HOME NEWS WHO ARE WE? WEBZINE ARCHIVE MAILING LIST FREE ISSUE / SURVEY FORUM SUBMISSION GUIDELINES CONTACT COPYRIGHT			Sorcery & Science Magazine July 2005   An Unrevealed Tort, Revealed By Richard S. Crawford A Life Unlived Poem by M.A. Gossett Worked to Death Short Story by Pamela Karavolos Dragon at Prayer Poem by Vittoria Cupaiuolo The Missing Spy Short Story by A.J. Kenning   You can read the webzine in pdf format , and/or save a copy to your hardrive and read it offline or print it out and snuggle up with hot cup of your choice. If you don't have Acrobat Reader, download it here for free.       A few words from the crazy creator   Welcome to the third edition of Sorcery & Science Magazine! Well, a lot of things happened since the second edition. I found a job — a real life one - and my husband and I moved to a new apartment. All of which made it hard to publish the June edition especially since I want to bring you the quality you are used to and that I, myself, demand. And so Sorcery & Science became bi-monthly. It took a load off of me and I also received more stories and poems to choose from. I also received an e-mail from a great artist by the name of Ione Citrin, who offered to let me use her beautiful art as pictures for the stories and poems. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to match the stories and poems with her art this issue, except for one. "A Life Unlived", a poem by M.A. Gossett, is complemented by the painting "Spring Thaw". I hope you will enjoy the stories and poems of the July edition as much as I did. There is a dragon at prayer and a spy missing in Russia and death really takes “his” toll. An outrageous dialogue in the vein of Monty Python starts it off followed by a life unlived. Any and all comments will be greatly appreciated. Feel free to post on the Forum or send me an e-mail. Sorcerous Regards, Jessica Taylor (Publisher and Editor-in-Chief) PS: The PDF edition is finished and can be viewed through the link above.     The Unrevealed Tort, Revealed By Richard S. Crawford   "Ignatius, put down that haddock!" "Never! This is no longer about the casserole, Abner. It's a matter of honor, and manly pride!" "Well, then, would you at least get off the mule? I have an important engagement with the podiatrist! Thousands of lives are at stake!" "Oh, Abner, you sad little man. Do you not recall what is written in the Book of Norman the Omniwitted?" "No, Ignatius, but these things are unimportant! The gazelle, Ignatius, the gazelle!" "For it is as Norman the Omniwitted observed in the fourteenth roll of the sacred Rolo, 'Shalt thou be as a shoe unto the unmitigated? Behold and rub thou the final fringe, for a noble spirit embiggens the smallest man.'" "Oh, very nice, Ignatius. But don't you forget what Winnifred the Winged once wrote in the Fourteen Epistle to the Manhattans!" "Of course I won't forget, but you're hardly in a position to --" "'For it is written that the Ichthyologist of the Apocalypse shall season no cod while the haddock rises above the son of the horse and the donkey.'" "You are no apocalyptic ichthyologist, Abner!" "The principle is the same. Would you deny my birthright?" "A pox upon you and your lily-livered second cousin twice removed! You know nothing of honor!" "A pox? You dare!" "I dare that, Abner, and much more, upon the name of the canine trio. But fear not, for I hold this, the sacred source of the kipper! Behold, as I wave it above my head in triumph!" "The source of the kipper, you say? My sacred birthright?" "It is as you claim, Abner! And none other but I wield this fiendish fish!" "Ignatius, put down that haddock!" "Never! This is no longer about the casserole, Abner. It's a matter of honor, and manly pride!" (And so on, should you choose to believe it.)   Would you like to write a review of this story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!   Back to Index       A Life Unlived By M.A. Gossett   She sits alone by the window not feeling the sun upon her cheek days spent gazing, never seeing the life that passes beneath her panes. The glass is dusty , dingy streaked by years of neglect cobwebs hang in shrouds about the corners of her soul. She sits alone by the window staring out across life, gazing yet never seeing the light, the love that slowly passes by. "Spring Thaw" by Ione Citrin © All rights reserved   Would you like to write a review of this poem? Read the Review Rules first! Review this poem!     Back to Index       Worked to Death By Pamela Karavolos   In my line of work, I get around; a lot. It used to be a heck of a lot easier. But with the world's population expanding exponentially, I don't have a lot of leisure time anymore. Even 10 years ago, I could take a few moments to schmooze at a cocktail party or sit in on a seminar before punching the old time clock. Not anymore! It's rush in, do the job, rush out. So, there I was at the 32nd Annual Management Seminar in Los Angeles, searching the crowd for a particular face. Suddenly, the speaker’s words caught my attention. He was a short, rotund, pompous old geezer in a navy blue pinstriped suit and a red power tie that looked as if it might strangle him at any minute. Aha, he was the man I was looking for. Ignoring my deadline, I paused to listen to his speech before finishing the job. "Are you feeling overwhelmed, stressed, and unappreciated? Well it could be that you need to speak with upper management about increasing your motivation," here he paused and rubbed his fat fingers together in the now universally understood sign language for money. The crowd snickered appreciatively on cue. "Sir? What if you are upper management?" I asked. He looked a little confused. A question and answer period was scheduled at the end of his talk, not in the middle of it. However, he was a good sport and answered anyway. "Delegate some of the more mundane duties. Free up some time for yourself. Stress can kill, you know." Those were his last words on the subject, but they rang in my head for hours. So, later that day, I wrote out a help wanted ad. In my profession, a little inventiveness was needed to describe the job. I read and re-read the ad I’d written. Then, pleased as punch with my cleverness, I placed the ad and waited for