her to shut her up.
When Forstall finally thrust Eugenie aside – she fell against the bottle-strewn side table, nearly toppling it – and indeed raised the gun to shoot her, Jessaline blurted, “Wait!”
Both Forstall and Eugenie froze, now separated and facing each other, though Forstall’s gun was still pointed dead at Eugenie’s chest. “The plans are complete,” Jessaline said to him. “They are in the workshop out back.” With a hint of pride, she looked at Eugenie and added, “Eugenie has made it work.”
“What?” said Rillieux, looking thunderstruck.
“What?” Forstall stared at her, then Eugenie, and then anger filled his expression. “Clever, indeed! And while I go out back to check if your story is true, you will make your escape with the plans already tucked into your clothes.”
“I am not lying in this instance,” she said, “but if you like, we can all proceed to the garden and see. Or, since I’m the one you seem to fear most …” She waggled her empty hands in mockery, hoping this would make him too angry to notice how much closer she was to the gun on the sideboard. His face reddened further with fury. “You could leave Eugenie and her brother here, and take me alone.”
Eugenie caught her breath. “Jessaline, are you mad?”
“Yes,” Jessaline said, and smiled, letting her heart live in her face for a moment. Eugenie’s mouth fell open, then softened into a small smile. Her glasses were still askew, Jessaline saw with a rush of fondness.
Forstall rolled his eyes, but smiled. “A capital suggestion, I think. Then I can shoot you—”
He got no further, for in the next instant Eugenie suddenly struck him in the head with a rum bottle.
The bottle shattered on impact. Forstall cried out, half-stunned by the blow and the sting of rum in his eyes, but he managed to keep his grip on the gun, and keep it trained more or less on Eugenie. Jessaline thought she saw the muscles in his forearm flex to pull the trigger –
– and then the sixgun was in her hand, its wooden grip warm and almost comforting as she blew a hole in Raymond Forstall’s rum-drenched head. Forstall uttered a horrid gurgling sound and fell to the floor.
Before his body stopped twitching, Jessaline caught Eugenie’s hand. “Hurry!” She dragged the other woman out of the parlor. Norbert, again to his credit, started out of shock and trotted after them, for once silent as they moved through the house’s corridors toward the garden. The house was nearly deserted now, the servants having fled or found some place to hide that was safe from gunshots and madmen.
“You must tell me which of the papers on your desk I can take,” Jessaline said as they trotted along, “and then you must make a decision.”
“Wh-what decision?” Eugenie still sounded shaken.
“Whether you will stay here, or whether you will come with me to Haiti.”
“Haiti?” Norbert cried.
“Haiti?” Eugenie asked, in wonder.
“Haiti,” said Jessaline, and as they passed through the rear door and went into the garden, she stopped and turned to Eugenie. “With me.”
Eugenie stared at her in such dawning amazement that Jessaline could no longer help herself. She caught Eugenie about the waist, pulled her near, and kissed her most soundly and improperly, right there in front of her brother. It was the sweetest, wildest kiss she had ever known in her life.
When she pulled back, Norbert was standing at the edge of her vision with his mouth open, and Eugenie looked a bit faint. “Well,” Eugenie said, and fell silent, the whole affair having been a bit much for her.
Jessaline grinned and let her go, then hurried forward to enter the workshop – and froze, horror shattering her good mood.
The bootblack man was gone. Where his body had been lay Jessaline’s derringer and copious blood, trailing away … to Eugenie’s worktable, where the plans had been, and were no longer. The trail then led away, out of the workshop’s rear door.
“No,” she whispered, her fists clenching at her sides. “No, by God!” Everything she had worked for, gone. She had failed, both her mission and her people.
“Very well,” Eugenie said after a moment. “Then I shall simply have to come with you.”
The words penetrated Jessaline’s despair slowly. “What?”
Eugenie touched Jessaline’s hand. “I will come with you. To Haiti. And I will build an even more efficient methane extractor for you there.”
Jessaline turned to stare at her and found that she could not, for her eyes had filled with tears.
“Wait.” Norbert caught his breath as understanding dawned. “Go to Haiti? Are you mad? I forbid—”
“You had better come too, brother,” Eugenie said, turning to him, and Jessaline was struck breathless once more by the cool determination in her eyes. “The police will take their time about it, but they’ll come eventually, and a white man lies dead in our house. It doesn’t really matter whether you shot him or not; you know full well what they’ll decide.”
And Norbert stiffened, for he did indeed know – probably better than Eugenie, Jessaline suspected – what his fate would be.
Eugenie turned to Jessaline. “He can come, can’t he?” By which Jessaline knew it was a condition, not an option.
“Of course he can,” she said at once. “I wouldn’t leave a dog to these people’s justice. But it will not be the life you’re used to, either of you. Are you certain?”
Eugenie smiled, and before Jessaline realized what was imminent, she had been pulled rather roughly into another kiss. Eugenie had been eating penuche again, she realized dimly, and then for a long perfect moment she thought of nothing but pecans and sweetness.
