Yaw and pitch. Lift and drag. Fuselage, slats, spoiler, aileron, flaps…
Repeat after me, my Inventor.
Yaw and pitch. Lift and drag. Fuselage, slats, spoiler, aileron, flaps…
Oliver Oshton, noble spy, departed on his first mission under a cloud of apprehension. He could not see beyond the horizon, and the black thunderclouds on approach could bring only rain or a howling tornado. Like the storm guard, he braved the onslaught to ring the warning bells.
One of his uncles died on storm guard when Oliver was a child. They had never found his body. Did find the watch tower, though – six miles away, buried in the hillside and smashed to splinters.
If the winds taught one message, it was this: a man could not outrun his fate.
He glanced once more at his handwritten invitation, but the directions had not magically changed.
Main Street bustled with evening cheer around him. The elite shared their cultured laughs from café balconies under electric lights, sipping foreign wine. Decked in silk and satin, they pandered to the outrage of their conservative parents with frantic jazz.
Well, what else do you do when you’re rich?
The biggest danger of their glittering lives was the threat of a docked allowance.
Oliver glanced enviously at the door to that parlor.
The bouncer noticed his glance and nodded. “Fresh Verdant vintage tonight, sir.”
The young man froze, confused. “What?”
“Jungle mango fermented into a liquor that will kick your teeth out.”
With a jolt, Oliver realized how he appeared: a young man in a fresh suit, slouching a little in rebellion against the convention. His hands were clean, nails filed, and hair slicked back with a touch of oil.
He looked like one of them.
The bouncer turned his attention to a pair of strutting ladies.
They would let me right in…as long as I didn’t say what I thought of them.
A constable swerved to avoid Oliver, tipping his hat.
The youth instinctively flinched. In the tenements, the constables were every bit as much a danger as the muggers – just a different sort of gang.
But not in this shining world.
He could fling the invitation away and stroll right into that club. He could tip the bouncer in silver, order a round of drinks for everyone, dance with beautiful women, and smile for the cameras, awash in electric brilliance.
Surely he was mad, for he continued on his way.
How noble. How graceful. The Inventor – the martyr – accepts this burden… whispered a soft music in his ear. Sacrificing his fame for a greater good. See how he suffers for us all!
Oliver located the establishment a few blocks later. A tea house along the street offered meeting space in the back for any who would pay the fees. He presented his invitation to the madam, and she ushered him past the bar. The hall behind could fit three hundred; neat rows of chairs leaned against the wall; tables with white linens lined the edges of the room. Glass cups and empty pitchers waited in the corner, and cork boards along the walls displayed advertisements for the four election candidates.
This looks like the hall where grandpa played chess. Hardly the site for heresy…
“There is a town hall after you,” the matron said. “Clear out by eighth bell.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She returned to her tea, and he waited alone. Plenty of time to wonder what this meeting would be. Surely Lace did not mean to hold a séance thirty feet from the most heavily patrolled street in Lumia! Perhaps she wanted to share her favorite recipes for cookies and crumpets?
He could not quite picture the smiling leader of the Redeemers chatting over gossip like an old maid.
Someone soon pounded on the back door. Oliver found the door behind a curtain, unlatched the way, and admitted two brawny men. They shuffled inside, hauling a wooden crate between hands ground hard as rock.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Supplies,” one said.
“Should I get the matron of the house?”
“No.”
“What are they for?”
“The town hall.”
Oliver blinked. “That isn’t until eighth bell.”
“Well, aren’t you an early bird, boy?”
“My father taught me to be punctual,” Oliver defended. What a pair of jerks.
“Good for you,” muttered the first man. He sported a razor-thin scar along his neck, the kind of wound that proclaimed a dishonest career…
Still, Oliver helped move the furniture so the crate could sit in the farthest corner. As they worked, he glanced at each man’s arms, searching for certain tattoos, but both wore long sleeves.
