by Raven Bond
Sir Stephen’s eyes flashed.
“Damnation, man, you’ve made who you don’t work for all too clear! I said help.” His hands clenched as they rested on his thighs.
“You claim that you find the Disintegrator so abhorrent,” he said with some heat. “How would you like to see it used on this city of yours?” He jerked his head at the view. “What happened on the field at Balaclava would be nothing compared to what would happen here. The weapon has been improved since then. All of this would be gone in the blink of an eye. I doubt even the Dragon could withstand it. If something isn’t done, that possibility is all too real, I can promise you.”
Owen sat back, keeping his face impassive.
“Go on.” He gestured to his old mentor to continue.
Sir Stephen paused to gather his thoughts, and leaned forward with his face much more composed.
“It is little advertised, but next week there is going to be a new series of trade talks here between the dual administrations of the city, both British and Imperial, and with the other Great Powers. The subject of the talks is about trade access to Hong Kong. The diplomatic and economic stakes are exceedingly high.” He waited until Owen nodded, understanding the situation.
“Last week, the head of the Austrian Embassy trade department, a chap named Kruger, was found dead. Three days ago, the head of one of the most prominent British trading houses, Lord Hastings, died in his front foyer.”
“I seem to recall hearing about that,” Owen said. “I was somewhat preoccupied, however.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Still, coincidences do happen.”
“I know about your activities,” Sir Stephen said dryly. His eyes glittered in the sun. “Last night, the head of the British Trade Board, Sir Stanley, was also found dead.”
Owen sat upright. “That is too much, even for coincidence.” He sat down his tea cup. “How did they die?”
Sir Stephen spread his hands, “No one is really sure. There are no reported signs of either violence or any of the forms of Magica at the scenes, not that the Austrians would be forthcoming about that. The ‘official’ cause of death in each case seems to be heart failure.” He held up a finger to forestall the comment Owen clearly wanted to make.
“Mind you, all three men were hale and hearty, with no known prior illness. The oldest was Sir John Hastings of Hastings Shipping and Trading, and he was fifty-one.”
Owen rubbed his chin, and then looked at Sir Stephen, frowning at what he was hearing. “Who do you suspect?”
Partridge slapped his thighs in frustration, going so far as to gesture broadly with his hands, in a rather continental fashion. “Rather say, who don’t I suspect, and that would only be the Aztecs.” He shook his head, in dismissal of his own conjecture.
“Not their style. Besides the fact that they do little trading outside the Western Hemisphere,” Partridge continued. “They are finding it too fruitful to poke at us across the borders of the American colonies, to find appeal in something like this situation.” He marked them off with his fingers.
“The Egyptians?” he asked. “They have no expansionist ambitions that we are aware of.” He bent another finger in his macabre count.
“The Persians are well known to want a port such as Hong Kong, but their new boy-King seems reluctant to advance.” Partridge closed another finger into his palm.
“That leaves us to consider the Austrians.” Partridge raised an eyebrow at Owen, and received a nod in return.
“We have good intelligence that the Austrians are massing a war fleet in some little cluster of islands near Hong Kong.” Partridge leaned forward. “We are almost certain they will have a Disintegrator, and if they do, that they will use it. It will be Balaclava all over again.”
“By the merciful gods,” Owen breathed for a moment as it all came back to him. Owen remembered battle of Balaclava too well. His nightmares would never let him forget it.
It happened during the Crimean War, with the Alliance of Russia, England, and Austria, fighting against Persians. As a covert operative at the time, Owen had crossed the battle lines to warn the Allied garrison at Sebastopol of a surprise Persian attack.
He remembered the tense faces of the commanders as he reported, and his own shortness of breath from the mad dash. He even remembered the smell of his own fear, and the sudden greyness on the faces of the commanders as he delivered the news. Thirty thousand Persians, composed of regulars, Animated, Necromancers, plus a thousand of the elite Magia-wielding warriors called “Immortals”, were even then advancing on their position.
