Harlot's Eight

By Stephen Cote

Simon Stewart is a factory sorcerer employed to extract ore from rock using magic. He survives a terrorist attack in which everything familiar is deconstructed: His workplace is destroyed, his friendships called into question, and the way he casts spells tarnishes his credibility with the local royalty. By assisting the undead prevent a second attack, he becomes embroiled in the politics of war. For Simon, the war begins with a harlot bound to a piece of eight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stephen Cote
• Release date: Nov 4, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465773173

Stephen Cote

I am a software and security architect and manager. I enjoy writing hard and whimsical science fiction, adult fantasy, and poetry. As an early advocate of Creative Commons licensing, many of my short stories and poems have been available online since 1996. If you would like to learn more about my writing, open source projects, please contact me at [e-mail].

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Harlot's Eight

Stephen W. Cote

Copyright Stephen W. Cote 2011

Published at Smashwords

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Chapter 1

Simon Stewart walked to the comptroller’s desk, picked up a quill, and signed his name in the ledger. He scrutinized Mr. MacWhisk tallying pieces of eight on a haphazard stack. Considering the gold leaf gilded to the spine of each coin, he thought, Gone to tax and baby.

Baby. He didn’t want to believe that Ceccarny had gotten pregnant after their one romantic interlude. But, she had. And, everyone he told responded with guffaws and chuckles. Why was it so funny?

The last piece of eight dangled from age-spotted fingers. I’m still waiting for that mineral separation spell, Stewart.

It will be finished this afternoon.

MacWhisk tossed the coin across the desk. I knew you were up to the challenge.

Simon dropped his hand and fenced the coin from sliding onto the floor. He counted the money, depositing the coins into his purse. I didn’t get the promotion. The director said my work showed a lack of fundamental magic theory. Because I’m not a fairy. "Sometimes I think you have to be unreal to get ahead around here."

MacWhisk reached across the desk and took hold of Simon’s hand. "You are a skilled sorcerer. But, the crown wants everyone to use the imperial spell casting method, and all sanctioned businesses, including this factory, are obliged to acquiesce.

It’s my fault, Simon. I shouldn’t have encouraged you all these years to use the undead method. He retracted his hand and touched the money box. You’re not the only one affected. I was reassigned as comptroller for the same reason you weren’t promoted.

A knock rattled the office door. Simon glimpsed an employee standing outside, leather pouch in hand.

Thanks, Mr. MacWhisk. He walked out of the office and brushed past the waiting employee’s translucent wings.

Simon continued down the hallway and descended a flight of stairs. He crossed the factory floor, passing carts laden with ore and stepping over cart rails. Spaced across the factory were workbenches occupied by humans and fairies, and as he passed Simon studied their work. Near the middle of the factory, he rounded an iron cart heaped with fist-sized rocks and gave a wide berth to his fairy benchmate.

Trussing his wings, Braevarn said, That was fast. Did you skip paying your taxes again?

Simon roosted on a stool beside his half of the workbench and tossed the purse onto a stack of yellow parchment. I didn’t want to wait in line. I’ll pay it tomorrow.

He reached into a bouquet of quills blooming from a stone well and picked one from the middle. The orange and drab pattern caught his attention and he passed the quill to Braevarn. Is this your cockatrice?

No. Supply stopped by and restocked our station. Give me a moment to finish this spell. Braevarn tweezed a mossy reagent from a glass jar and meted tufts on a scale bason; copper wafers weighted the counter bason.

Simon dropped the unreal feather across a heap of sorcery materials. Useless. He took another quill, a feather once belonging to a real bird, and dipped it in ink. Nib poised over an incomplete formula, he paused to study Braevarn’s spellcasting.

Braevarn dusted a pile of rock with magnesium powder, sprinkled chopped vegetable matter, added the moss, and measured two drops of hemp tincture. Arcs of blue and red energy rippled over his left hand. Words formed on his lips and a colorful yarn of energy leapt from his hand to the rocks. Sparks coruscated over the pile, fading into white ash and burnt plant coals.

Braevarn blew the ash from the stone, unveiling beads of molten silver. He smiled. You might have a better chance during the next promotion cycle if you start using the imperial method now.

Simon pinched the quill shaft. Why? I can do the same thing with a compass and a pen. Peevish, he knew, but he let the words slip.

Braevarn twisted his torso and propped his right elbow on the workbench. "And Visella to help you with the esoteric math, and almanacs of seal coordinates, and a statlass to measure the channel strength. That is a lot of extra work that can be avoided with spell reagents."

Simon flicked the feather toward the pile of unused spell ingredients. These shroud the science in religion and mysticism. We don’t -

Iron clanked on the lower level and the floor vibrated. Derailment, he thought.

Simon, Braevarn hissed. "The imperial method is a royal mandate. If you keep up with the undead channeling method, you won’t get promoted, you could get fired, and you might even get arrested. Don’t you have a baby to think about?"

