Tuesday, September 19, 2017

Oh Baby

My baby is here! Oh my gosh, my baby is here. I am so full of love it's overwhelming.

I'm also tired, sore, sleep deprived, tired, hungry, sleepy, and did I mention tired? Because I am.

I will have more Tower for you as soon as childishly possible, but my kiddo has needs, and those include most of my time and brain power at the moment. First kid, what can I say? There's a learning curve.

Thanks for being patient, and for the lovely well wishes :)

Tuesday, September 12, 2017

Moving Things Up--ie, Why There's No Tower Today

Hi guys.

So, there should be a chapter here, yeah? Or at least half a chapter. But life has gotten in the way, in a BIG way. After a doctor's appointment last week, it was decided that Baby Girl needs to come out sooner rather than later, so tomorrow we're going in to be induced. Technically she's full term and everything looks like it's working okay, we're just three weeks earlier than I thought we'd be.

Three weeks. Three WEEKS. I was counting on having those weeks to get all sorts of stuff done, and now life has turned into a mad dash of getting the house ready, buying whatever else we might need, making preparations for our dog, readying ourselves for the hospital--you get the drill. I've been the next best thing to frantic, and tired and super pregnant to boot, so...yeah. I wish I'd gotten it done, but I didn't. I don't know when the next chapter will post, since after tomorrow I'll have a tiny human depending on my and my man, and our tiny human expertise is limited. I see a lot of trial and error in my future.

I'm excited to welcome my baby, though, and excited to get the pregnancy part of this experience over with, and excited about labor--or, wait, that might be anxiety. Probably anxiety. I'll try to let you guys know how things go as soon as possible. In the meantime, thanks for reading (or trying to read) and best of luck in whatever you're doing this next week.

Cari

Tuesday, September 5, 2017

The Tower: Chapter Three, Part One

Notes: It's body time! Let's investigate some death miasmas, shall we?

Title: The Tower: Chapter Three, Part One

***


Chapter Three, Part One


The first morgue on their list was not far from the magnificent Grossmünster Cathedral, a holy place dating from the time of Charlemagne. Its grounds had served as a burial place for over eight centuries, so perhaps it was no wonder that a morgue had found its way into the church’s shadow. Those in the community who were better off would surely prefer to bury their dead in the church graveyard, and a conveniently placed morgue was essential for keeping a body fresh before burial, even in a cool locale like Zürich. It was nothing like the places Anton had worked in London, with stained bricks and wet slabs and bodies piling up in the back while he cast spell after spell, confirming cause of death and, in some cases, illuminating it.

It had been necessary, honorable work, but the stink of the nearby Thames, rotting bodies and ever-burning crematoriums had seeped into his clothing, his hair, and even his skin by the end of a day. Even the harshest soaps could not entirely scrub him clean, not in one washing, and no matter how his mother had tried, essence of lavender and extract of lemon were no match for particles of immolated fat. Anton had not been in a position to refuse to do such work, but when the chance at getting his Master’s had come along, he had seized it with both hands.

The morgue they entered now was a crisp, clean place, its front whitewashed and very visible even in the low light. An elderly man carrying a taper met them at the door. “You’re the investigators here to view the young gentlemen, I take it?” he asked calmly.

“Indeed.” Camille held out a hand and the two men shook. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with us at this early hour. This is my colleague, Herr Vogt.”

“Herr Vogt.” The old man smiled thinly. “And you the emperor’s lumière. Quite the hardy knot of justice looking into these deaths.” His smile vanished. “These poor lads should have been buried two days ago, Monsieur Lumière. It is not seemly to make the dead wait for their final resting place with the Lord.”

“It would be even less seemly for them to go to their eternal rest with their murders unresolved,” Camille rejoined. “They cannot speak for themselves now, so allow my colleague and I to discover what we may of them. If we can prevent this tragedy from befalling other talented young men, I will consider the sacrifice of their wait well worth it.”

The man grumbled a little, but turned aside and waved them through. “They are in the back, next to Frau Fischer. Go straight down the hall, it is the final door, and unlocked. No one has been inside since yesterday, when we brought the good woman in. Her husband is also anxiously awaiting the release of his dear wife’s body, so I implore you—make haste.”

“You have followed protocol most precisely, my thanks.” Camille bowed slightly, and the man handed over the taper with an incline of his own head. “We shall be gone before the next hour is struck.”

“I shall hope for it, Monsieur.” He locked the front door behind them, then disappeared upstairs. Camille didn’t bother to watch him go, just strode down the hall so fast Anton was hard-pressed to keep up at first.

“Do you want to go in by yourself first?” Camille asked, stopping in front of the door. “I remember that being quite important on the train.”

Anton shook his head. “The bodies have already been taken from their original resting places. I won’t get much out of their surroundings at this point. We’ll be lucky to get five seconds of miasma here, and it likely won’t be repeatable for long, so do join me.”

“Very well.” Still, he hung back and let Anton lead now, which was…heartening. He pushed the door open and stepped into the chill of the morgue.