They hauled in a second crate, identical to the first, and placed it in the opposite corner. Then the duo walked out without as much as a nod.
As soon as they left, Oliver ducked to the back window and peered out the curtains.
The alleyway behind the tea shop was nearly as wide as a tenement street, and a constable watched the way with his hands primly clasped.
The two nefarious men walked to the constable, spoke for five minutes, and then extended their hands for a firm handshake.
There’s the bribe, Oliver thought. Nothing to see here.
Quickly, the Inventor jumped to the crates and pried the latches free. The last thing he needed was a drug bust with him sitting on a pile of contraband!
Inside the crates he found a thick layer of cheap, yellowed, highly flammable pamphlets packed into a sea of sawdust. He dug to the shoulder into both but found nothing worse than paper.
“Hells,” the youth grumbled. “Political junk.”
Why did it matter if the new city manager came from a Conclave decree or a ballot box? Either way, the fool would do what House Visage said.
They all did.
Oliver sat on a table and waited a moment, but the transaction nagged at him. Swearing under his breath, he marched to the back and gingerly opened the door.
The alley beyond was empty now, no constable in sight. A desolate wind hummed between the dark buildings, vibrating like a storm through shredded canvas, and the air stank of ash.
Goosebumps shot up his arms.
The wind howled: hungry, otherworldly, ancient.
Shivering, Oliver closed the door.
“I’ll just wait then,” he muttered, returning to his table.
The sooner that wind was forgotten, the better.
A newcomer arrived eventually. Dark haired and dark skinned, she nonetheless wore a Lumian peasant dress. She carried a pet crate against her hip, draped in a cloth, and assessed Oliver like fish at market.
“We’re all out of crumpets,” he offered.
“We are?” she asked. She shrugged to herself, obviously deciding that he was no threat. Then again, so did most people. “I will have to let Matron Lucy know my disappointment.”
The woman deposited her pet carrier on a table and began rearranging chairs into a circle.
“Do you come here often?” he asked.
“From time to time,” she evaded. She motioned to the circle.
Oliver sat and offered his name.
“Yes, I recognize you from the papers,” she said. “You may call me Jessica.”
“Is that your original name? Where are you from?”
The woman visibly twitched.
“Ah, sorry. Touchy question?”
“I am from the Verdant,” she said with careful grace.
The lurid tabloids sometimes carried pictures of the jungles far to the southeast. Savage jungle ziggurats and ferocious canopy beasts swirled in his head alongside visions of women in tattered tiger rags wielding spears.
“I haven’t ever met someone from the jungle,” he admitted.
The witch frowned, alarmed, and settled a finger to the latch of her pet carrier. “You have not? I was given to believe that everyone would be a friend of–”
At that moment, Lace burst through the doors, carrying in her wake several more women and two well-heeled young gentlemen. “Ah, Oliver! Thank you for setting up.”
Jessica leveled a frank gaze at Lace. “You vouch for him?”
The witch and her procession ground to a halt, and a spark shot between the two women.
“Yes, I vouch for him. He’s quite sweet.”
“If you say so.”
Both women shared a cold smile, and Jessica dropped her hand from the pet carrier.
Lace clapped her hands. “I was only able to rent the hall for a short while. If it pleases my lords, shall we move directly to business?”
She bit off the word lords with a savage click, but no one else seemed to notice the edge beneath her saccharine tone.
Oliver dismissed his impression, busy inspecting the two gentlemen. They were noble, obviously. The first he could not place; the second he recognized as Edmond Curia, at least.
One of Oliver’s first jobs had been to tile the Curia bathroom. His knees had ached so savagely afterwards that he limped for a week.
Lace smoothed her skirts and sank to a chair. She motioned the two women in her procession to their spots. Then she turned to Jessica and deigned to ask, “Would you like to attend to our dear lords?”
“No, thank you,” Jessica replied. “I will speak with Oliver here.”
