Magical Intelligence, page 21
They squeezed past the desk blocking their path, Myra hissing her anxiety as Julius carelessly brushed perilously close to its contents. She could feel Black’s eyes boring into them, waiting for the misstep that would allow him to pull her and James from Griggs. A tug-of-war of allegiance.
They gained the steps, Julius jabbering away over . . . well, Myra couldn’t make heads nor tails of it. Foreign words flew past her ears, scientific concepts and theories far beyond her ken. A beige hallway—so well-lit as to be agonizing—gave way to a cozy room which spoke volumes about Mr. Julius Griggs.
More study than office, the lighting was less harsh therein. Or perhaps the new electric illumination struggled to do its job effectively within the towers of shelving and their tightly-packed contents. Myra concluded that gaslight under such circumstances would likely be a hazard. Books. Spare parts for God-only-knew-what. Clothing—blush. Tools. It was astonishing to think there was any room left for Griggs in his office, never mind two visitors. And yet, while the behemoth desk one floor beneath their feet was stacked and piled with any manner of bureaucratic red tape, Julius’ mess carried an air of usefulness.
How did the man ever find anything at all? No wonder he was perpetually hatless and gloveless!
Julius Griggs stood in the midst of his treasures and beamed at James and Myra. Beamed at her, really. Myra blushed under the mental correction and wished she had worn her pendant today. It would have been . . . kind.
“Apologies for the Dampening, James,” Julius picked his way to a chair, gesturing that his two guests do the same. “Getting close to the right formula, you know. Close.”
Looking around her and feeling her blush grow, Myra tried to sort out which in the room was sit-able and which was merely a well-disguised pile of munitions for Julius’ oddball campaign. She sat, hoping that the brown accumulation of leather and stuffing was, indeed, a chair.
James looked equally uncomfortable, though Myra could tell that it was the electricity rather than eccentricity that was getting to him. He sat perched upon a stool, having boldly removed what appeared to be a rudimentary device for toasting bread and placing it onto the floor next to him. He grimaced. “If you plan on talking secrets, with the power present in this building there’s little I can do to aid in that.”
Griggs waved off the mild complaint. “Bah. Don’t let Black get to you. Ever since they bumped him down to desk, he’s had a chip. DMI has the new MI2, sure, but it doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten our own.”
“You mean, we’re still potentials for elimination someday down the road, should we prove a liability to the security of . . .” James waved his hand to their surroundings, his face characteristically dark.
“Don’t be an ass, James James,” Myra surprised herself by speaking. Even more so by her words. It was something Laurie might have dared say to him, but not Myra. Julius’ response was to throw back his head in laughter. James merely stared dumbfounded.
Griggs recovered first, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “I can see the mage in you, Myra, even if the Dampening quelled your gift before you ever made use of it. Fire and spirit. Unconventional and outspoken. You speak as well as you write, and I would be willing to bet that, in a few years, even your connection to the likes of James might not be so large a blot on your reputation that you could come work with us when we get MI3 going.”
Myra feared her cheeks would never cool again, so furiously did she blush. She looked to James for rescue.
“Why, precisely, is it that you brought us in here?” James got right to it.
Julius stood abruptly, hands fluttering and eyes shining as he once more descended into technological nonsense. “In addition to that which the Department commissions, you know that I perform tasks for the Queen from time to time. Side projects. Unofficially tied to my performances under Brackenbury’s stead.”
“Grafford’s carriage,” Myra interjected. Her hand hovered over her breastbone unbidden, a reminder of Julius’ pendant that she had foolishly chosen not to wear.
“Quite right. Helpful items utilizing that which the Department grants for my use. Yet completely off the record,” Julius’ voice drifted up from where he’d dropped to rummage ’round on a low shelf. On hands and knees, he had his head practically out of sight behind a pile of bric-a-brac. With his back to James and Myra he proved himself completely oblivious as to proper decorum.
“Ah-hah!” The triumphant exclamation heralded his return. Turning, he seated himself directly on the floor and held up a copper-clad box for inspection.
Two blank faces blinked at Julius.