However this proprietor was keeping the place cold, he was doing an excellent job of it. Anton could see his own breath in the faint light, and he rubbed his hands together briefly before approaching the first slab. He eased back the linen covering the man’s face and took in the white collar around his ruined neck. “The priest.”

“Father Jeremiah Brooks,” Camille confirmed. “A strange target, even for someone going after magically-talented Englishmen. He had enough ability to rank as a full priest, but Father Brooks was no true thaumaturge. The most interesting thing about him was his wanderlust.”

“Perhaps there will be something more to glean upon seeing his death miasma.” Anton took a step back and opened his holdall. “Please position yourself against the wall while I make the spell.”

“Of course.” Camille stepped back and then there was just Anton and the work he knew like the back of his hand. He pulled out a small silver bowl, set it on the floor, then inscribed a circle of symbols around it in chalk. From those, he drew a straight line over to the slab, ending it just shy of Father Brook’s head. He knelt again, pulled out the mixture of herbs and metals that went hand in hand with conjuring a miasma, and set the sachet inside the bowl.

He took out a match and a paper fan, closed his eyes and drew in his power along with his breath, then spoke the triggering spell. The match lit, and he lowered it to the herbs, which blazed far brighter than such a little package should have. The fire died just as quickly, and Anton used the fan to waft the smoke toward the body, allowing nothing to disturb his focus and concentration. The chalk acted like an updraft, drawing the smoke to the slab. It collected over the body, then stilled. Anton held his breath. Perhaps it had been too long, perhaps he was too late…

Suddenly the smoke coalesced into the wavering form of a standing man. His head snapped back as though he’d been struck, and he fell to his knees. His hands rose in front of him, and a moment later, a gush of smoke erupted from his hazy throat. The man fell onto his side, the life flowing out of him, and a moment later, the scene reset.

Anton let it play twice more before Camille finally said, “Enough.” He erased the primary glyph holding the spell together, and the smoke began to dissipate. Camille stepped up to his side, his expression intent. “Interesting.”

“Why?”

“Because he was not bound. His hands were free right up to the end. It makes me think he either knew his attacker, or was seeing them in a professional capacity before they went for him. Father Brooks was found in his rooms, but he was known to have visitors on occasion.”

“Professional capacity.” Anton finally caught up. “You mean, he was acting as someone’s priest? A confessor, perhaps?”

“Perhaps. Or just a friendly ear in a foreign city. Curious.” Camille tapped his lips with one forefinger. “Most curious. And he didn’t even attempt to defend himself, simply made the sign of the cross as he died. Why he wouldn’t cry out…”

“Maybe he wanted to die with dignity.”

“There is little dignity to be had in death, especially a violent one,” Camille said. “You should remember that much from the train.” Anton shuddered and looked away. No one who had died on that train had died well, that was certain. “But let us move on. Master Frederick Hollyoak awaits.” He gestured to the next slab.

Anton cleaned up his first spell with steady hands, despite how unnerved he felt by the scene, and resettled in front of the other body. Camille pulled back the shroud as Anton began his preparations. His expression went from calm to stone-cold in an instant. “Ah.”

Anton refocused on him. “Ah?”

“Do the spell, but I have a feeling I already know what you’re going to find.” Camille replaced the cloth gently, and waved Anton back down when he made to stand up. “No, don’t look. It won’t make any difference if you see his state, and you don’t need the distraction.”

“I’ve worked with literally hundreds of corpses before,” Anton protested. “I won’t be frightened by what I see.”

“You won’t be improved by it either. Please.” There was a note of something almost imploring in Camille’s voice, and hearing it made Anton shiver. “Don’t look. Just cast the spell.”

“I…very well.” Anton went through the motions again, preparing the spell, speaking the incantation to light the match, and finally moving the smoke where it needed to go. It huddled over the body, which didn’t seem to react. No, wait—it had shifted, so that the journeyman thaumaturge was on his belly now instead of his back. He seemed to be barely breathing, awful, hitched things that caught in his lungs. An invisible hand lifted his head up, and Anton had just a second to see the way smoke seemed to ooze from every plane of the man’s face before his throat was cut, blood gushing. The scene reset.

“Is he…was he…”

“Tortured,” Camille confirmed. “Yes. I had been told, of course, but it’s different to see the evidence for myself. He was tortured quite brutally before his murderer finally killed him.”

“But for what?” Anton murmured, feeling sick to his stomach. He’d seen the afterimages of so many violent deaths, but rarely had they ever been more than that. Acts of passion, acts of coldhearted deliberation, yes, but not acts of drawn-out suffering.

“That is what we must discover.” Camille rested his hand on Anton’s shoulder for a moment. “Can you continue?”

“Of course.” Anton shook his head a little. “Of course I can. I was just surprised.”

“Good. The other morgue is a bit of a walk, and it’s too early yet for a coach.”

“I won’t let you down.”


Anton could hear the smile in the other man’s voice. “You never have. I don’t doubt that you never shall.”

Tuesday, August 29, 2017

The Tower: Chapter Two, Part Two

Notes: We're off to see the corpses, but first Anton has to navigate a--let's call it, complicated--offer from someone who really ought to know better. What a dick.