Lace drew her lips back in mockery of a smile.
Ignoring the Redeemer, Jessica fetched her pet carrier and tugged Oliver to a corner far from the rest of the conversation. The others shared a roundtable discussion, centered on Lace, but Jessica crossed her legs at the ankles and spoke only for him.
“So. Oliver Oshton. Inventor scion. You are a soul in need of guidance.”
She cannot possibly work for Lace. The two of them are one dropped shoe from a cat fight.
“Tell me what you seek, and I will find it,” Jessica promised. “My sight is otherworldly, and my discretion legendary.”
“What I seek?” he asked, frowning.
“Perhaps an Inventor troubles you with unkind words? Or you need hear the conversations of the selection committee? All of these things are laid bare before the other sight…”
“No, I’m not worried about the Inventor selection,” he disagreed. His skull ached with the pressure, so many ideas ready to burst out his eyeballs. He couldn’t sleep at night, caught in the tangled whispers of demons and discoveries.
Repeat after me.
“Whispers of the greater powers, then?” she pressed, smoothing her skirts. “It is unwise to forge a path forward without the wisdom of the spirits.”
Oliver shook his head. Wisdom of the spirits? I thought Lace was all about demiurge conspiracies and stolen glory?
“Or perhaps you desire protection? The methods by which precious Inventions might become invulnerable to prying eyes?”
The truth finally dawned on Oliver. “You’re a witch!”
But she looks so normal!
Jessica chewed on her tongue a long moment. “Such a crude term. I am a problem solver.”
Snippets drifted from the conversation across the hall.
“…to know if her father is open to a marriage proposal…” Edmond outlined.
“I am well versed in matters of love,” the witch across from him agreed softly.
Jessica sighed. Her voice dropped an octave as she dropped her affectation, and a hint of the rumbling Verdant accent crept into her speech. “Would you prefer I speak plainly?”
“I don’t even know why we’re here!”
“To offer my services.”
“Your services…your heathen services.”
“Gold does not judge,” she retorted. “I offer a variety of goods. Not an elemental beast crosses the harbors without my permission. Do you need an imp to spy on your enemies? A serpent to guard your shipping vessels? Even if you do not require a beast, you should consider investing in a strong set of wards.”
Though he was slow on the uptake, Oliver knew how a racket ran. “…you paid Lace for this meeting, didn’t you?”
Jessica sighed. “I thought the country rube was your public persona, but you really are clueless, aren’t you?”
“No need to be mean!”
“Of course I paid her. I pay her for networking, and she pays me for imports.” The witch nestled her pet carrier onto her lap. “Every noble you’ve ever seen has a witch. Every church father. Most the Guild leaders. Imps are by far the most popular, but the elemental beasts your church brands as heresy offer power well worth the cost.”
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
He remembered the phoenix from the Dreamer’s Den, strange mixture of familiar bird and fiery spirit.
“You’re pious. I understand that. But you must understand that without investment in the proper defenses, you will be at the whim of the first witch to turn her eye on you.”
Oliver swallowed. “What do you have in the pet carrier?”
Jessica smiled. She pitched her voice higher, once more the mystic. “The roaring winds in rainbow form. A sylph of the high canopy.”
“From the Verdant jungle?”
“They are all from the Verdant jungle, boy,” she corrected. “Born from Verdandi herself.”
A few months ago, Oliver would have dismissed such statements. Day by day – and demon by demon – his solid, simple worldview crumbled…
“This is Chime,” she said, opening the carrier.
The sylph slipped forward into the witch’s waiting hands. Eight inches tall, the creature flittered in the still air like a dancer. Lithe and shimmering, it resembled a woman, but petal wings sprouted from each narrow arm, and its hair billowed around its body in a defensive shield.
It stirred the breeze around him, warm as Spring.
For a heretical beast, it seemed rather docile. Then again, the phoenix had seemed friendly as well.