“Oh, come on then.” Julius scrambled to his feet, giving his trousers a few smacks to clear them of dust.
“What’s it for?” Myra let curiosity take her.
“That’s right. You wouldn’t feel it as James does,” Julius said. “James?”
Still blank, James stared at the device. It was as though his mind and eyes were having a public falling-out, and Myra and Julius got to witness it. At length he said, “It creates fields. Electric fields.”
“Not creates, James. Siphons,” Julius corrected. “Pulls the electricity from the air. Channeling. Harvesting. Following Tesla’s radiant energy theory, I decided on a more practical application. If we could suck the electricity out of the air—filter and capture it here—then, perhaps, we might find ourselves a ready solution to Violectric Dampening.”
“But that’s wonderful!” Myra exclaimed. “Isn’t it James?”
James’ shock had turned to horror. “Julius. You’ve made a weapon. Can’t you see that? A weapon against us.”
“No, no, no,” Julius moved to reassure his friend. “This is for good. It’s like Addair’s elixir. A magnet for the sort of power that hurts yours, see? Something that I could try to make embeddable into the places your kind frequent, provided I can solve the issue of insulation. Something wearable, even, given time to allow you free movement anywhere that electricity—”
“It. Is. A. Weapon.” James’ anger made his words staccato. “Watch.” He pulled his wand, made a sign in the air. The resulting curse fizzed and popped, scattering sparks that seared the eyes and made Myra’s nostrils smart.
“And that’s something small, Julius.” James put away his wand. “Gods help us if I tried something akin to Laurie’s Ways-walking, or Kady’s Kinetics, or even Robert’s Weather. Dr. Silas Addair’s work is never quite a complimentary comparison, Griggs.”
Julius looked stricken. He swayed and reached, unseeing, for his chair. “I’m sorry, James. I hadn’t—I hadn’t thought—”
“Destroy it.”
“Beg pardon?”
“Does anyone else have the plans? The wherewithal to make it?”
“No, but—”
“Destroy it.”
“James!” Myra was on her feet, tears in her eyes as she looked from mage to ord.
“Myra. You don’t understand. We have been ousted. Myself. Robert. Laurel. What’s to stop this from being used the other way around? To make fields of fire that our gift cannot penetrate. Or torture us, as Addair’s men did Stephen.” James’ anger filled the room, making the space small. He shot a glance to Julius. “Was that all, then?”
Julius slumped in his chair. “It is done. James, I’ll kill it, yes. But remember. Remember that it is you who asked for such. I’ll not be responsible later on when you find yourself needing it. Progress will happen. You’ve no call on that. Next year they plan on opening up the new electric train lines. You cannot stop the future, James James.”
“Then damn the future. And damn you, Julius Griggs! I’ll not be any less of myself for the sake of the progress of man.” James made sure that he got the last word in. He collected Myra and marched her down the stairs and out into the street, claiming along the way the two boxes Mr. Black had managed to squeeze onto his desk.
Thoroughly shaken, Myra imagined she could still hear the echo of Griggs’ warning as the two mages again found the flow of traffic and made their escape into the depths of London in search of the carriage that would take them home.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Griggs never again contacted the team during the week following his heated argument with James. The spying upon the Flameists’ ceremony that the M.I. mages were to undertake would happen without further help from their informant. He had imparted what he would.
Myra was annoyed at him as much as with James. Julius could have at least bothered to forward some sort of apology, coded within another missive for her. But nothing came. Not even a veiled wishing of luck, or good fortune, or whatever one said to agents embarking on a mission.
Such encouragement would have helped quell her jangling nerves as Myra sat in Grafford House’s carriage on a Friday evening, working her invisibility spells and squished between thin air and nothing. Well, not nothing. James and Aidan sat on either side of her, performing the same spells, shoulder to cramped shoulder within the tight space. To feel pressed upon and yet have no evidence for one’s eyes—it made Myra slightly queasy.