Title: The Tower: Chapter Two, Part Two

***


Chapter Two, Part Two

Photo: Scott Phillips

Anton had to rush to make his appointment with Camille on time, waking in a flurry with a mere twenty minutes to spare. He tidied himself up as well as he could, but didn’t bother shaving—a bit of a beard would lend credibility to his run-down illusion. He checked his holdall, making sure he had all the necessary ingredients for constructing a death miasma in a morgue, rather than in situ, and then bolted for the front door of the dormitory.

He was stopped on the way out by Montgomery and two of his pack of rowdies, who looked like they were just getting in after their night of debauchery. “Seiber!” Montgomery cried out when he saw him, in a voice so stentorian it was a wonder he didn’t wake the sun itself. “Come to join us at last? A bit late, man, but for you—”

“I merely have some early morning errands to run,” Anton said, smoothly sidestepping the drunken arm that threatened to descend around his shoulders again. “And you fellows look like you’re more ready for your beds than your cups.”

Montgomery waved his hand in a clumsy brushoff. “A proper man should always be ready for both.”

“Then you will forgive me if I ask that you skip the one in favor of the other. It is too early for drink now.”

“But not too late for bed.” Montgomery’s eyes gleamed briefly. “Perhaps you could accompany me there instead.”

Anton’s mouth dropped open. He was—did he—good God, the gentry could just get away with anything couldn’t they? Including propositioning someone of their own gender with no fear of repercussions or tarnished reputations, which was what Anton would certainly face, at a minimum, if his preferences were found out. No modern country had adopted the relaxed attitude of those long-gone Greek and Roman philosophers, but it was clearly true that with enough money and influence, anything could be forgiven or ignored.

“You’ve struck him dumb,” one of Montgomery’s friends—Anton didn’t know this one’s name, but he had a round, florid face and wispy blond hair that had mostly floated free of his queue. “Not everyone likes to drink from both hands at once, Gerry, especially not the boring, serious ones like Seiber. You’d have better luck tempting a monk into your bed!”

“I need a bath before bed,” the other one, Percy, said mournfully as he examined the stained white lace at the edge of his cuffs. “I think possibly there was something nasty in that gutter.”

“Of course there was, it’s a gutter. They’re made to catch filth.” The unnamed one began to laugh. “It caught you, didn’t it?”

“Best shut your mouth before I haul you out of here by your ears and see how well the nearest gutter catches you, Harry!”

“Gentlemen.” Montgomery shook his head. “It’s both far too early and far too late for arguing. Harry, haul Percy to the showers. I’ll be along in a minute.” They disappeared down the hallway, and Montgomery turned back to Anton. “Are you struck dumb with surprise, or disgust?” he asked in a tone more honest and curious than any Anton had ever heard from him before.

Anton finally gathered himself together enough to shake his head. “Neither, my lord. Just surprised, that’s all.”

Montgomery smiled. “Ah, now you pull out the ‘my lord’ like a dagger. Do you mean to shame me?”

“Nothing I could ever say would shame you, I’m quite sure.” For his pertness, Anton expected to be told off; he didn’t expect Montgomery to move even closer, not yet touching him, but near enough to practically feel the larger man’s body heat.

“Then why say it? Do you refuse me due to issues of class, or out of pure disinterest? Are you a monk like Harry implies, or are you merely a cautious man?”

“There is nothing ‘mere’ about caution when one doesn’t have the protections of title and wealth,” Anton replied. The church bell began to toll five-o-clock, and he realized if he didn’t leave now, he would be inexcusably late. “Forgive me, but I must take my leave.”

“For your ‘errands.’”

“Precisely, my lord.”

They stared at each other for a long moment before Montgomery finally chuckled and shook his head. “You are brave, aren’t you? And stubborn, I sense. I’ll not have my way with you easily, not like my other lads.”

“I venture to guess that you’ll likely not have your way with me at all.”

“But not because you’re not the type.” When Anton paused, Montgomery’s smile widened. “I knew it! I always know these things.”

“Go to bed, my lord,” Anton advised him, transferring his heavy holdall to his other hand. “Alone. You’ll sleep better.” Then he turned and briskly walked out into the cold pre-dawn air, doing his best to conceal how he shook through darkness and distance. To think that that arrogant, indolent, unfairly gifted fool should be able to order someone into his company, into his bed, for no other reason than that he was bored and he could… Anton had felt ready to hammer his fist into the other man’s face, and it was only the clock that had saved him from the indignity of getting his arse kicked, he was sure. It wasn’t even—to imagine that he—

It wasn’t the taboo. Anton knew his preferences well enough to be at peace with them, by now. He had only managed a few male lovers in his relatively short life, but those liaisons had brought gratifying physical satisfaction that no other romantic contemplations even came close to. If he could have fallen in love with a woman enough to marry her, it would have been Caroline, of course. She was beautiful, incredibly intelligent, and sincerely loved him back. But it was not to be, and if it couldn’t be with her, it wouldn’t be with any of the fairer sex.