Simon mouthed But, and swallowed the sound. Bile rose in disagreement. Ceccarny and the baby were more important than an ideological difference. Did it matter how the spell was crafted, or which lexicon was used? Was it worth being arrested over a word?

Yes! Except, and he reasoned standing by controversial ideals would be irresponsible with a baby on the way.

Braevarn’s thin lips curled upwards and across his triangular face.

"Alright, why does everyone think it is so funny when the baby is brought up?"

Braevarn smirked and began collecting the beads of silver with a small knife.

Simon felt another vibration roll through the floor and watched sundries quiver on the workbench; rock chips danced across an open parchment, the compass needle rocked a quarter turn, and the four statlass needles lapped the metered rose. He heard a brassy resonance from rocks settling in the nearby iron cart.

What is that? Simon stood, walked between several workbenches and peered through the window.

Looking east, the ore conveyor stretched from the hazy crater depths to the lower level in the factory. Wind whipped dust off the conveyed rocks and the lift swayed near the building.

He pointed at the window corner. I think part of the rigging gave out. The lift is shaking.

Braevarn stood and called across the workstations, Is it the western shaft?

Simon looked south towards the gondola station where a metal cage, packed with human and fairy mine workers, descended from the crater edge. He pushed greasy brown curls high on his forehead and scanned the gondola cables for signs of distress.

They’re still sending people down, and the gondola isn’t swaying. He waited, gazing east where the crater depths became a notch on the horizon. Then, he walked to his workbench.

Enough with the distractions. Simon glanced at the clock. Two more hours. Tonight, I’ll ask Ceccarny. But, there was no excitement in the thought. He was disappointed at Ceccarny’s aloof behavior since their one night of passion, and he regretted the outcome. Reflecting on Braevarn’s reaction, he thought, Why does everyone think the baby is so funny? I’m trying to do the right thing.

Simon wet the quill in ink and completed a set of figures. He set the quill in the ink well, and picked up the wood-bodied compass in his right hand and the ceramic statlass in his left. He inhaled, held his breath, and rotated the compass to align with a direction scrawled on the parchment.

Simon pointed his left index finger and waited for the calculated lead time. He tapped his left foot, feeling the scrape of leather sole on dirty wood, and counted. Thirty seconds.

Braevarn picked up the cockatrice quill from Simon’s pile of sorcery supplies and spun the feather.

Don’t. Simon exhaled and continued his count. And twenty six, and twenty seven. Three more seconds and he would have an open channel to a fire seal; a source of elemental magic.

Braevarn pointed the tip of the feather at Simon’s arm. Don’t burn yourself.

Simon’s index finger tingled; the channel burgeoned and needed an opposing force. He thought about the nearby water seal and recalled the unique feeling of its energy and position. Because recent use left him orientated to the nearby seal’s energies, he didn’t have to touch or see the seal, or calculate a path to its energy. The water seal channel opened to his thumb within a second of the fire seal channel striking his index finger. Both channels were hot and abrasive.

He studied the four statlass needles; two were motionless, and two oscillated. Using the statlass to keep both channels in balance, Simon increased the amperage. A tongue of energy arced from his thumb to his index finger and slithered across the back of his hand.

Simon set the compass and statlass on the workbench and picked up the quill. As the nib touched the parchment, an airy sensation brushed his right arm.

He glared at Braevarn. I still have to open channels to life and death seals.

I know. Braevarn swept the feather from workbench to ceiling. The pixies are back.

Right. He looked to where Braevarn pointed. No!

An infestation of pixies fluttered from the rafters and swarmed atop the workbench. The two-inch pixies set to chewing the parchment corners and raising a ruckus in the mortar of hemp tincture.

Simon balled his left fist, channel energy pulsing across his knuckles, and shocked the pixies away from the parchment. I thought they sprayed for these.

Braevarn stood and flapped his pastel and transluscent wings, knocking pixies from his sleeves and back. Something is driving them inside.

A pixie wearing a single dragon scale for a loin cloth dipped its feet in the inkwell and stamped across the parchment. A shrill exclamation of glee precipitated the pixie ruining Simon’s formula.

Simon rose and threw the quill at the pixie.

The pixie sprung into the air. Seconds later, all of the pixies across the factory took flight and swarmed to the ceiling.

Sand ray! MacWhisk ran between carts and workbenches, bulbous gut heaving as he sucked air.

At the north side of the factory, the foreman knelled the alarm bell. Drop your spells! Evacuate!

Simon heard a crash, looked: a smashed window and a cluck of fairies flying over the crater. Turning around, he didn’t see anyone else make it through the foyer; the front doors remained closed.

The floor shifted under his feet and everything seemed to roll. His hips gyrated in search of equilibration and he grabbed the edge of the workbench. A mélange of sound crashed in his ears; glass breaking, iron carts colliding, squalls from co-workers. A deep bass of splintering wood boomed through the din.

Visella! He last saw her upstairs on his way to MacWhisk’s office.

A fairy wing lay across Simon’s back; his co-worker sprawled over the workbench with outstretched wings. Are you okay? Simon asked, but his voice sounded distant and meek. Louder, All right?