Equally off-putting? Robert’s studied ignoring of his companions. With the windows open to passersby, Myra figured the illusion complete: Mr. Grafford, heading to his club, as was his habit of a weekend’s eve. There he would disembark, contriving some delay in shutting the carriage door behind him, thus providing his invisible cohorts opportunity to slip out unobserved.
The only problem would be one of balance. Three people exiting a carriage in close, hurried succession without causing the coach to creak or list under the weight would be a trick. It being an M.I.—former M.I.—conveyance, they did have engineering on their side. Said Grafford House vehicle was equipped with the means to withstand the more gentle of disembarkations without signaling the shift in weight. Griggs’ developments were to be thanked for this. Contributions from “the time before,” to quote Robert.
But Myra wouldn’t be thanking Julius just yet. Atop all her other worries, she simply didn’t think she could be as light-footed and graceful as required when leaving the coach. They had practiced the maneuver in the mews with a tray of water perched atop the carriage. She had spilled it every time. If only she could use magic for something other than invisibility. A Kinetic’s abilities were looking more and more desirous to her.
The carriage stopped. Myra looked out the window, laughing at how she did not have to move much to get the vantage point to see. And good thing, too, cramped as we are.
Another traffic snarl. Shouting and a horse’s shrill whinny. A discordant group of expensive hats coming together and then dispersing. People being people. The carriage lurched onward.
I’m probably looking right through Aidan’s skull. The thought was less entertaining than one might believe. Myra turned her eyes back to Robert, trying to quash the prickly feeling that rose in her chest.
The carriage stopped again. This time, anticipation colored the air for Myra’s Empathic sensibilities. Robert harrumphed and shifted, inching forward on his bench. The door opened, and he stepped down a moment later, dropping his cane as he did so.
“I got it. I got it,” he huffed at the attendant. Robert bent ponderously to claim the cane from where it had fallen against the step.
James. Aidan. Their presence cleared out in the space of a breath. She could almost imagine them half-stepping, half-leaping over Robert’s outreached hand. The carriage barely moved as each disembarked, grace rendering their motions as invisible as they. And quick. Myra wished she could see them at work. But, no, that would invite comparison to her own clunky movements.
Myra sucked in her breath. Her turn. James and Aidan stood waiting. She could feel them close, ready to help her in the event that she faltered. Motions smooth, every limb in perfect harmony and balance, she used her training to exit without swaying the carriage . . . much. She glanced back in alarm, as the coach creaked its protest over her less-than-graceful exit. The man up top made a show of shifting about, resetting the reins and generally giving visible excuse for Myra’s error.
“Well done,” Aidan whispered at her side.
Well done, driver. Myra wanted to correct him. She didn’t. No time. Already Robert had gained the steps of his club. Myra and her two cohorts needed to make themselves scarce before they were tripped over or bumped into.
The house where the Order was meeting was but an eighth of a mile away. The M.I. agents were, of course, not to take the main thoroughfares. Too many people, animals, and carriages to dodge.
It was alleyways and mews for them. The going slow. And icky. Here, just as in Myra’s initial training in the early morning hours with James, the tracks of their passing could be marked in the mud and worse that caked the lesser-traveled paths. Theirs were just several footprints amongst many. And with the deepening gloom of evening coming on, the invisible trio passed through the unfashionable part of the fashionable side of town undetected.
The door to the home was open when they arrived. The butcher’s boy they had paid off to make such an arrangement was nowhere in sight, leaving no clue as to how he had accomplished this feat. Myra was pretty sure she was better off not knowing. The kitchens were similarly vacated, save for a tabby sitting where he likely was not allowed, industriously washing one paw. It gave Myra the shivers that the feline looked right at the trio of invisible wizards, its piercing green gaze seeming to follow them as they picked their way towards the cellar door. It was enough to prompt her to double-check that her own spell was holding. It was.
Cats. Creepy. A sigh of relief snaked out of Myra’s lungs as the cellar door swung shut behind them. Relief and anticipation. She was in it now.
The inconsistent chattering sounds of a social hour drifted up towards the three M.I. mages as they crept down into the cellar, rubber-soled shoes marking no evidence of their passing. Only Myra’s hold on her gift informed her of her companions’ presence ahead of and behind her on the narrow stair.