As for desiring more experiences with men, well…most of the time, Anton simply didn’t notice potential partners. He was a student, he was a thaumaturge, and he had duties and responsibilities and far more pressing needs than fulfilling the desires of the flesh. It took an exceptional man to gain his interest, and the only exceptional man he’d noticed of late was Camille.

God, how he had wanted him, back on the train. What he would have done for just another half-hour in the man’s company, alone, nothing to hold them back. Everything he’d ever felt, experienced, practiced with another lover, Anton would have brought to bear on Camille. Anything to give him pleasure, Anton would have done, and gladly, eagerly. Not since his first kiss had he felt so out of control with desire.

Just as well things had been…delayed, was perhaps the right term. After months apart, Anton wasn’t entirely sure where they stood with each other. The situation would only have been more complicated if he had already slept with the lumière. Best to put it from his mind. He reached into his pocket, clasped the first charm bag, and quietly spoke the incantation. He felt it take effect, and smiled.

Camille was waiting for him outside the guesthouse when he arrived, but not with anything like an air of distaste at Anton’s slight tardiness. “Here.” He held out a crusty piece of bread, still warm from the oven. “Have a bite to eat before we begin. I recall your spellcasting being a bit more pleasant for you when you’ve had some sustenance.”

“Thank you.” Anton managed not to brush their fingers together as he took the slice. The first bite was heavenly, and he closed his eyes and savored it for a moment. When he opened them again, Camille appeared to be studying him.

“Have you done something to yourself?”

Anton swallowed quickly. “What?”

“Have you…your gait, when you approached, was slower than usual, almost with a hitch, as though you were fighting off a cramp or…has someone laid hands on you since I saw you last?”

“Oh.” Anton blinked, then shook his head rapidly. “Oh, no, not at all! I hadn’t realized I was doing that.” It made sense, though—he always changed his mannerisms when he changed his form, a holdover from reckless games of childhood hide and seek. “I’ve cast a glamour on myself to modify my appearance, just a bit. I look older, so I am walking as though I am.”

“I see.” The edges of Camille’s moustache lifted. “It’s a shame I can’t appreciate you in your newfound glory.”

“It feels rather nice for at least one person to see me as I really am,” Anton confessed.

“Then I’m pleased to be that person for you. Now.” Camille straightened up as Anton bolted down the rest of the bread. “We’ve a little over two hours before sunrise, and four corpses to examine. Are you ready?”

“I am.”

“Then follow me.”


Gladly, Anton thought but dared not speak as he trailed Camille into the misty gloom of Zürich’s darkened alleyways.

Tuesday, August 22, 2017

The Tower, Chapter Two, Part One

Notes: A little shorter than my last installment, but full of the technical side of magic. Next week, on to Camille and the death miasmas!

Title: The Tower: Chapter Two, Part One

***


Chapter Two, Part One


The answer to “When do we start?” was “On the morrow,” and early enough that when Camille suggested they part for the evening, it barely stung to agree. Camille was lodged in a guesthouse not a quarter-mile from Anton’s own dormitory, and they would need in the morning before first light, in an effort to get to the morgues as soon as possible.

For some reason—and there were many theories, none of them proven—it was easier to construct a death miasma in times of darkness. Perhaps it was nothing more than the effect of unconscious bias in training—Anton could do it in full day just fine thank to much zealous practice, after all—but he also didn’t mind hastening his next rendezvous with Camille.

After Camille left, Anton took the time to reset his wards and make sure his experiments were either in stasis or resolved before setting off for his own cold bed. It was a bit late to get dinner in the student kitchens, but some kind cook had left out a loaf of brown bread and a bit of fatty goose drippings on the counter. If the food was left out, it was fair game, and Anton took the offering with quiet gratitude before continuing on his way.

It wasn’t that he was quite as poor as he made out to be—the purse of coins Camille had given him after the case on the train was still mostly full—but he was afraid to spend it too fast. His mother had done all she could to set him up well, but she had her own problems in the wake of his father’s death, and he would not intrude on her fragile peace of mind.

Anton made his way to his room—his private room, tiny but certainly a blessing—at the back of the first floor as he munched on the last piece his meal. A quick check told him that his locks here remained inviolate, and he sighed with relief as he drew the opening glyph in midair with his wand. The door opened, and he entered, only to sigh when he saw the rat droppings on the far floor.

“Works on everything but rats,” he muttered. They must get in through the window—he kept it shuttered tight, but like everything else in Zürich, the building was old and full of tiny crevices through which a pest could enter. He picked up the small, bristled broom in the corner of his chamber and swept the mess to the side, to be dealt with later. For now, he had preparations to make.

Anton had told Camille he could be discreet, look other than he was now. And that was entirely true, he could. It wasn’t something he’d practiced in a while, his studies and work being what they were, but Anton’s first, childish spells had all revolved around making himself into something else. He smiled as he lit the candles on his little, worn desk, remembering how his mother had shrieked when she found a messy young chimneysweep sitting at her breakfast table, eating jam straight out of the jar with sooty hands. All an illusion, of course, and worth the scolding he’d received for it.