the deluge of job applicants. Well, after interviewing the first few applicants, I wasn't so pleased. It was going to be harder than I thought to find that perfect someone. However, I’m persistent and persuasive, heck it wasn’t like I didn’t have all the time in the world. I interviewed twelve applicants before I found Reuben Zeleski. He was perfect; not terribly bright with nondescript hair, a nondescript mouth, a nondescript nose. In fact, he was just another face in the crowd. I looked down at his application and smiled. He had listed the name of his previous employer, a notorious loan shark in Las Vegas, and his parole officer. Wonderful! He even had experience. I hired Reuben on the spot and fast-talked my way through the job description. He looked a little undecided about accepting the job offer until I mentioned the comprehensive fringe benefits. As I suspected, they were too good for him to turn down. Now, don't mistake me and think that I just threw this guy in to do a job that had taken me years, and years, and years to perfect. No, I started him off slow with a real easy in-and-out assignment. An 83-year old grandmother in a quiet neighborhood at midnight. The whole scenario, including travel time, should have taken him all of 10 minutes. I gave him 15, tops. I watched the clock, 15 minutes came and 15 minutes went. This didn't bode well. I, too, had a job to do. So on my way there, I checked in on Reuben to make sure he hadn't run into a problem or bungled the job somehow. I waltzed in, and there they were, big as life, sitting at the kitchen table eating muffins and drinking tea. It seems the little old lady had a bit of insomnia and had been up cooking banana nut muffins, Reuben's favorite. Well, I lost my temper, right then and there, and things got a little hot. As we stood across the street, basking in the glow of our accomplishment, I noticed that Reuben had what suspiciously looked like tears in his eyes. H e assured me, with a sniff, that his eyes were just watering from the smoke. Since I’m finding out that good help is really hard to find these days, I gave Reuben another chance. His next assignment was a no-brainer; an old man, lying alone and terminally ill in the hospital. I gave him 15 minutes; he took 25. When he returned, I asked him how it went. He couldn't look me in the eye. "You did finish the job?" "Well, not exactly." He hedged. "Not exactly? We're not talking about renting cars here. Did you, or didn't you?" "I tried. I really did. But Boss, tomorrow was his 100th birthday. The hospital staff was going to throw him a party. I figured it could wait." I threw up my hands in despair and let him go on the spot. Poor Reuben. As he scurried from the room, I sadly uncapped my blood red pen and added his name to the bottom of the list. I'd get to him, eventually. Hiring Reuben hadn't been the success that I'd hoped it would be. Instead of freeing up a little time, I had actually made more work for myself. I sighed and thought, “At the rate I’m going, this job is going to be the death of me...”   Would you like to write a review of this short story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!   The Author Pamela Karavolos lives with her family in Rosamond, California. She is a technical writer. Despite living in “Pam”demonium, she still finds time to write short fiction and her work has been published in Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine and Flash Fantastic. This is her third story published in Sorcery & Science.   Back to Index       Dragon at Prayer By Vittoria Cupaiuolo   This truth most matters: with the sun in my eyes, I’m blind to confusion, and I rise above the lies. And it’s beauty that lifts me, igniting the skies, So I see the world’s shape, and I know life’s true size. Up into the cloud banks, where in thunderheads’ mood Our wings draw out lightplay, and the dark dares not intrude, For though daybreak ever leads us, we are nightfall pursued, O Name of the Sky, prove Light still unsubdued. (For as light and wings falter, and descent takes control – we fall and we surrender, to Velocity’s soul – and we make rising whole.) Now broken, abandoned by gravity’s lies Still I remember that the sun will soon rise, And I will go with it, for wings recognize That what Light demands, the Night never denies.   Would you like to write a review of this short story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!     Back to Index   The Missing Spy By A.J. Kenning   1902 London, England The office of Director William Sorenson was handsome and conservative, filled with leather and solid furnishings. The man behind the desk was sturdily built, with silvered hair and a long, greying, handlebar mustache. He was also slick, but there was nothing unusual in that. No one could have risen very high in the Royal Intelligence Service without being that. No, what was special about him was that he was intelligent. Maybe not all that intelligent, but definitely more than most who worked in The Field. On that particular day, the expression on his face was conveying a slight sense of discomfort. A discomfort built upon distaste. Eventually, the door of his office opened and a man of average height and build stepped through, and the source of William's distaste became apparent. The newcomer leaned against the back wall. Wafting from him was the scent of the sophisticated businessman. It surrounded him as if it were a kind of cologne. A cologne that had been applied rather too strongly. The only thing that marred his ensemble was the fact that an icecaster glove was tucked into the breast pocket of his overcoat. "Ah, Thomas," William said lightly as he leaned forwards across his desk, "you're here. Late, as usual, I see." The sleek man tugged at each of his cuffs, adjusting them minutely, thus bringing them into a more proper position. "Mm. ...Well. What did you ask me in here for, William?" A crease appeared in the center of William's forehead. "Director." "Director." William pursed his lips tightly together. "The Service asked you here, Thomas. Not me." "Ah. Of course." "Their opinion of you has always been much higher than mine." Almost involuntarily, his lips turned downwards into a scowl. "You know that I have