When it was done, Eugenie searched Jessaline’s face and then smiled in satisfaction. “Perhaps we should go, Jessaline,” she said gently.
“Ah. Yes. We should, yes.” Jessaline fought to compose herself; she glanced at Norbert and took a deep breath. “Fetch us a hansom cab while you still can, Monsieur Rillieux, and we’ll go down to the docks and take the next dirigible southbound.”
The daze cleared from Norbert’s eyes as well; he nodded mutely and trotted off.
In the silence that fell, Eugenie turned to Jessaline.
“Marriage,” she said, “and a house together. I believe you mentioned that?”
“Er,” said Jessaline, blinking. “Well, yes, I suppose, but I rather thought that first we would—”
“Good,” Eugenie replied, “because I’m not fond of you keeping up this dangerous line of work. My inventions should certainly earn enough for the both of us, don’t you think?”
“Um,” said Jessaline.
“Yes. So there’s no reason for you to work when I can keep you in comfort for the rest of our days.” Taking Jessaline’s hands, she stepped closer, her eyes going soft again. “And I am so very much looking forward to those days, Jessaline.”
“Yes,” said Jessaline, who had been wondering just
which of her many sins had earned her this mad fortune. But as Eugenie’s warm breast pressed against hers, and the thick perfume of the magnolia trees wafted around them, and some clockwork contraption within the workshop ticked in time with her heart … Jessaline stopped worrying. And she wondered why she had ever bothered with plans and papers and gadgetry, because it was clear she had just stolen the greatest prize of all.
The Clockwork Goat and the Smokestack Magi
Peter M. Ball
Attend – in the darkest streets of Unden there lay a coal-filled fen known as Moloch Alley, a place filled with men who possessed souls with the consistency of smoke, stained and dirty, willing to drift with the whims of the wind and disappear, poof, when the storm winds whistled between the looming factories. A cold place, and a mean one, the air thick with black smoke and men cursed with black lungs and wicked coughs and few hopes for the future. And into this alley walked a clockwork goat, trip-trapping, tick-tocking, marching stiff-legged and determined down the soot-stained cobblestones. It walked into the darkness until it arrived at the copper door of the Smokestack Magi’s home, a portal laid flush with the bellowing red-brick chimney of a smelting house, as though one could walk through it and into the roaring furnace beyond.
There were stories, even then, that spoke of the door and its owner. The door was never hot, not even warm, no matter how much smoke billowed forth from the tip of the smokestack, and there were sigils carved into its surface with a delicate hand. The stories said that the only visitors to whom the Magi’s door opened were exotic creatures and mysteries. There had been a hippogriff once, or so it was said, not three years prior – a sleek beast with grey-black feathers and sharp teeth used for rending flesh. Before that there had been a marsh troll, and there were stories, older still, about a mermaid, scaled and beautiful, who had been wheeled along the alley’s cobblestones in a great tank of brackish water by her small flotilla of slaves, who had knocked and gained admittance but failed to emerge after that.
And now there was the clockwork goat, a device no more than three feet tall with ticking parts of silver. Not even a living thing, not quite, but it looked close enough and there are stories about goats, even here, far from the fireside tales of their childhood, and thus no one molested the small creature, allowing it to approach the Magi’s door without harm when any normal man would fear for his life in the dark shadows of Moloch Alley.
The goat marched up to the door and knocked with one hoof, rapping it against the burnished copper, before settling on its haunches in a flurry of sharp clicks and grinding gears. For three days the goat waited there, sitting on the doorstep while Moloch Alley filled with smoke and dust and ashes, and every day, on the last bell of the thirteenth hour, the clockwork goat would rise and knock and settle on its haunches once more.
It was not until the fourth day that the copper door swung open, magically, before the sharp rat-a-tat of the goat’s knock. The goat stood, watching the darkness, until the Magi appeared through the smoke and studied his visitor. He was a short man, black-robed, with eyes like polished coal, and he watched the goat with suspicion on his face. “So,” he said, stroking his beard of glowing embers. “You’re one of Bartholomew’s pieces. He gets desperate, it seems, in his dotage.”
The clockwork goat nodded and its jaw dropped open, and it spoke in a tinny voice that hummed like a plucked string on a viola. “My master sends greetings, Lord Magi of the Smokestack. He wishes peace between you, and I have come as he bid me as an offer of goodwill.”
The Smokestack Magi studied the goat through hooded eyelids. “Bartholomew may be ageing,” he said, “but he remains ever wily. What assurances do I have that it is safe to entertain your presence?”
“You have entertained giants, and ghosts, and unicorns. What need have you to fear a simple construct like me? My master wishes peace, to reach an accord between you. I come bearing his knowledge, his research, and his friendship.”
“There are stories about a horse,” the Magi said, “which was offered in friendship and caused the downfall of an empire.”
“That there are,” said the clockwork goat. “I am not a horse.”
“You are not,” replied the Smokestack Magi, “but this matter requires contemplation. I will retire for a day to ponder the mystery you represent. Knock again tomorrow, and I will consider your request again.”