The spells weren’t especially complicated, but they did require some time to prepare, and time was something Anton was short of. He was due to be out and about again in a bit less than six hours—he would have to make the modifications simple. Starting with his hair.

He chalked a circle on the perfectly flat workstation in the middle of his desk, then plucked a strand of his dark brown hair and set it in the mortar and pestle on the side. He thought for a moment, then added a pinch of ash from a gorse bush for age, the tiniest shavings of sulfur and platinum to lend intensity and stability to the blend, and a few dried petals of Adonis flower, to improve the humbleness of his design and add a sense of grief that would make others think twice about intruding. He blended it all together, set a piece of virgin linen in the center of the chalk circle, then poured the mixture into the center of it.

First, a test. Anton took up his chalk again and wrote out an equation for a minor transformation, barely enough to sap the ingredients, then laid his forefinger on the bag and his thumb at the end of the equation. Because it was a personal illusion, he could accentuate it a bit by applying some of his own energy to the spell. He spoke the glyph’s trigger, then looked into the small, scratched mirror above the desk.

Ah, excellent. He had easily aged twenty years, the dark shine of his hair lost to grey, the youthful—if slightly sallow from fatigue—glow of his skin leeched by the gray march of time. Not unhandsome, and not even vastly different in appearance from himself, but older, more worn and beaten by life and work. Subtle. Perfect.

So perfect, in fact, that perhaps he should do a variant. Just for the practice, and it might be nice to have another identity at hand in case of emergency or if the first ran out of power. Anton tied up the linen sachet and set it aside to go into his breast pocked tomorrow, then began again. Red this time, dark red, more of an auburn blaze than a twilight, where had he left his dahlia petals again? Not back in the lab, please, he didn’t want to march back up there but a rose wouldn’t give the same effect, he needed—ah, there!

This mixture took a bit more time, was a bit brighter and livelier and more energetic, and so required more energy. But the results were so striking that Anton decided to round things out with one more, a softer, deeper transformation this time, one that spoke of gentleness backed by an incisive edge. Something more like Caroline. Such spells would be simplistic for an intellect as grand as hers, but she always saw the beauty in things both simple and complex. He should write to her soon, it had been too long since her last letter from Scotland.


By the time Anton fell into bed, he had but four hours remaining before he was due to meet Camille again. He couldn’t bring himself to be upset about it, though. Who needed sleep when there were murderers to catch, and at the side of the man who had haunted his dreams for the past three months, no less? Anton couldn’t think of anything he would rather do, and let that conviction carry him quickly off to sleep.

Tuesday, August 15, 2017

The Tower: Chapter One, Part Two

Notes: On to Part Two! I hope you enjoy it, I'm having a great time wrestling with this mystery. The plot thickens...

Title: The Tower: Chapter One, Part Two

***

Chapter One, Part Two



“Englishmen?” Anton was taken aback. “Whatever for?” There might be a fair number of his fellow citizens scattered across Zürich, but they were still a tiny minority in such a large city. Most of them were merchants, or students like himself. “Do you suspect the Dévoué?” The Dévoué were a sect of rabid nationalists, intent on breaking apart Napoleon III’s empire and reestablishing separate, sovereign kingdoms.

It was a member of the Dévoué who had been responsible for the death of Viscount Bonaparte, and in charge of the train on which Anton himself had nearly been killed more than once. It was a member of that sect that had composed a magical palimpsest that Anton was still working on translating, which contained a spell that would imbue weapons with the ability to ensure death once they were wielded.

He still had nightmares about those weapons—the gun that never missed, the knife that once unsheathed would not be put away until it had killed. Anton—and Camille—had been the targets of both of them, and it was only through sheer luck that they had survived. Such a spell would obviously be brutally dangerous in the wrong hands, and Anton had been more than ready to give the palimpsest up to Camille, but the lumière had entrusted it to his keeping instead. In deciphering the spell, they might learn how to defeat it. Or such was Anton’s hope, at least.

“It is possible,” Camille allowed, a frown creasing his brow and drawing down the edges of his moustache. Anton tried to watch him a bit less raptly, but it was hard. Camille had been a constant presence in his mind ever since Anton’s arrival in Zürich, the first man—first person, really—to get his attention and hold it, and one of the few men to openly praise his thaumaturgical skills. That he was tall, broad-shouldered and appealingly attractive were other marks in his favor. It would not be a lie to say that Anton drove himself to distraction with his work, in part, because it was better than fruitless pining.

“Possible, but if so, it is a very targeted attack,” Camille continued. “The English are no allies to Napoleon, despite the truce between our empires. Probably the only reason your leaders haven’t come out in open favor of the Dévoué is fear that such rebellion would spread to your own colonies. That does not mean that there aren’t covert actions being taken to strengthen dissent and weaken the hold of the crown.”

Anton was confused. “So then, it is spies who are being targeted? Could the killer be one of your fellow lumières?”

Camille shook his head. “Not that I know of. And as for who is being targeted, well, that is very odd. Four men have died so far, each of them relatively new to the city. They are largely solitary individuals, not members of established groups, and all of them have shown varying levels of talent in thaumaturgy.”