no liking for your methods." _Or for you, personally, either_, his tone implied. "But. I do agree— this time— that the Service may just now be in need of your...particular...skills." Thomas arched an eyebrow. "Ah yes?" "Yes. ...Unfortunately." "Well, I am always pleased to be of aid to the Service...given enough incentive." William picked up a decanter and poured himself some brandy— pointedly not offering any to Thomas. Then he took up his glass, turned his chair half-away, and held his glass before him. But didn't drink just yet. "Your usual payment has already been deposited into your account." A slight smile touched Thomas's lips. "Lovely." William scowled for a time, then led it fade. "Now...as to what we want you to do." He adjusted his grip on his glass. "...It is all a rather sorry affair." "Oh yes?" William glanced over, then returned his gaze to the wall. "Somehow, one of our foreign intelligence cells was compromised." "...I see." There was no surprise at all in Thomas's voice. "Completely compromised. All three of the agents and their handler disappeared on the same night. ...One of the agents and the handler later turned up in the local morgue." William sighed quietly. "As for the other two agents— well, we still don't know." He shook his head. "We have put another agent on the ground, but so far he has been unable to learn anything at all." He set his jaw. "We still don't know who killed them. Or why. Or even how it was done." He glanced over and raised his glass to Thomas. "Which is where you come in, Thomas. We want you to find out. ...You leave tomorrow on the ferry, to meet the 8 o'clock train to St. Petersburg." Thomas narrowed his brows slightly. "I am quite surprised that you know so little. Was it sorcery that killed them, then?" "Honestly, we don't know. Our man hasn't been able to get close enough to anything to learn anything. The local authorities have, understandably, closed house completely, and our man hasn't even been able to get entry into the morgue to see the bodies." "Tsk." It was a "tsk" of commiseration, but was also mixed with a little bit of contempt. From anyone else, such would have received a great deal of forceful comment from William. But, from Thomas, such was simply what was expected. And so, was ignored. William shrugged. "One would have hoped for much more information, of course. But with the Russian authorities dealing with two murders in one night— well, they are none too pleased with foreigners just now, as one can well imagine." "If this job does actually involve sorcery, then it will be much more dangerous than the usual sort." The crease reappeared in William's forehead. "Your account will be compensated accordingly, if that is the case. The money has already been set aside." "Lovely." Thomas made the motions of tipping a hat. "I am quite pleased to do whatever I can for the Empire." William frowned darkly. "Quite." "One thing, though." Thomas raised his chin slightly. "I don't want anyone to know that I am going to St. Petersburg." "Of course. That is a given. Barring myself and Command and our man on the ground, no one even knows that you have been selected for the job." "You misunderstand me, Director. I don't want anyone to know. Not Command, and certainly not your man on the ground." William spluttered for a moment. "You can't be serious, Thomas." "I most certainly am." A spot of red colored William's cheeks. "This absolutely can't be done without Command's approval. And our man on the ground certainly needs to know that someone is coming, if only to let him know that he is being supported after this disaster. ...And, anyway, he is the man who's been there, and so he is going to be your best resource once you get to St. Petersburg. You're certainly going to want to contact him. And, to do that, he'll need to know that you're coming." "I'll make my own way." William came to his feet. "There is a certain way that these things are done, Thomas. And that is how they will be done by anyone who is working for me." A muscle twitched in Thomas's cheek. "...Very well, sir." "Good. Quite right." "I shall go and pack, then, shall I?" "Yes. Do that." Thomas left, and William sat back in his chair. Then, with a sour look at the closing door, he at last drank his brandy. * Thomas's contempt for his fellow spies was a feeling with much justification. In its history, The Field had never been viewed as something with much prestige, and spying was generally seen as being a simple job that required little in the way of skill or experience in order to perform well. Mostly, the Royal Intelligence Service was used as a place to send the sons of important men until the boys had put in their time and could be promoted on to other things. Thomas was the only man in the British Empire— and one of the few men in the entire world— that could actually be called a professional spy. * 1902 Chances, France The ferry dropped Thomas off at the docks, and he made his way immediately to the train depot. There, though, he didn't go immediately to his train, but instead went up to one of the clerks and flashed his credentials at her, and thus acquired a copy of the passenger manifest for the 8 o'clock train. As he strode back into the depot proper, he settled his finely-woven overcoat more perfectly about his shoulders. His hair was now slicked back, his shirt was of bright silk, and his nails were neatly manicured— at some point during his time on the ferry, he had transformed himself into the perfectly cultured dandy. To the point where he even sharply shook out his pocket handkerchief with one crisp movement before fastidiously wiping off the bench so that he could sit down upon it. As he read through the manifest, the smallest of contemptual smiles twitched at his lips, and then he refolded the paper. It was just as he had suspected— there were no other Britons on such an early train to Russia. And he went back to the clerk and asked for the manifest for the 9:30 train. * 1902 St. Petersburg, Russia The first passenger to step off of the 12 o'clock train was an old Russian peasantwoman, her head bent low, and a slow pace to her steps. Just behind her was Thomas, dressed and bearing the cock-sure attitude of the proper English