In contrast to Grafford House, this home had an oft-used cellar with clean stone walls and a wholesome air. Though, like Grafford House, the illumination was much the same. Gas light instead of electric. A lucky boon for the M.I. team.
A dozen or more gentlemen and ladies huddled together in small groups, chatting. Small glasses in gloved hands, the idle smell of pipe smoke, the Order’s gathering had more of social hour than sorcery about it, more front parlor whispering than witchcraft.
James called Myra back with a gentle touch upon her arm. A tidy group of barrels sat in a darkened corner. The space behind gave the trio a cunning hiding spot. The cellar still functioned as a cellar, then. They ducked in, settling into their observations and letting slide their spells a touch so that, bereft of Laurel’s expert Mind Speech, they might better communicate in silence.
Names and titles, whispered close in Myra’s ear by James, flitted in and out of her head. It confirmed why MI2 did not wish to interfere with the operations of the Order of the Holy Flame. Men and women of import, lords, dames, magistrates, police, bankers and solicitors, even close relations to members of Parliament were affiliates of the Order and thus untouchable. And oh, how they talked! And of nothing!
Thus crouched between Aidan and James, Myra waited and watched as sociable knots of the Order’s faithful tied and unwound, London’s finest talking and drinking themselves into an unsteady quiet. She had begun to think that her legs might never again straighten properly, cramped as they had become, when a hush descended upon the room.
A middle-aged man entered. He had the look of a servant about him, all phlegmatic boredom and expertly reined judgment. He passed robes to the gathered Flameists and made himself scarce. His exit took him close by the hidden audience as he went back up the stairs leading to the kitchens. Myra thought she saw a slight smirk on his face and couldn’t blame him.
Fine and fashionable clothing disappeared beneath shapeless robes of black. Coifed hair and impressive mustaches hid themselves beneath wide hoods. Ladies and gentlemen made indistinguishable from the caricature of a wizard. Such theatrics.
“ ’Tis a good thing we managed to arrive before they covered up,” Aidan murmured, drawing a nod from James.
Positions were taken up, a careful and tidy separating of persons into concentric circles. Staves were passed into reverent hands. And swords. And cups. Myra guessed that coins would be next and rolled her eyes. Someone—man or woman, within the robes it was hard to tell—moved to turn down the lamps. Shadows and darkness, what light there was caught on the arcane artifacts and gave good effect to the scene. Eyes glittered deep within their hoods.
James was right. The ords had no magic.
Why are we here, again? Myra glanced at her companions and then looked back to the assembled Flameists. A low hum began amongst the would-be wizards. The circles began to move. One clockwise, the other counter. The Flameists moved along their tangents, a curious, shuffling sort of step. The motions felt embarrassed, apologetic even, to Myra’s eyes.
A basket was passed about. There was the coin, then. Donations. The jingle of various coinage mingled with the soft hiss of paper. Ah, the glory of having a well-off patronage. The basket filled in no time at all.
Somewhere out of sight a man’s deep voice intoned to those assembled. Myra caught something about a gate and its subsequent opening and shutting, a flow without beginning or end. Bogus it might be but Myra found it mesmerizing.
The dance picked up its pace, growing in confidence. Wands, cups, swords, and coin were raised. The humming increased. Now the man in charge had to shout to be heard above the din. Something about the elect who were to be Called Up during the night’s ceremony.
That’s how Myra heard it. Called Up rather than called up. The emphasis was unmistakable. It drew her from her stupor. Myra exchanged a look with Aidan and James. Called Up. What’s that?
Their faces were equally puzzled. So nobody knows. Okay.
Myra turned her attention back on the ceremony, surprised to note that a new leader had come into the center of the whirling circles. His robe was different from the rest, emblazoned on the edges with arcane symbols that flashed dully. Gold on black. He knelt, fiddling with some sort of apparatus on the floor. What he was doing, specifically, Myra could not tell. For the movement of those around him concealed much and seemed to make the whole scene waver in the gaslight.