Now it was Anton’s turn to frown. “What do you mean by that? Are you speaking of formal masters or priests, or students, or is it street magic?” Street magic was what those who were born with more ability than most to effect thaumaturgy but without the means for a proper education, resorted to in order to hone their skills. Street magic was an unpredictable mirror of formal thaumaturgy, cut with poor ingredients and improper alchemical equations. Street magic could be immensely powerful when done by the right practitioner, but more than half who tried anything more complicated than a simple locator or resonance spell ended up hurting themselves, or even dying, from backlash.

“A combination of all, actually. One man was a journeyman thaumaturgical locksmith, employed by one of the banks. He was quite proficient within his own sphere, but knew little beyond it. Another was a priest, again a young man, stopping here to continue his study of religious architecture. The final two were street mages, one specializing in keeping away vermin, the other a finder.”

“A finder?” That was a rare skill to develop, especially for someone with an inferior education. “He must have been in high demand.”

“And he took the longest to die,” Camille said grimly. “All four of these men were killed over the past two weeks, all four of them tortured before having their throats slit. Whatever their murderer was looking for, it seems that he or she hasn’t discovered it yet.”

“How has none of this appeared in the papers? Why haven’t I heard of it before now?”

“The margrave of this canton has taken pains to conceal the deaths, putting the bodies in holding as they appeared. He requested a lumière to look into the matter, and thus, here I am.”

“You said you would allow no other to take it up.” Anton felt his face heat, and was grateful for the dim light in his laboratory. “But you haven’t yet said why, other than the fact that these men share my origin.”

“It is more than that. All young men, all arriving three months ago, all thaumaturges to some degree, all tortured to death. Do you not see the common thread?”

Anton frowned. “Other than what you’ve already laid out?”

“In addition to it, perhaps. Anton,” now Camille laid his hands on Anton’s shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes, “they are all of them quite similar to you. I kept your true identity hidden after the debacle on the train, but not everything could be concealed, including the truth that you were not, in fact, Consul Hasler, once the discovery of his body had breached the gap from Paris to Zürich.

“Puzzle pieces were put together, pieces I should have tried harder to eradicate, but there was so little time. It became known that you were English, that you had training in magic, and that you were also in possession of something very valuable. Something that a member of the Dévoué, or an unscrupulous lumière, or even an enterprising freelance spy or assassin would gladly kill to obtain.”

Anton felt the blood drain from his head. “The palimpsest.”

“Indeed. The ability of those weapons used on the train was not easily covered up, and with the revelation of Consul Hasler’s own skillset, well.” He shook his head. “It would be quite a prize.”

“Do you think it’s a lumière?”

“No,” Camille replied swiftly, which was something of a relief. “I know most if not all of my fellows, and while all of us are dedicated to justice in the name of the emperor, we are no less dedicated to finding the truth in ways that result in little collateral damage. Whoever the murderer is, they don’t care about leaving a trail of bodies to get what they want. There was another death.” He sighed. “The landlady of the locksmith was found in her front room, her throat slit before she had a chance to cry out. Her body, unfortunately, could not be held. She has already been buried.”

Anton felt dizzy. He gripped Camille’s forearms in an effort to keep himself upright. “What…what shall I…what do I…”

“Stay calm,” Camille advised. “Here, sit down now.” He led Anton over to his bench and knelt in front of him, chafing his arms and shoulders gently. “Breathe in slowly, there you go. I should perhaps have gone about telling you a bit more diplomatically,” he added, his voice rueful.

Anton chuckled weakly. “It would be hard to couch this in truly diplomatic terms, I think. Someone is murdering innocent people in an effort to kill me.”

“Indeed.”

“I wish we had burned that bloody book.”

“It would not have mattered,” Camille said quietly. “Someone would have come looking anyway. I’m sorry I involved you so greatly in the matter on the train, Anton.”

Anton met Camille’s concerned gaze. “I’m not.” He exhaled, some of his tension finally draining from his limbs. Unfortunately, the loss left him feeling sluggish, but such fatigue would tell one way or another. “So, what happens next? I haven’t finished translating the palimpsest, although I am more than halfway through it.”

“Any interesting discoveries?”

“A lot of threads that make no sense independently, but a tapestry is beginning to emerge. Once it is completely unraveled, I shall make a full study of it.”

“And where is the book now?”

Anton smiled. “It’s safe.”

Camille paused, then nodded. “Better that you don’t tell me, just in case.”

In case you are captured and tortured and…and… Anton shook his head in an effort to clear it. “How else can I help you?”

“I am not asking you for your help,” Camille said at once. “I am not well known in this city, and most never see me at all, but if I were discovered as a lumière and you were with me, it would throw suspicion onto you. The last thing you need is to be set apart in such a way.”

“I cannot sit idly by while you work on this case!” Anton objected. “People are dying, people who have the bad luck to share a few things in common with me. I am a forensic thaumaturge, and you have access to their bodies. You must at least let me help you to see their death miasmas.”

“It still puts you in harm’s way.”