aristocrat, and with a porter carrying a large load of luggage on a trolley behind him. Across from them, a middle-aged man in a sorrel overcoat, with his hands shoved firmly into his pockets against the cold, was waiting ostentatiously by the entrance to the depot. He carefully studied each of the emerging passengers, but his gaze lingered over the English aristocrat. After a long moment of indecision, he stepped forward to meet the man. "Sir?" he said softly. The aristocrat ignored him— obviously thinking that someone else was being addressed. "Sir?" The aristocrat turned his head inquiringly, then stopped walking. "Mm? ...Yes? What do you want?" "You're very late, sir." "Am I?" The aristocrat was very taken aback. "I thought I was perfectly on time. ...Which is very gauche, of course, I can assure you. These trains, you know. I tried to discuss the problem with the conductor, but he said— and none too kindly, I might add— that these trains have to run at—" "Sir? I've been expecting you for quite some time." "Have you?" The aristocrat seemed even more taken aback. "Just who are you, then?" "Why, I am Captain Avery Brush, sir. Your contact." "Oh," the aristocrat said, as if that explained everything. "...What?" he then said, as if he had suddenly realized that it did not. "Your contact.... Oh. Sorry, sir." Avery licked his lips nervously, then glanced down at the single, small bag that the aristocrat was himself carrying. "Is that your bag, sir?" he then asked in a strangely sing-songy voice. "Why, yes, it is. ...Why?" "That bag seems familiar to me," Avery continued in the same sing-songy voice. "But, those cannot be your initials." "What?" Confused, the aristocrat glanced down. "‘J. H.' Of course those are my initials. Sir Johnathan Hallbrey. They always have been my initials, and they certainly always will be. And I do resent very much your strange implication that they are not!" Avery was stunned. Completely at a loss. And then realization struck him, and he colored quite deeply. "...I'm...I'm sorry, sir. I seem to have made a...a mistake." "Well, I should say so." "Sorry. Terribly sorry." He glanced over at the line of people still coming off of the train, and realized that there were at least two other Englishmen among the crowd. And his color immediately deepened even further. "Terribly, terribly sorry." He hurried off, heading for the closest of the Englishmen, there to ask him his questions of baggage and initials. Sir John watched him go for a few moments, his expression even. And, for a single instant, his eyes showed the cleverness of Thomas rather than the slight dim-wittedness of Sir John. Then he turned around and stepped into the depot, gesturing for the porter to follow. "Well, that was entirely rude, was it not?" he said to the man. "...But I suppose it takes all kinds. Unfortunately." Sir John extravagantly waved his white-gloved hand about, then placed his fingertips against his chest. "Really, I sometimes think that this world could have been organized far better. Don't you?" The porter simply rolled his eyes as he passed through the door into the station. * St. Petersburg was the most important city in all of Russia. Much of the wealth of the entire country lay within its boundaries. Yet, despite that, it was still a relatively poor city. But especially so when it was compared to the great cities of other countries (which it had originally been modeled after). Even its greatest asset— its deep-sea port— wasn't all that great, since it always was iced over for a large part of the year. And, in that sense, St. Petersburg was rather like a symbol of Russia itself— cold and poor. But, also like Russia, it was vast. And in vastness, there was power. * There were a lot of taverns in St. Petersburg— it was part of Russia, after all. Yet, unlike in most cities, it didn't matter which tavern one went into. They were all of about the same quality and appearance— destitution with a hint of melancholy. But there was always a lot to drink. Not much variety in that drink, of course. But what was available, there was a lot of. The Donderberst was a tavern located near the docks, so it was, perhaps, a bit seedier than most. But only because it was more affected by the cold sea winds, and for no other reason. Sir John stepped into this smoky and reeking environment with an air of disgust and trepidation. He even tugged briefly at the edges of his silk shirt, obviously pondering just how much of the ambient smell was going to be sticking to his clothes. "...Oh, dear me. There must be some place else to get a drink in this horrible town. ...But, well, needs must, I suppose." He sighed softly, then began picking his way through the crowd to the bar. No one took too much notice of him— foreigners were a common enough sight in the port city of St. Petersburg. Even insulting English foreigners. In point of fact, there were actually three other Englishmen in that very tavern on that bitterly cold night. Two of them— a man and a woman— were seated together with a small group of Russian factory workers. These two Englishmen were seated at a distance from each other— the distance of strangers— but the woman was leaning in close to the man, and was also putting out every single subtle signal in the world. And looked to be just about desperate enough to start trying something not so subtle. The third Englishman— a middle-aged gentleman— was seated at the crowded bar, and was about halfway to getting himself fully drunk. Which put him well behind most of the people in the tavern. But Sir John gave almost none of his attention to this gentleman. Just about all of his attention was focused upon the couple— watching them from out of the corner of his eye, as the woman casually and "accidentally" brushed her hand against the man's thigh. A movement that caused the man much excitement, but also caused him to blush. A man who's name happened to be Captain Avery Brush. And it certainly could have been coincidence that had brought Sir John to the same tavern that Avery was frequenting. But, of course, it wasn't. * Much later in the evening, The Donderberst was a quieter place. Most of the patrons had either gone home or had passed out. Those who remained were, for the most