He remembered the laugh of the general of the Austrians as he boasted, too soon, that it meant even more “demon sinners for them to send to hell.”
The Holy Austrian Empire disavowed any use of Magia, claiming that their goddess decreed it so. Having no Sorcerers, Animated or Constructs to add to their battle line, they were likened to weak children on the modern battlefield. Owen wasn’t sure what the Austrian commander was referring to; however, it had seemed vainglorious to him at the time. He had shrugged it off, knowing only that the Austrians were fanatics. They were a people who covered their faces from the world, lest their Sun-Goddess see their visages and find one of them ‘unworthy.’
He remembered, uneasily, that the next morning had dawned as clear as could be. Owen had taken his place amongst the spell-casters of the British Regiment. They were literally outnumbered three to one, but their morale was high, and they were ready and willing to fight to the last. Owen felt proud to be among such brave soldiers, and such courageous warriors as these men and women.
He had tensed as he saw the moving line that was the Persian Animated. The Animated moved in a fast shuffle, with brutal cleavers and great swords in their undead hands.
“Steady on,” called the Magi’s Colonel. She walked up and down the rows, inspecting the enlisted and the Magia, confirming to herself that they were ready. She met the eyes of many in the ranks as she passed, giving them encouragement, and her confidence.
“Watch out for their Necromancers,” she warned. “Sing out when you spot one, everyone, and then concentrate your casting. Ignore the Animated. Every filthy Necro we bring down kills a hundred of them. Steady on.”
Owen had noted a strange thing out of the corner of his eye. The Austrian section of the line had opened to allow a peculiar vehicle to come forth from between their ranks. Behind its smoke stack rose a box-shaped device of some kind. Owen watched as tiny men made adjustments to it.
The vehicle stopped and seemed to emit a strange vibration, one that Owen could feel through the ground— even at a distance. As the vibration grew stronger, he noticed that the Persian line began to falter. Suddenly, an Animated exploded in the first rank, quickly followed by more. But it wasn’t just the Animated who were flying apart in a crimson carnage. The Persian Immortals on griffin–back soon began dying with just as much violence.
The vibrations began to climb in repetition and intensity. Owen saw the Austrians run away, only to succumb to the hideous device themselves, destroyed by the vibrations before they had gone a dozen paces.
Everyone the vibrations touched clutched their heads in agony. Around Owen the Magi also began to scream in anguish before falling down dead, blood running form their ears and eyes.
Swearing, Owen raised the double shield that the Order had taught him, only just in time to avoid the same fate. As soon as he was shielded, he began preparing a fire bolt to defend against the machine.
Crying as his comrades fell around him, he launched the bolt. When it struck the evil device, there was a huge explosion, followed by the absence of everything.
When Owen awoke from that cataclysm, he was in shock. That moment was when his new life had begun. In horror and agony. But it would not do to continue to think of that time now, and best to avoid thinking of that time at all in the presence of Sir Stephen Partridge.
He shook himself mentally, pushing aside the memories, and reached for his tea cup. In that moment h
e wished the tea was something much stronger, but he would show no possible weakness before Partridge.
“Surely even the Austrians aren’t that mad,” Owen protested.
Sir Stephen gave an elegant shrug.
“Our intelligence tells us that if they succeed in assassinating the British Head of Trade, The Duke of Claremore, when he arrives for these talks, they will declare Hong Kong an ungoverned city, and march in to restore order.” Sir Stephen harrumphed at this.
“Order for the Austrians would look like total devastation. I doubt even the Dragon could survive contact with a Disintegrator.”
“The help…” the old man emphasized the word, “I would ask of you, is to find this assassin before they can kill the Duke of Claremore and start a war. I fear such a war, a world war, would be the end of us all.” His face looked to Owen for a moment to be grey and haggard, before he composed himself and restored his glamour again. After a few breaths, he appeared once more, the hale, yet elder gentleman.
“Will you help us all, Owen?”
Owen took his time lighting another cigarette. As the smoke blew out his nose he finally spoke.