“Camille.” Anton patted his shoulder. “You tell me I am already in harm’s way. Hastening the speed of your investigation shall only lead to a quicker resolution. Besides, there are some tricks I can employ to reduce my own visibility. Let me help you.”

Camille crouched in silence for a long moment before abruptly getting to his feet. “You have the devil’s own ability at persuasion,” he said. “Fine. But only if you take those precautions, and only if, when I tell you to leave me, you go without hesitation. I would never willingly risk your safety.”

“But you would risk your own.”

Camille shrugged. “Such is the life of a lumière.”

Well then. Neither of them were perfectly happy, but at least Anton was not entirely shut out. He pushed to his feet and was relieved to find himself steady. “When do we start?”

Tuesday, August 8, 2017

The Tower: Chapter One, Part One

Notes: On to our new story at last! This is the sequel to The Train, and will make more sense if you've read that one. If not, then know this: this is alt history, magic-wielding, pre-WWI craziness. The continent remained conquered by Napoleon, and is now ruled by his grandson Napoleon III. Our hero is Anton Seiber, a young thaumaturge--a magical scientist, basically--from England who traveled to Zurich to continue his education. Getting there was really difficult, and he became friends--and maybe more--with an imperial investigator who is immune to magic.

This starts three months after they part. Enjoy!

Title: The Tower: Chapter One, Part One

***

The Tower

Chapter One, Part One



“Seiber!” A meaty hand clapped Anton on the shoulder before he could escape it. “Where are you lurking off to now? Not going to crawl back into your dusty lab and burn the midnight oil on one of your projects for the dead, are you?” Without giving Anton a chance to reply, his captor spun him around.

Face to face, Gerald Montgomery was even less appealing to Anton than he’d been from behind. Montgomery was the unofficial head of the surprisingly large contingent of students at the Universität Zürich who hailed from the British Isles. He was as loud, brash, and universally disliked by most of Anton’s fellow master’s students as any of his ilk had been at Cambridge. And like at Cambridge, he was not only tolerated, but by and large, encouraged—Gerald Montgomery was in line to become a marquess when his father died, and it was never a bad idea to ingratiate yourself with a member of the peerage. Anton had to remind himself of that as Gerald’s hand on his shoulder tightened to the point of pain.

“Alas, I have spells in situ that simply cannot wait.” Finally, Montgomery let go of his shoulder, but Anton’s relief was short-lived as the man immediately threw his arm around Anton’s neck. It felt—unsurprisingly—rather like being yoked as though he were a beast of burden.

“Seiber, Seiber, Seiber.” Montgomery shook his head. “You will waste the best years of your youth if you spend them all on the edification of the mind to the exclusion of the body. Mens sana in corpore sano, as the Romans say. Come with us to the pub, have a few drinks, relax for a while! The Langstrasse area is an easy walk from there, and I daresay we could find an easy woman who might tempt even your virtue.”

Oh, yes. Lovely. Just what Anton wanted after a long day of taking and teaching classes, handling both eager and recalcitrant students and pining for his own hard-earned space—a trip to the whorehouses of Zürich with a group of drunk, loud, and largely ridiculous fellow thaumaturges. Perhaps one of them would get creative with his spellwork and set off a stink bomb, or turn someone’s skin purple. Fortunately, Anton had a trump card to play.

“Have pity on a poor student,” Anton said smoothly, patting Montgomery on the forearm before casually ducking out from under his grasp. “Some of us are here on scholarship, you know. My work output is all that keeps me in my studies, and I cannot afford to falter.” Under normal circumstances, he would never advertise his own relative poverty, but on this early evening Anton was more than willing to paint himself as a sad sap in exchange for liberty.

Montgomery frowned. “You always say that. But I will spot you the coin tonight, free you from your workaday shackles.” Clearly the idea of being seen as a patron to his peers appealed to him. Anton wondered, for perhaps the hundredth time, why this privileged son of the aristocracy had come all the way to Zürich to pursue a degree he seemed to have little interest in, when he would have been accepted with open arms and grasping pocketbooks by the finest universities in England.

It wasn’t that Gerald Montgomery was unskilled at thaumaturgy—he was rather irritatingly efficient at casting spells, in fact, although his basic preparations left much to be desired and were more often assembled by his cadre of admirers. It was simply that he seemed to have little interest in doing more than the basics, spending the rest of his time in personal and rather frivolous pursuits. At a research institution like this one, it made no sense. The man wouldn’t even have to rely on his thaumaturgy skill to earn a living one day—he was nobility, he was guaranteed an income.

“Not this time,” Anton said. “My spells simply won’t wait.”

“Then later this weekend,” Montgomery insisted. “You cannot have every minute of every day planned, and if you do, then change it.”

Change your life to suit my smallest whim, Seiber. Anton kept his calm smile on his face with a great deal of effort. “I will endeavor to, I assure you.”

“Gerry!” Another one of their British fellows called to Montgomery from the lecture hall’s side stone egress. “Hurry, before we lose our chance at a good place in the pub! Ella’s section always fills the fastest!”