part, long-time drunkards, and, as a consequence, were rather boisterous. Yet their noise, despite being loud, didn't really compare with the cacophony that is a filled taproom. Captain Avery Brush was one of those who had passed out. His companion, however, was not. She was seated beside him, sipping slowly at her drink, a quite bored expression tempering the lines of her face. Sir John eased himself into a free chair at the table next to hers, and casually ran his eyes over her. She was an urban woman, with wire-rim spectacles and unkempt, tied-back hair. Nothing too beautiful, but pretty good for an Englishwoman. Sir John smiled charmingly, then leaned in close to her and whispered, "Your companion seems to have abandoned you tonight." The Englishwoman glanced down beside her, to where Avery had his head down on the table, and was snoring none to quietly. "So he has." Then she downed the last of her drink in one long swallow. "That was really very rude of him." She glanced over at Sir John with just her eyes, and then turned back away, a look of dismissal already turning her features downwards. But then what she had just seen at last registered in her alcohol-numbed mind, and she immediately turned her body around in order to more fully engage this man seated behind her. "Oh, I don't know about rude. But, it is stupid, certainly." "Yes, it is that, too. A beautiful woman should never be left alone on a beautiful night." He took her hand and gently brushed his lips across her knuckles. Which she let him do. Because he was handsome and an aristocrat, and women allowed such men to get away with such things. And she smiled as he raised his eyes back to hers. Then she said, "So, how long are you in for?" Sir John blinked rapidly for a time. "...Ah! You mean, how long am I in St. Petersburg for? Six months." "Dear me. I'm sorry," she said, her voice filled with much commiseration. "‘Sorry'?" "That you will be trapped here for so long." "Pish-tosh, it cannot be so bad. No place can truly be that bad." "Never been out of England, then?" "No," he replied, speaking as if it were something to be proud of. "This is my first time." "Yes. I thought I heard the voice of inexperience." "Mm. ...Well, I will say that they could use a better place to have a drink." "Very true." "Yet, on their side, St. Petersburg does smell better than London does." "Every place smells better than London does." "There! So this city does have some positive points to it." "One or two, I suppose." "Well then...." And he placed his arm on the table, touching the edge of her hand with his. "I should very much enjoy seeing those one or two points. But especially so if there were someone beautiful there to show them to me." A spark of excitement lit up in her eyes at this suggestion. Yet, she had one last calculation to make. And she glanced down at Avery— still snoring away blissfully— and made it. Her thoughts were actually quite visible on her face. She very much still wanted to get closer to Avery. But she also obviously wanted to enjoy herself this evening, and Avery certainly wasn't going to be helping her with that tonight. Which eventually led her to her ultimate conclusion— one night couldn't hurt, could it? And she smiled. "I suppose I could show you one or two of my favorite sights." * The room was dark, small, and smelled of old woodwork and mold. Lilac perfume had made a more recent entry into the room's scent, but it was yet a faint presence, in comparison. The owner of the lilac perfume was sleeping quietly on the bed, the coverlet tucked up over her head. She did stir in her sleep as the man beside her got up, but she didn't awaken. Quietly, in the dark, Thomas dressed himself. It was the clothes of Sir John that he put on, but he didn't yet wear that man's indelible expression. Once he was fully dressed, he tugged his cuffs into place, and glanced at the woman once more in order to make sure that she was still asleep. She was, and he crossed the room to the endtable where she had left her purse. And he took it. As he passed by the bed on the way to the door, he touched his fingertips to his lips, and waved them in her general direction. And then he was gone. * In a tiny, dusty apartment overlooking the yellow and white stonework that is Senat's Square, a man who was just as dusty as his room sat hunched at his desk over stacks upon stacks of paperwork. Books lined the walls, indicating a man with a lot of time on his hands. And a wireless radio was tucked away into the corner, indicating a man who was up to no good. "Godfrey, old mate," Thomas said by way of greeting, "they still have you here, eh?" The dusty, old man jerked up from his papers— nervously surprised. But then he relaxed when he saw who it is, and smiled. "Oh, they'll never let me leave now, Arthur. I'm too much of an asset here, or some such rot." "Ah, and thus your advice never to make yourself too useful, hmm?" "Yes. Rather. ...And I do hope that you, at least, are following it." "Oh, always." "Mm. ...Mm. Mm. ...So, you are still pretending to be Sir John, I see, eh, Arthur?" Thomas's lips curled slightly. "Of course." "Well." Godfrey nodded several times. "Well, I suppose you are here on important government business, as usual. What do you need?" "A little information, that's all." Godfrey's eyes narrowed. "But you don't want to go through the usual channels, eh?" "Not in this, no." His face hardened. "Just how dangerous are we talking about?" "Precautionary." His face cleared. "Ah. You were always a careful one." He eased himself back into his chair, and made a circular gesture with his hand. "Well then?" Thomas produced the purse, and tossed it down onto the desk. "I want to know about this woman. Everything." Godfrey raised his brows at the appearance of the purse, but, after a moment, he picked it up. "All right. ...Cheap. And a cheap clasp. Won't last long. A simple spellstone set into the clasp." He peered closer. "A Shriek spell, from the looks of it. The cheap sort that can be purchased on any street corner." "I've already broken that." "Ah, good." And he immediately opened the purse and began pulling out the contents. "Nothing particularly out of the ordinary. A powdering brush. A set of keys. A silver locket. Passport papers." The papers, he paused over. And almost immediately, he jumped back in his chair, stunned. Thomas narrowed his gaze. "What is it?" "...Jane Brooks. ...An Englishwoman?" "Yes." "...I think I know her. ...What is she involved in?" "I don't know." Thomas shifted his head slightly to the side. "Who is she?" "Well...." Godfrey settled back into his chair. "Last I saw of her, she was a friend of 1st Lieutenant Jamie Cantner." And he waggled his eyebrows. "...A good friend." 