Why are they actually heretical? he wondered – heretically.
“She is mine,” Jessica continued, stroking a finger down the sylph’s back.
The little creature trilled softly.
“Do you think she is heresy, Oliver?”
The noble men glanced at the sylph in her lap, neither scandalized nor shocked. Their disinterest spoke to the truth far more than any witch’s words.
Jessica whispered to Chime, and the air around them rippled. Thus shielded, the witch spoke freely. “She will discard you. I’ve watched her; she burns through her clients like Harvest hay. She speaks of redemption, but for whom? I can provide you services at a fraction of the cost and trouble.”
Oliver resisted the urge to cast a suspicious glance at Lace. “She hasn’t demanded any money.”
“Yet,” Jessica corrected. “You are the product.”
“How much was the fee?”
Jessica shrugged. “Some matters should not be discussed except with a client.”
The witch tapped Chime, and the screen faded. Gently, she ushered the sylph back into the pet carrier.
“I will provide you my card,” she said aloud. “Please entertain the offer.”
“Alright,” he agreed uncertainly.
“I will be at the Ten Bells Blues on Main and third for the rest of the night,” she whispered.
Jessica stood, curtsied, and went to speak with Lace. Both witches chatted, smiles thin as glass.
The conversations continued for a while longer, though Oliver made no move to join the greater circle. Finally, Lace ushered their meeting to a close with effusive apologies. “I pray for your successful journey. Unfortunately, we must mind the time.”
Neither noble gentleman deigned to answer, their pockets stuffed with business cards.
Once they were safely away, Lace returned for Oliver. She laid a finger on his shoulder and asked, “Was your guide satisfactory?”
His pulse quickened. He was not accustomed to such casual touch from a woman.
Though why does her mere hand excite my blood and Mirielle leave me cold?
“I asked her to speak plainly,” he evaded. “Did you charge her for my presence?”
The Redeemer pressed her lips together. “A facilitation fee.”
“I am not interested in witch services. I am not a lordling in need of a wife.” Rationally, he should have attempted to please Lace, but his gut churned at the deception. He was not a product to barter; he was not a noble to pamper! “Do not sell on my behalf like some two-bit traveling conman.”
She narrowed her eyes and pressed her fingertip into his collarbone. “Why did you come to my Den if not for service? Everyone needs witchcraft. Why do you hold your nose? What do you seek, Oliver?”
A lullaby echoed in his head, sharp and true, and provided an immediate answer. “A better world.”
He twisted to meet her gaze dead on, girded by the music in his head.
Lace searched his eyes, and a flicker of interest flared in her own. “I see.” She lifted her finger. “What is your impression of the lords?”
“The usual sort,” he said, and he could not suppress the bitterness.
A faint smile tugged at her lips. “Does that glowing affirmation extend to your sponsor?”
He thought of Mirielle and squirmed. “That is more complicated.”
“You need her, do you not?”
He flushed. Her words were too close to truth.
Lace grinned now, a spark dancing in her eyes. She leaned down and whispered delicately into his ear, “For now.”
His heart skipped a beat. How much does she know…?
“Come by the Den again, Inventor boy,” she purred. “Perhaps there are deeper mysteries still to be found.” She squeezed his shoulders, stood, and brushed back her hair. “Now. We should go our separate ways. The town hall will begin soon.”
“Of course,” he mumbled, pulse still pounding. By blind luck, I once more thread the needle.
Lace swished from the room, humming a cheerful tune.
Oliver slumped in his seat, head in his hands, and waited for his heart to slowly calm. “I am not cut for this cloth,” he muttered. “A sham of an Inventor and a fool of a spy.”
The heavy burden of martyrdom, whispered the music in his ear. See how he suffers for the good of all.
While he moped, city folk began to trickle into the town hall. They set the chairs back in order, ignored Oliver, and waited for the talks to begin.
He finally glanced up to see two dozen people present. “Who speaks tonight?”