“Shut your flapping lips, Percy, I’ll be there in a moment!” He turned back to Anton with a bit of mischief still in his face. “Are you sure? Percy can’t hold his liquor to save himself, and he’s hilarious when he’s blotto.”

“Next time,” Anton said, and finally, finally, the other man shrugged and turned away. Once he finally vanished into his throng of admirers, Anton let out a slow, relieved breath. There was one obstacle down, at least.

Fortunately, he had no students waiting for his time this evening. As soon as the university’s Head of Thaumaturgy, Doctor Grable, had ascertained that Anton possessed a Device that allowed him to speak seven different languages—Doctor Grable was renowned for his ability to detect and interpret thaumaturgical signatures of all kinds, and Anton had had no chance of denying his father’s Device’s existence—he had made Anton the go-to graduate student for students who struggled with English and German. He’d spent many hours he would have rather been researching helping those students interpret thaumaturgical equations and simplifying high-level magic as best he could.

It was useful work, and he didn’t begrudge his professor the right to give him responsibilities, but Anton was desperate for time alone. He had far too much to be getting on with to waste time on people like Gerald Montgomery. Anton shook his head to help clear the day from it, then gathered his paraphernalia into his holdall and headed for the Tower.

The Universität Zürich had different branches scattered throughout the city, but the sciences were housed in and around the main building, an imposingly large gray stone edifice lightened by patches of lawn and sky-high cupolas. Just behind the main building was the Tower of Thaumaturgy, where the founders of the school had wisely set apart their most volatile researchers. It was less of a tower than a dark, veiny square block that rose without grace into the air, buttressed by thick stonework and fewer windows than the rest of the university monuments. It was often described as “ugly, a blight, more like a prison than a university.” It was heavily spelled to maintain a neutral magical space, and securing a place for research in it was the source of much cutthroat negotiating between graduate students.

Anton had such a place, a small laboratory on the thirteenth floor, the highest in the tower. It was a long walk up, especially after an exhaustive day of teaching. Happily, that very inconvenience made it even more worthwhile for Anton, because few people found their way up there, which meant less botheration by his peers. On top of that, his lab was thaumaturgically secured by a series of locks that Anton had been improving ever since he settled in, three months ago now. It was as inviolable as he could possibly make it, which made the sight of his door standing open rather shocking to him.

“Oh no,” he murmured, hastening along the hall toward his tiny chamber, silver wand held high to project his simple charm for illumination down the stone corridor. Rather than bolting inside as soon as he got there, though, he bent down and surveyed the door itself. The spells were still there, they had simply been rendered—inert, for lack of a better word. They would need to be recharged, but that was easier than reconstructing them completely. Only a truly exceptional master would be able to get through his defenses without setting off an alarm. There were no signs of scuff marks around the edge of the lock or handle itself, so if it was a thief, then they were very good at picking locks.

But if they were so good, why had they left the door open? There were only two logical options for who could have entered so smoothly and obviously, and one of them would never make the hike to the thirteenth floor when he had an expansive laboratory of his own on the first.

Anton’s hand trembled slightly on the handle as he pushed the door the rest of the way open. Inside, the last rays of the sunset were barely enough to combat the encroaching grayness, but Anton could make out the familiar silhouette of a tall man in a top hat standing along the far wall.

He's here! But Anton had to be sure. “Camille?”

The figure turned, and Anton’s heart leapt in his chest when he verified the identity of his mysterious visitor. “Anton.” Lord Lumière, special investigator for his majesty Napoleon III, solver of the convoluted murder of the Viscount Bonaparte on the train to Lucerne, and one of a secret class of people who were immune to magic—some said because they were soulless, damned at birth by God—inclined his head in a show of perfect politeness. The smile on his face, however, was far more welcoming. “It is astonishingly good to see you again.”

That was all the welcome Anton needed to cross the room in six long steps and throw himself into Camille’s embrace. It was precipitous of him, probably even ridiculous, but he couldn’t help himself. He had experienced no truly welcome touch since their kiss farewell, three long months ago. Anton barely knew Camille, really, but he felt far closer to him than their stressful, exciting train trip together had merited. From the way Camille’s arms closed around his waist like they belonged there, pulling him closer and warming him from head to toe, perhaps Anton’s feelings weren’t entirely foolish or one-sided.

Nevertheless, he remembered his own abandoned dignity eventually and pulled away with a faint cough. “I—I wasn’t expecting you.” He winced, because what had he expected, that the lumière would tell him he was coming? That was the opposite of covert, and Camille was an expert at being covert.

“Forgive me for not contacting you in advance,” Camille replied, surprising Anton. “I was actually on my way to another part of the country when the emperor redirected me here.”

Oh. So it was mere chance that had led Camille this way again, rather than…something else. Anton nodded and put a little more space between them. “I see.” Of course he did, and he could be professional about it. “What is it that brought you to Zürich, then?”

“A murder, of course.” Of course. “Several, in fact. And when I ascertained the targets of these murders, I would allow no other lumière to take on the task.”

“Oh? Who is being murdered?”


“Englishmen.” The word dropped between them like a boulder, heavy with unspoken implication. “People like you, Anton.”