1st Lieutenant Jamie Cantner— one of the missing British agents. Thomas's features darkened, for a brief moment. "Check her out fully, would you, Godfrey?" "Of course. Just give me the usual couple of days." "Given." * Jane Brooks. Spy. For who? Unknown. What had she been looking for? Unknown. How long had she been in her current position? Unknown. How much had she learned from her marks? Unknown. How high-ranked had she been? Unknown. But probably low, considering what it was she had been assigned to do. And the biggest question of them all— why was she still in St. Petersburg? Her operation was dead. Dead in truth. At this point, her people should have pulled her out, before she was discovered. Instead, though, they had run her against another agent. And while it was true that everyone from the Royal Intelligence Service who had known of her previous relationship was now either dead or missing, and while she obviously had Captain Avery Brush wrapped around her little finger, they had to have known that eventually her new relationship would be discovered, and the Royal Intelligence Service would have her checked out, and her cover now couldn't stand up to even the lightest of probings. So, whatever could they have been thinking? But that was the easiest question of all of them to answer. They had wanted Thomas. Or, more specifically, they had wanted the identity of the new British agent that was being sent into St. Petersburg. Obviously, they had found out from Avery that a new agent was soon to arrive, and they had figured that they had the boy so wrapped up that they could keep this relationship secret for long enough to learn the agent's identity. One last good piece of intelligence before they pulled her. And it was going to get her killed. * When Thomas returned to his hotel later that day, he discovered that news was spreading through the city of another Englishman's murder. The entire hotel was aghast over it— three murders in one week! It was a true horror. Thomas, too, was horrified. But not by the news of the murder itself. Instead, he was horrified by the name of the latest victim— Peter Smithson. A name that Thomas well recognized from his recent reading of passenger manifests. Because Peter had come into St. Petersburg on the same train that Thomas had. Yet, there was not only horror displayed on Thomas's features at hearing this news— there was also more than a little pride. Pride because he had just been proved right. * A dismal street on a dismal, dreary night. It wasn't then raining, but this was only a brief pause in an otherwise water-filled evening— the storm taking a single breath in before resuming its long exhale of wet and cold. There were a few homeless individuals about on this street— it being one of those parts of town— and the two people who were just then entering the street at that late hour took an unusually avid interest in each of them, though from a distance. Eventually, however, the newcomers ended their study, and, with nothing to show for it, stepped out of the shadows. They then came together and moved as one towards the stairs of a nearby tenement. They were both dressed in red robes. Red robes with a black band near the face of the hood. Blood Sorcerers. Which was actually a rather inappropriate name for that organization. Because there were no actual sorcerers among the Blood Sorcerers. Sorcerers were far too powerful to be hiring themselves out as mercenaries. Instead, the organization was made up of mages. Fire mages, mostly. But they would take anyone— any mage that was willing to kill for money, that is. And they were the only organization of their kind, too. Because most mages had interests that lay somewhere outside of killing people. Far outside. The Blood Sorcerers didn't only take assassination jobs, though. They took anything. Guardwork, ward testing, military support, consulting. But assassination was what they were known for, because, being mages, they were the best assassins that the world had ever seen. Though, being mages, they were also horrendously expensive. So much so that the Blood Sorcerers were the tools of the nobility, corporations, and governments. And no one else. These two Blood Sorcerers both moved with a stunning grace, and their strides were perfectly in time with each other, despite the fact that they were of a much different height. And of a different sex, for that matter. They even took the steps up to the apartment at the same pace, and stopped as one when they reached the landing. Then, being mages, they broke through the Wardings over the building in only the time it took for the woman to reach out her hand and touch the wood. But, they didn't actually Break the wards— rather, they simply eased open a hole and stepped through, letting the hole seal itself back up behind them. And, in this manner, the magic of the wards was not disrupted. Thus, even if someone later chanced to examine the wards, they would find nothing amiss. Only if someone had been watching the wards at the very moment that the hole had been made would anything ever have been noticed. And in a building such as this, in that part of town, that was so unlikely an event that it might as well have been considered an impossibility. * Yet, someone actually was watching. Though not someone connected at all with the tenement. Because Thomas was there, looking down through a cracked window in the second floor of the tenement across the street. Watching with some amusement as the Blood Sorcerers, in their frustration, burned an empty apartment— their prey having been warned of their coming, and having run hours ago. However, it was a sober amusement, on Thomas's part. Sober because, once again, he had been proved right. Only, in