“Guildsman Timothy of the Tailors,” a plain man responded. He examined Oliver’s suit, frowned, and attached, “…sir.”
“I’m no noble snot,” Oliver corrected instantly.
Such a humble man, proclaimed the lullaby. Refusing the status of those corrupt men!
“Fair enough.”
A puzzle nagged at the Inventor. He plucked at the irritation like a loose thread, trying to remember, and allowed the external world to fade. What was he missing?
Meanwhile, the hall filled with workers. Released from the day’s toil at seventh bell, they shuffled into the hall still covered in grime and soot. The air soured with the press of their sweaty bodies. A few women quietly complained to each other, but what was there to do? They all worked dawn to dusk, and there was no time to shower before the congregation.
It was a relief to Oliver to finally fade into a crowd. Anonymous in his corner, he tried to grasp dreams. He caught fragments of metal chassis and visions of the sky, but what he sought was closer to the ground. Hells, but the music in his brain sometimes clouded his thoughts like a nagging aunt!
Guildsman Timothy and several aldermen arrived shortly before the ninth bell. Once they sat at the head table, the hall doors were closed against stragglers. Then the high windows were propped open to vent the stale air and admit the Harvest breeze.
“To the first order of business,” the alderman declared. “We have here today Guildsman Timothy to speak on the matter of elections. Please pay him all due respect.”
“Thank you, alderman. The election is of course foremost on all minds, and I must congratulate you for this victory. Lumia has long ignored the advice of its august aldermen and served a lower master.” The crowd rumbled in general agreement. “Hopefully this election is the means by which we can finally gain a say in our own destiny. But first, we must ensure that those who would take charge of the city are worthy of that honor.”
The young Inventor concentrated. Beneath the music, ever pushing Inventions behind his eyes, was a thought half buried…
“Not all who carry an honored title deserve such a thing,” the Guildsman said. “Some among you already know of whom I speak. Of the campaign of intimidation and brutality which has been waged against those who would stand for honest Guilds and honest business.”
Oliver’s eyes drifted to the box of pamphlets at each corner of the room…just behind the speakers.
Why sawdust? He wondered. Dangerous to pack that much together. I’ve seen the crater from a sawmill explosion because of something as simple as wood dust.
Unnoticed, two birds alighted on the open windows. They might have been roosters until they spread their brilliant plumage, revealing a swirl of colors. The eastern one inhaled sharply, feathers flaring like stoked cinders. The western one – its cheek feathers still marred by a recent smack – hesitated.
Only one phoenix was necessary to set the crates aflame.
The sawdust inside exploded.
The blast flung Oliver into the corner, swallowed Timothy and the aldersmen, and set the crowd to a screaming panic. The fire swiftly spread to linens and chairs, and the crowd clawed for the doors, trampling those who fell.
Yet the door was locked – had been locked – and no one inside held the key.
“Cursed creatures!” shouted an old man, withdrawing a blunderbuss older than Oliver. Ignoring the flames around his knees, the man took sight and fired twice.
The first phoenix snapped back, its neck blown open by the bullet, and then slumped forward into the flames. The second – the one that hesitated – toppled backwards out of sight.
Of all the tragedies in process, that one stabbed Oliver in the heart. Without questioning the impulse, he surged across the crowd, bounded, and caught the lip of the high window. Heaving himself over, he toppled into the piles of garbage and sought for the phoenix.
His mind and his upbringing both shouted at him to stop, but the whisper in his heart was stronger.
The bird lay among pallets, bleeding from the grazing shot along its belly. Shivering in pain, it attempted to rise, to fly, and instead fell back. Its feathers began to dim.
“Aw, hells,” he whispered.
The hinges on the alley door shuddered as men slammed their shoulders into the wood. The cheap hinges groaned, and the crowd would surge forth momentarily. There was no time to debate the merits of heresy.
It didn’t want to hurt us.