And so the Magi left and the clockwork goat waited another day, drawing curious eyes from the men of Moloch Alley who crept closer and closer as shadows grew long. The goat did not move, and at the thirteenth hour of the fifth day the goat knocked once more and waited until the Smokestack Magi returned, stepping through his copper doorway with flames roaring at his heels. He smoked his pipe and stood over the goat, puffing gently as he regarded it with a frown and quizzical eyes.
“I have researched,” he said, “and considered, and pondered the mysteries of your creation. A goat? Why that? What purpose is there in this form when all the beasts and birds of nature are at Bartholomew’s disposal? Why a goat, of all things? If you are possessed of all his knowledge, tell me this so that I may consider your offer in the spirit with which it is made.”
“There are stories,” the goat said, “of goats serving as a sacrifice, carrying the sins of a tribe into the desert. There are stories of goats providing succor to gods, providing them with abundant nourishment to ensure they grew up strong. Perhaps my master intended both, perhaps he did not. Perhaps I am both, a symbol of past sins and succor for your future friendship. Perhaps I am not.”
“Perhaps?” asked the Smokestack Magi. He puffed upon his pipe, sending black smoke into the air.
“I know all that my master knew, but I do not think with his thoughts. I can tell you what he has learned, but not what he plans to do with such knowledge.”
“A good answer, but not a comforting one,” the Magi said. “This requires contemplation. Knock again tomorrow, when I have pondered your offer further.”
And another day wore on and the clockwork goat waited patiently, his ticking filling the silent seconds between the moans and groans of the factories. And again the men of Moloch Alley grew closer, close enough to study the mechanical beast and see their grubby faces in the sheen of the goat’s silver carapace. They whispered to one another, afraid, falling back when dawn grew close, and the clockwork goat waited and knocked on the door, and when the Magi returned once more the denizens of the alley were hidden in the shadows.
“I remain conflicted,” the Magi said. “For your offer is tempting, too tempting by half. I have warred with Bartholomew for a century now, competing with him for the favour of the Crown and the merchants. I have been driven by that contest, that need to best him in the eyes of others and become the greatest magi in the land. I know he once felt as I do, that he was driven to his success by our rivalry. So I ask you, good goat, why he wishes to make peace between the two of us now?”
“Perhaps he sees greater discoveries made by combining your intellects, with two thoughts achieving what one mind cannot,” the clockwork goat said. “Perhaps he wishes to study in peace, for its own sake, rather than focusing his work on the necessity of building favor with men and women of influence. Perhaps he concedes defeat in your contest, and sends me as a concession of your superior brilliance.”
“You do not know?” the Magi said. “You cannot tell me why he sent you?”
“I know all that he knew, but I do not know his thoughts.”
“Then again I am conflicted, and you must await another day for my answer.”
Then the Smokestack Magi disappeared in a swirl of smoke, slamming his door behind him with a thump like an engine’s piston. Once again the clockwork goat waited, silent on the doorstep, but this time the denizens of Moloch Alley crept forth, peering and prodding the silver chassis of the construct.
“If you know all that a magi knows, then you have the secret of their magic,” one of the denizens said. He was a tall man, reedy, with eyes that looked like
they’d been stolen from a ferret and shined up until they gleamed with cunning and guile. “Would you tell us, if we asked it? Could you tell me a great magi’s secrets?”
“I know all that my master knew, all the formulas, the theories and the science,” the goat said. “I know all my master knew, but I could not tell you his thoughts.”
“Then tell us,” the ferret-eyed man said, for he had intelligence enough to seize on an opportunity when it was presented to him. “We would soak up what you know, and use it to improve our lot.”
And so the clockwork goat recited the formulas and the theories and the science, night after night as he stood there waiting on the Magi’s steps. Every day the denizens of the alley would scatter when the Smokestack Magi emerged to ask his questions, holding their breath while they waited for the Magi’s decision to wait a day longer. Every night the denizens of Moloch Alley learned more, until they had mastered many secrets and became magi themselves. They learned the magic of the cog, and of steam and coal. They learned the power of the furnace and spread it through the city like a plague of rats, driven by the dangerous combination of avarice and knowledge that has marked all the great magi.
Unden became a place of wonders, a place where science and magic prospered, though with so many magi spread across the boroughs the Smokestack Magi found it hard to maintain favor amongst the nobles and merchants of the court. He grew poorer and weaker, and the copper door tarnished as he lacked the power to keep it whole. Moloch Alley remained a place frequented by ne’er-do-wells, but now they were men who had heard tales of the clockwork goat, canny brigands and greedy gamblers who wished to know all the goat knew. They leaned on the doorstep of the Smokestack Magi’s home, but he had not the sense to open his door and see where his competition came from.
And so things continued, and so things went, until one day, three years after the goat had first arrived, the Smokestack Magi opened the door and invited it inside. “It is decided,” the Magi said. “I accept your master’s offer. You will teach me all you know, and I shall use it to best this upstart magi in my city.”