this case, what he had been proved right about was a guess that his enemy was someone utterly ruthless. An enemy who was quite willing to kill a number of innocents in order to eliminate one unknown enemy agent. And in their ruthlessness, they had gone about their killing systematically— making a list of their suspects, going from most likely to least likely, and eliminating them in order. Leaving only Sir John Hallbrey at the end. Which was why Thomas expected to be led to his own hotel when he started following the Blood Sorcerers, once they had left the burning tenement. But such was not at all where they led him. Rather, they took him close in to the docks, and to the windblown shacks that lined the streets there. Because, apparently there was one more name on the assassination list. A name that was considered more important than "Sir John Hallbrey." (Which just showed how little the enemy thought of Sir John.) There could have been any number of names on that list. Yet, during the long walk out to the docks, Thomas had come to his own conclusion— 1st Lieutenant Jamie Cantner. A man supposedly dead. But possibly not. Just possibly, he had somehow survived the destruction of his intelligence cell, and had hid out here, in a windblown shack near the ocean. And, perhaps, the enemy had always known where Jamie was, but had simply thought him inconsequential, and so, not wanting to tip their hand too early, had left him alone. Until now, when they were cleaning house. The two Blood Sorcerers moved down the street without pause, still gliding together in perfect concert. Never saying a single word to each other. Never needing to. Thomas waited a moment more, until he had confirmed which shack they were headed towards, and then he began closing the distance between them. His footfalls were actually even more silent than the gliding steps of the Blood Sorcerers. And so, they never heard a thing. Already, Thomas had put on his two icecaster gloves. He set his hands to cast even as he closed with his targets. Closed so that he would be near enough that he couldn't miss. His gloves each carried only a single, powerful, magical charge— as did every other icecaster glove in the world at that time. A charge that lay dormant within the glove. Until it was primed. Which is precisely what Thomas now did. And the charcoal-colored runes that had been burned into the underside of the gloves now flared with a soft, golden light. The runes did their work— each forming a single, foot-long shard of ice. Shards which Thomas held loosely in each of his hands, until the moment when he was ready to throw. And then he was ready. And both sorcerers went down in a spray of blood. The runes on the underside of the gloves flared one last time. Then they burned away. Leaving only, smooth, pristine, white leather. Empty. Empty, that is, until an enchanter burned new runes into them. * The door burst off of its locks and swung wide, and Thomas came stumbling in after it. In the corner of the room, a youngish man cowered, a look of dazed fear upon his features. A youngish man by the name of 1st Lieutenant Jamie Cantner. His eyes were shut, and so he didn't see who it was that had come through. Though it probably wouldn't have changed his reaction much even if he had. "...No! ...Please!" Having gotten the door open, Thomas showed no inclination for any further immediate action. Instead, he turned his watchful eyes to his surroundings. There wasn't much. And what there was looked to be being hurriedly packed away. Which was smart. But not all that smart, since if Jamie had really been smart, then he would have left St. Petersburg long ago. And if he'd had any wisdom on top of his smarts, then he would have left Russia entirely, and have fled back to the protection of the Empire. But, apparently he had been as afraid of the British as he had of Russians. And, perhaps, reasonably enough so, too, after the sort of mistake that he had made. As for Jamie himself, he was as youngish as he seemed— early twenties— with long eyelashes and thin, strawberry-blonde hair. Very much seeming to be the dapper, fetching, good-natured sort of Englishman. The sort who usually rose quite quickly through the ranks of the Royal Army. Recent days had left the eyes not so clear, and the forehead not so uncreased. In truth, he looked very close to his breaking point, if not already past it. Thomas kicked the door closed, and checked to make sure that all of the windows were shuttered. Satisfied that there was at least that much protection against any further assassins, he then turned his attention to the man in the corner. "Come now, Jamie, this is hardly the best way for an agent to be representing the Empire." Jamie opened one eye and glanced over at Thomas. "...Who are you?" "Captain Arthur Cooper, of the Royal Intelligence Service." Jamie's more immediate fear faded a little. But the more distant fear— that increased markedly. "You're...you're here to bring me out, then?" "Perhaps." "W-w-what do you mean, ‘perhaps'?" The more immediate fear was now back in full. "Tell me, Jamie—" and Thomas started changing his right-hand icecaster for a charged one (he normally only ever carried two icecasters, but tonight was special) "—why did you run?" Jamie stared for a long time at what Thomas was doing. Then he shook himself, and said, "...Ev-everyone was dying. And I...I just ran." "Well, that did very likely save your life." "...Yes." Thomas finished with the gloves, and then turned his eyes to Jamie, though his body was still facing another direction. "So, you claim that you had no other part in this affair?" Jamie pulled himself up to his feet, using the dresser to aid him. "I didn't know anything! Nothing at all. ...I still don't." "Mm-hmm." Thomas checked the charge on his glove. It was fine. "That is as I expected." "It's true! I don't know anything!" "But, you have been telling tales, haven't you? ...To your girlfriend." Jamie gulped slowly. Then firmly took ahold of himself. "I have done no such thing! ...I would never, ever do such a thing." Thomas made no overt threats, but the coldness that was suddenly emanating from him was much more threatening than any words he could have spoken. The conversation died. Then