He thought of Jessica and Chime, witch and sylph, and made his mad choice.
If a dog bites, look to the master.
Oliver scooped the phoenix, uncomfortably warm, into his pristine jacket. One arm wrapped around the creature, he stumbled from the alley onto Main Street and waved for a taxi.
For once, his suit worked in his favor. A wagon stopped for him immediately, ignoring the shouting requests of the normal workers.
“Inventor docks!” he ordered. “Full speed!”
“As you say, sir!” The driver snapped the reigns and forced the horse into a canter.
Behind them, the fire swelled.
“It was an assassination,” the Inventor swore, watching the scene recede.
“The fire, sir?”
“Aldermen swallowed in an instant by phoenix flame.”
The driver warded the protection of fire with one hand.
Oliver strangled a laugh. Would that ward protect the pious driver against a phoenix like the one bleeding against his ribs?
Two swift blocks later, the glow of the fire receded, but the intersection ahead was crammed with wagons. The bird lay still against his breast, and its blood slowly soaked through the lining of his jacket.
“Apologies, sir,” the driver said, steering the horse through the tangle at a trot. “This is fast as I can manage.”
Constables forced the traffic to divert, leaving a gap at the street corner. Through their ranks, Oliver caught a glimpse of two blankets draped over still forms: one a human woman, and one so comically small as to be a pet. Behind the blankets, the windows on a creamery were blown out as though by gale-force winds.
“Hold!” Oliver ordered the driver. “Constable! What happened?!”
Again, his suit provided answers he wouldn’t normally receive.
“Witch, good sir,” the constable replied. “Set her whirlwind pet on the street when we caught her.”
“And how did you know she was a witch?”
“A good citizen’s tip.”
Two strange thugs who delivered sawdust bombs and paid off constables. Had they carried the key that could have saved a dozen lives?
“Drive on,” Oliver ordered, voice cracking.
A woman and her sylph. Did she deserve to die for that bond?
The phoenix grew colder against his side. One wing twitched feebly, but it did not open its eyes.
Does a servant who disobeys an unjust order deserve to die?
“Pick up the pace!” he snapped.
“As you wish, sir.”
The wagon careened through the empty lots at top speed, cutting off traffic, and arrived at the wharfs in short order. The Inventor let the wagoneer handle security; he leaned forward to better hide the bundle against his chest and answered questions only when asked.
He could not be sure if the security guards believed his deception, or if they were merely used to blood-soaked Inventors returning at odd hours.
They arrived before his own laboratory momentarily. Of course, Oliver hadn’t brought proper change. Shrugging, he handed the driver a silver. “Keep your opinions to yourself, okay?”
The seeping phoenix blood dribbled down Oliver’s sleeve onto his pants, stark red against the fabric.
The driver accepted the silver and nodded. “Discretion is the better part of valor.”
Running to his warehouse, Oliver found the door unlocked. Swearing to himself, he prayed there wasn’t an Inquisitor on the other side, and he barged into his laboratory.
No Inquisitor, but worse: Mirielle Visage.
The demon of indulgence sat on his stool, legs folded at the ankle, and read through his notes like a penny dreadful novel. Without glancing up, she turned the page and asked, “How was your little meeting?”
Behind her, that strange Livery maid silently dusted the empty expanse of work tables.
“We can talk in a minute,” he replied. “I need help.”
Mirielle glanced his way and bit back a teasing comment. Her lips parted, and for a moment she listened to something beyond Oliver himself. “A dying phoenix? Is she really a productive use of your time, Oliver?”
So the creature had a gender. Would her handlers have named her, or would they have seen her as a weapon with one purpose?
“She wouldn’t fire,” he tried to explain.
“Fire?” Mirielle hummed. Leaning across the table, the demon flicked on the radio. Jingle commercials began to play, advertising everything from pistols to landscaping services. “Tch. I do hate commercials – at least unless I’m the one running them.”