“Why me?” He turned his head to look out at the city that now appeared to have come under threat from the same horror that haunted him from the past.
“You have only yourself to blame for that,” Partridge said dryly. “We did have a reasonably competent, permanent, field agent here. However, that was before you killed him last night.”
Owen’s head whipped around, “Renton? Renton was a member of the Order?”
“Don’t go all righteous on me,” he demanded. Partridge’s voice sharpened. “Yes, we knew what his hobby was. If we had any idea that he had fallen so far…” Again, the elegant shrug, “That’s what we get for not having enough senior agents.” That Owen had been one of those senior agents went unspoken.
Owen looked out at the city below him. The thought of it ravaged by the unholy arts of the Austrians was not to be borne.
“Alright, I’ll look into it.”
Partridge smiled at him. “Good show.” He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a hand-sized piece of white, polished stone. “You may find this useful.”
Owen carefully took it from him. The writing on one side caught his breath: “Be it know that the bearer of this does the work of the Crown. All aid and assistance shall be given unto them. Regina Elizabeth, the Third of that Name.” He stared at it, willing his eyes to focus, but the words didn’t change.
“Carte blanche, my boy,” Partridge said. “For the Wooded One’s sake, use it well.” He stood up. “Now if you don’t mind, I have a sky ship to take.” He held up his empty hand. “May I pick up my cane?”
“Provided you tuck it under your arm,” Owen ordered. The old man did as he was asked, making a show of it.
“Barton will show you out,” Owen stated blandly.
Partridge looked at Owen in surprise. Courtesy demanded that Owen show Partridge out, if they were allies.
“If that’s how you want it,” Partridge said gruffly, “So be it.”
“Do not make the mistake of thinking that this changes anything, Partridge,” Owen replied coldly.
Barton shortly appeared at Sir Stephen’s side to escort him out.
“Just don’t fail at this,” he snapped at Owen. He followed Barton out without another word.
Owen poured himself a fresh cup of tea, wrapping his silk robe more firmly about him. Suddenly he felt chilled, despite the warmth of the day. He gazed off into the distance at the mountains and the bay, and then moved his gaze over the city. Finally, he spoke to Jinhao, his gaze still on the view before him.
“Well, I apologize for having my past make such an unpleasant intrusion on a beautiful day.”
“Owen, who was that man?” She asked the question carefully, with unaccustomed hesitance.
Owen sighed, and turned to face her directly.
“Yes, I used to belong to a secret service of the British Crown called the Obsidian Order,” he confirmed. “I really can’t tell you much more than that without risking your life, which I will not do.”
Jinhao nodded, and decided to approach the matter from a different angle.
“Is what he was saying about the city and the Austrians true? I thought they disavowed your Magia.”
Owen lit yet another cigarette, giving his tense hands something to do.
“Oh yes, they disavow it. Their Goddess tells them it is wrong. Except that somehow Alchemy, and what they call ‘Physicks,’ is very much allowed and is assiduously cultivated.” He exhaled a cloud of obscuring smoke before continuing.
“As for the Disintegrator, it does exist. I have seen it at work.” He turned towards Jinhao. “I do not doubt for a moment that the Austrians would use it.”
“What shall we do then?”
Owen gave her his wry grin.
“We, is it? I shall value your presence on this. Mind you, it will hardly be the romp that finding the Duke’s daughter was.”
“Where do we begin,” she asked.
Owen closed his eyes until they were a mere slit in his face, as he sometimes did when thinking hard. Then he tilted his head at her, a subtle smile quirking his thin lips.
“How do you feel about playing a widow?”
Chapter 6
The British Embassy, Main Street
“This way, My Lord, and eh, Madam.” Phineas Horton, Third Secretary of the British Embassy, ducked his head as he entered the low door to the morgue at the bottom of an unremarkable set of stairs.
The morgue existed for British citizens who had asked that their remains be returned to the homeland. Given the general uneasiness death caused the living, its presence in the building was signaled only by a discreet plaque on a plain door at the top of the stairs.