Jamie broke down. "Yes. Yes! Goddamn it! ...I told her a few things. To impress her and like that, you know. ...Just a few things. Nothing of any major importance. It didn't mean anything." "Did it not? Are you quite sure?" "Yes, definitely." Suddenly, he scrunched up his eyes. "...How did you find out about it, anyway? Has she been telling tales?" "She was an enemy spy, you know." Jamie clutched at his throat. "...No!" he eventually managed to gasp out. "She is with the Royal Intelligence Service now, being interrogated." "No," he said very weakly. "There are rules, Jamie. As they told you from the beginning .His jaw slowly set. "And there are reasons for those rules." "No...." "Hmph." Thomas shook his head contemptuously. "Now then. Let's go. In case they send a Watcher for the two dead assassins at your doorstep." Jamie hesitantly glanced over at Thomas's charged icecaster. "Is that what that is for? A Watcher?" "No. ...You know very well what this was for." And he shifted his gaze over Jamie's person. Jamie started trembling. Though, only a moment later, he stiffened his lip— stoic, as was expected of a proper British agent— and followed Thomas through the door and out into the street. And eventually onto the ferry, headed back to Britain. * While the ferry was making its way across the channel, a message arrived for Thomas on the boat's wireless. It was from Godfrey. And it was in code. But the code was quickly enough dealt with. Waste of time, I said. Fool's errand, I said. Checking out mages is about the most useless endeavor in the world. Well, what can I say? I was wrong. Apparently, someone at the morgue recognized the woman. She'd been working for the Compte de Anastacia for nearly a decade now, as one of her bodyguards. Possibly the man, too. But that is still unknown. So, Thomas? The Compte de Anastacia, eh? What is she to you? I am guessing Okhrana, and a rival? Do give details soon. Please. Thomas burnt the message. The Okhrana — Russian Imperial Intelligence. Had they been the enemy that he faced? It was a possibility, certainly. The Okhrana were definitely ruthless enough. And it was even possible that the Compte de Anastacia was associated with them. Or perhaps even a full agent of theirs. Thomas was supposed to leave such speculations to Command. But, he personally liked to be thorough. And he changed ships at the first opportunity. * 1902 St. Petersburg, Russia The Compte de Anastacia's estate was lavish, dominated by an extensive garden, a hunting grounds, and a palatial manor house. Her receiving room was no less lavish. And she herself stinted nothing on her clothing, her cosmetics, and, most of all, her jewelry. Nor was she conservative in the hiring of servants to aid her in using all of that to its greatest effect. She was seated upon a divan when her guest arrived and entered the room, and she remained seated, but offered up her gloved hand to him. However, Sir John took only small notice of her. Instead, his eyes traversed the room, searching for traps, even as he reached inside his overcoat and pulled out his third casting glove. Which he began putting on in a very studied manner. At sight of the glove, Anastacia set her hand to her lips and gasped. "...How...how did you get that...." Sir John briefly glanced over at her. "How did I get this past your wards? ...You bought cheap. Tsk." She glanced about her in steadily rising panic. "I have guards within earshot, fool. Do not come any closer to me!" "Oh, they won't be coming." He smiled. "You see, I did not come here alone." "The city guard? They will obey me. Not you. ...As soon as I tell them who you really are." "I'm sure they would have." "That...is not who you brought with you?" "Certainly not." He started towards her. She drew back from him, but did not rise from her divan. "What...what do you want?" "Who is Jane Brooks?" Her body instantly went still, yet her eyes began shifting about frantically. "She.... How much do you know?" Thomas said nothing. After a while, Anastacia bowed her head. "She is...Okhrana." A muscle twitched in Thomas's cheek. "Yes. As are you. ...Who is she?" She raised her chin, affronted. "I am, most definitely, NOT!" Anger and fear swirled around within her, but eventually the fear once more resumed mastery. "She.... They controlled me. Always. ...From the very beginning. She took a deep, raggedy breath. "I never even wanted to hire her...but they made me! Forced me." She swallowed slowly. "...They had...something on me. I had to obey." "Why did Miss Brooks start killing British agents? What did they want?" She raised her eyes to his, but only for a moment. "They wanted.... Russia is tired of being a backwater. Tired of being controlled. It will no longer accept being held back." She shut her eyes, tight. "...They were making a statement." "What statement?" "...That Britain will no longer be allowed to interfere in Russian Sovereignty." Then, having said that, she fell silent. "That's all?" "Yes. ...That is all." "Thank you." Thomas primed his icecaster, and prepared to cast. "Wait! Wait!" Anastacia cowered, ducking down upon her divan. "I...I told you what you wanted to know. I told you everything!" Thomas sniffed. "You lied to me twice." "What? ...I.... Never!" He tilted his head slightly. "The first lie— when you said you were not Okhrana. ...And the second— when you said that you were Miss Brook's tool, when it is actually quite the opposite." Anastacia cringed. Yet, a flash of cunning passed over her face, and then she leapt for an endtable, and the drawer hidden within it. But she never even came close, collapsing to the floor, dead, when she was yet far away, an icecaster bolt buried deep in her back. With her arm vainly extended out before her, forever reaching out towards the endtable. A moment later, Sir John calmly strode out of the estate.   Would you like to write a review of this short story? Read the Review Rules first! Review this story!   The Author A.J. Kenning was recently published at Aphelion-webzine. He lives, he writes, and does silly jobs to make ends meet. And there’s really nothing else to say about him, says he.   Back to Index       All contents Copyright © 2005 by Jessica Taylor     Webmaster Privacy Policy Copyright