Meanwhile, the Livery maid approached. Expression placid, she placed one hand on Oliver’s wrist and tugged aside his jacket to reveal the shivering bird.
“Dying,” she mused. Her voice resonated much like the radio – as though she too spoke from a distance.
Or perhaps Oliver was delirious with adrenaline.
“How do I save her?” he demanded.
“A phoenix requires fire,” Mirielle offered, still waiting on the radio. “Flame and blood both feed the heart. Both dwindle.”
“She’s dying!” he spat at the demon. “At least pretend you care!”
Mirielle cocked her head, listening, and stilled. A strange longing crossed her face, and she spoke in a voice her own instead of as the minx of Tower Visage. “Your touch comforts her in her final moments.”
Finally, the radio arrived at the news.
Late breaking! Fiery assassination at a town hall!
A Guildsman and five aldermen were killed by the action of a beast of fire, the so-called phoenix, at the behest of a jealous witch. Scores more suffered burns during the conflagration, and the fire department was unable to save the building. Thanks to the eye witness reporting of concerned citizens, constables were able to immediately track the offending witch to a local establishment. When confronted, she attempted to raise her foul arts against the good men in blue and was laid low for her troubles.
A story with tangential relationship to the truth at best.
While the radio played, the maid crossed to the eastern wall, shoved aside a stack of boxes, and revealed a defunct furnace. She twisted the intake valve, and the machine began to hiss alarmingly.
“Sloppy,” she muttered to herself, pressing her palm to the wall.
Thin strands of silver poured from her fingertips into the plaster. They crawled along the pipes and molded to the cracks. The strands clotted and faded, darkening to a nondescript grey.
The hissing stopped.
She motioned for Oliver. “Bring the creature.”
He tore himself away from the radio. When did Livery maids learn how to fix a furnace?!
“A pre-Inventor model,” the maid noted. “Were this building not so drafty, you would be dead of carbon monoxide poisoning by the tenth of Solace.”
She kicked aside more boxes, revealing a dusty pile of coal, and calmly began to dump massive shovelfuls of coal into the open mouth. Dust and coal dust blew all over her sharp, white apron and into her smooth hair.
Oliver hurried across the warehouse, cradling the twitching phoenix. “What do you need me to do?”
“Open the intake, ignite the burner, and work the bellows.”
He rushed to obey, and together they fanned the furnace to life. The iron grate within its square mouth began to glow, the neglected coals to smoke, and the entire warehouse to stink.
“Okay, what now?” Oliver asked. “Stand in front?”
“Throw her in.”
Oliver swallowed. The phoenix in his arms leaned forward, feebly seeking the fire. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Praying under his breath, he heaved the bird into the furnace.
The phoenix disappeared into the flame, and the contents within exploded. The fireball flung Oliver backwards, head over heels. He managed to twist his fall into a tumbling roll, saving himself a cracked skull, but his cheeks and forearms sizzled like fresh pork.
Then the maelstrom sucked back into the furnace. Into the phoenix.
The bird let out a deep sigh of relief and nestled further into the glowing coals.
The Livery maid grasped the furnace door by the white-hot handle and pushed it shut. She threw the lock, dusted soot from her apron, and regarded Oliver with renewed interest.
“You defy Aure. Are you not pious?”
He laid on the floor, his arms sizzling. “Mirielle…”
“Yes?” the demon called, flicking off the radio.
“Do the nobles dabble in witchcraft?”
“Oh, constantly. They’re such useful creatures.”
The maid slammed her heel into his chest, and Oliver wheezed. The upward view was nice, but she pinned him with cold, distant eyes. “The actions of others do not explain why you do this.”
Lumia – gleaming city of lies. Promise you riches, give you tenements. Promise you faith, give you heresy.
I could probably deal with that, but the part where everybody knows it’s a sham? Inquisition will hang a peasant by his neck for looking at the wrong picture, and our masters above are playing with the heretical beasts like puppies.