In the center of the chilled room, which smelled of carbolic, formaldehyde and alcohol, stood a single table with a sheet draped over it.
An older man, with out-sized muttonchops that were as gray as the rest of his clothing, came striding towards them, wiping his hands on a towel.
“Here now,” he said sharply, “What is all this, Horton?”
Secretary Horton wrung his hands, clearly uncomfortable with the situation, his role in it, and the place in which he found himself.
“Please forgive the intrusion, Doctor,” he murmured, “but we have a bit of a delicate situation.” He waved a hand towards Owen and Jinhao.
“This is Lord Ivers, second cousin of the niece of Sir Brandon. He just arrived by sky ship this morning. And this…” the Secretary gestured vaguely in Jinhao’s cloaked direction, but did not look at her directly. He directed his embarrassed gaze at the floor, and coughed discreetly.
“This is Mi-Ling, a distant relative of Sir Brandon.” He coughed again, and looked at the doctor. “A close, but em, eh, a distant relationship,” he said rather awkwardly. “They wish to pay their respects.”
The doctor’s eyebrows briefly rose, as he caught the implication that Jinhao, or rather Mi-Ling, was the deceased Sir Brandon’s undeclared mistress. He stepped forward, extending a hand to Owen.
“Doctor Marston, Embassy physician,” he declared. “My sympathies, Milord. A shocking thing that he should be taken from us so young.” Releasing Owen’s hand, the old doctor gave a formal bow to Jinhao.
“You have my deepest condolences on your loss, Madam.”
“Thank you,” Jinhao said in a voice that held just the right amount of quaver, Owen thought with admiration. He was surprised as he had no idea she could be such an accomplished actor. She stared at the table, her delicate hand obviously trembling.
“Is that Brandon?” she whispered.
“It is,” Doctor Marston said to her gravely. He continued to address Mi-Ling, while he looked a question at Owen.
“Are you certain that you wish to do this? I have cared for the body as I may, but still it is not for the delicate of constitution.”
“I was just off s
hip when I heard the terrible news,” Owen said mournfully. “I gathered Mi-Ling and came here directly. I wonder if you can tell us how Uncle Brandon passed on.”
“Heart attack,” the doctor said with conviction. “The poor soul was found collapsed in the front foyer of the Embassy. I assure you, Milord, that we did all that we could.” He sniffed dismissively, “We even called in the Embassy Sorcerer, but there was nothing to be done.” Marston glanced at Owen’s electrum cane and his face stiffened as he thought better of his last words. Some Sorcerers were very touchy about their powers, and only too happy to prove them.
Owen gave his most charming smile to the man. It was clear that the Doctor was one of those who distrusted Sorcerers, despite their having been part of British culture for centuries. Some people naturally distrusted what they could not have themselves. Owen didn’t blame the man. He distrusted Sorcerers as well, only for very different reasons.
“Yes, well,” Owen drawled. “I’m sure you did everything you could. Whole thing would have been a bit above me, being only an apprentice Fire caller.” He hefted the cane carelessly. “Still, it’s a bit of tradition on our side of the family, you see; must keep up appearances.”
Owen watched the Doctor’s face relax. Fire callers were a penny a dozen, as most could barely light a lamp, and thus were unlikely to either take offense, or be a serious threat.
“The Secretary here tells me that the body is to be shipped home tonight,” Owen continued, “so this may be Mi-Ling’s only chance to say good-bye.” Owen managed to look both sincere and bothered at the same time. Clearly he was only attempting to do the family duty, and wanted to be done with it as soon as possible.
“Please,” Jinhao stood by the table, her eyes fixed on the sheet. “Please, may I see him?”
The Doctor stirred himself, coming over to the table, and then took a firm grasp of the sheet covering the body.
“Of course,” he said quietly. “Please be brave.” He pulled back the sheet, and Jinhao gave a great keening cry, collapsing on the dead man’s chest with intense bouts of sobbing.