And everybody knows everybody knows. But me.
A whisper deep within, something insulated from seductive lullabies, offered him words to speak.
“She needed help,” the boy mumbled. “She deserves life. I don’t care how she was born, what witch she served, or what the Inquisitors think. I won’t abandon someone in need.”
For a better world. That’s what I have. That’s my mission.
“State your objections to the schedule,” the maid demanded, maintaining pressure.
Stars started to flash before his eyes. “Mirielle…a little…help?!”
The demon tutted. “He may have a pet, dear. As long as he accepts the consequences for good or ill.”
“I wasn’t asking permission,” he wheezed, soft enough to avoid outright rebellion.
Mirielle conveniently ignored that. “Let him up. Normally men have to pay for that sort of treatment.”
The maid lifted her foot, and Oliver coughed in relief.
What a sycophant! What does she care how I accomplish our deals?! Are all Livery servants this loyal?
Delicately, the lullaby in his mind nudged him away from the obvious connection.
“Speaking of consequences, this fire is trouble. I should probably lend a personal touch,” Mirielle mused. “Would you care to tag along, Oliver?”
“No,” he said. As the adrenaline faded, his hands began to throb. He squeezed his fingers, and he felt the desiccated skin across his knuckles crack like old paper.
Ow.
“Suit yourself.”
The Lady Visage sashayed from the warehouse, trailing her music.
Her maid remained, regarding him coolly. “Those wounds will scar without medical attention.”
He raised his arms to examine the angry red blisters now bubbling across his skin. The jacket had absorbed the worst of it; his forearms never even touched the flame directly! Of course, neither did a Harvest dinner turkey, and those ended up sizzling all the same.
She peeled away his jacket with all the care of a veterinarian in a hurry. Examining his arms, she probed the blisters. “The current state of medical care is sufficient for these wounds.”
What kind of maid is this woman…?
The lullaby in his head buzzed louder.
“I will alert the paramedics.”
Groaning, he staggered to his feet, brushed past the maid, and opened his booze cabinet. The bottles inside promised to dull the burning pain that grew by the moment.
The maid surveyed the disaster of his laboratory. Her eyes settled on the roaring furnace, and her entire being froze. Long, black hair to the white bow at the small of her back, expression carved from stone, hands covered in old soot.
An alien and unblinking creature, standing within reach and yet so far away.
“What is her name?” she asked.
Oliver jumped. For a moment, he had forgotten that she could speak at all. Uncorking the whiskey to cover his gaff, he asked, “Pardon me?”
“The phoenix. She requires a name.”
He set down the whiskey and considered. “Phi. Let us call her Phi.”
“You are discontent,” she stated. “Perhaps her companionship will be the salve you require.”
All the lullabies in the world couldn’t suppress Oliver’s scowl. “I don’t need comments from the chorus.”
The maid laughed – a soft, surprised bubbling.
Beautiful in her distant, sculpted way.
“Nor do I, Oliver Oshton.”
He did not understand these strange, fey women.
She raised a finger in warning. “An Inventor must invent. Meaning in purpose. Your early warning system is inefficient. Localized. Reactive.” Her eyes flashed electric blue. “You wish to master the skies? You must reach the heavens.”
Repeat after us.
He flinched away, and not simply from the pain of burns. “I’m doing the best I can.”
“To save those you love from the tragedy you have known is worthy. To save those you have never met from the tragedy not yet envisioned is luminary. Do you not wish to see that new world?”
“Just call the doctors!” he groused. For once, he understood what nobles must think of their servants – pests who prodded at things best left to their betters.
Offering a deep curtsy, she transformed once more into nothing more than the help.
“Very well, sir.”
He took a swig of whiskey, hissed gingerly, and settled back into his chair to wait on the medics.
This is your path, Oliver. Nobody said it wouldn’t hurt.
He did what he could.