Braevarn withdrew his wing and shook his fist. Drop ...

Assuming his benchmate was reminding him to drop the seal channels, he raised his left hand to do so.

The workbench lurched and propelled both men backwards.

Simon landed on ore pitched from an upturned cart. The bench tipped over and he yanked his feet clear of the surface. Parchment, quills, ink, and sorcery sundries spilled in his lap. Fluid heat drizzled down his back, and he reached across his neck and pressed his shoulder blade: Numb and damp, something sharp. A jagged rock rolled under his fingertips.

Ceccarny and the baby came to mind. I’m pregnant, Simon. Braevarn and Visella thought it was so funny. Visella. Is she alright?

My foot. Braevarn clutched his right ankle where the workbench surface pinched it to the floor. Simon, my foot.

Simon rocked forward into a squat and took a duck-step. He gripped the workbench and tried to lift it, but pain seared his left shoulder. It’s too heavy.

Simon, Braevarn grasped Simon’s right sleeve. Drop your spell.

He nodded and laid his palm across Braevarn’s palsied hand. I am -

Summer heat and the arid plains air snapped with cold and humidity. The eastern windows shattered inwards and strong gusts spewed broken glass across the factory floor. Glass and ice glimmered in the air. Frost sprouted over the toppled workbench. A beaker sundered beside Simon’s foot.

The acidic bite of water seal energy vanished before he dismissed the channel, leaving the fire channel off balance. His thumbnail dulled with ice crystals, his fingertips blackened. Where is this ice coming from?

Simon’s left hand stung. The tip of his index finger burned crimson; the imbalanced fire channel blistered frost-bitten flesh. He dropped the channel by whipping and rotating his wrist, and willing the separation of the energy.

Ow! He slapped his left hand over his stomach, untucked his shirt, and thrust the discolored fingers upwards and against his chest. Don’t be frozen. Don’t be cooked. A faint tingle in his fingertips grew into an excruciating sting shooting into his palm.

Simon exposed his hand. Not too bad. Feels worse than it looks. Over the top of the workbench he spied a balding head. Help. Mister MacWhisk, over here.

MacWhisk bounded to the workbench. Ice covered his beard and condensation bloomed from his nostrils. He threw both hands over the workbench and shouted, Stewart, get the bottom.

Simon pushed the workbench, his shoulder and fingers aching. Together, they raised the workbench enough for Braevarn to pull his crushed foot clear. He’s out.

They let the workbench fall to the floor. Simon’s palms stuck to a metal strike plate on the bench surface and he winced when he peeled them free.

Mister Whiskers, Simon let slip a teasing name, Have you seen Visella?

The southern wall and floor ruptured. Terracotta flesh oozed through the splintered wood planks and filled half of the factory. A dull gray eye half Simon’s height glazed over with ice.

She’s fine, he heard MacWhisk say.

Simon had never seen a sand ray alive or intact. He couldn’t remember if rays were real or unreal. Is it dead, or will its frozen flesh rejuvenate?

MacWhisk ran around the bench and crouched beside Braevarn. He pointed at Simon’s instruments, Simon, get your channel kit and help me pick him up.

Simon searched through the items thrown from the bench. He picked up his compass, statlass, and purse and jammed them in his trouser pockets. Next, he helped MacWhisk stand Braevarn on his good leg.

Braevarn’s teeth chattered. Who cast the ice spell?

It’s not a spell. Hurry, you two. We can’t delay. MacWhisk guided Braevarn towards the entrance.

Simon struggled under Braevarn’s weight to find sure footing on warped wood planks sheeted in ice and littered with glass. Some co-workers lay motionless on the ground and Simon averted his eyes from the crushed and freezing bodies.

A fairy pinned beneath a cart clutched Simon’s trouser cuff. Don’t leave me.

MacWhisk pushed Braevarn and Simon ahead. "Talvarn? We’ve got to get the real out of here. You’ll thaw out. Don’t worry, if the factory collapses, we’ll dig you out."

I don’t want to be buried.

Hearing a popping noise, Simon looked over his shoulder. MacWhisk was crouched beside the fairy, cradling its broken neck.

MacWhisk jogged around debris and resumed supporting Braevarn. We couldn’t help him, he was frozen to the ground. He’ll rejuvenate once he thaws out.

And the sand ray? Simon asked.

MacWhisk huffed and helped Braevarn over a fallen beam. "I don’t know. It looks frozen through, although I thought rays started dying the moment they left The Waste; apparently this one had no trouble boring so far east."

At the entrance they found the front doors barricaded with ice. Simon squinted: Layers of ice crisscrossed the seams and hinges, framing unmolested wood planks. This has to be a spell. It’s too methodical.

MacWhisk coughed and pounded his chest; phlegm gurgled in his throat. Does it matter?

I’ll burn it off. Simon aimed his singed index finger at the hinges.

MacWhisk slapped his hand down. Don’t bother, it’s a shoddy spell. Kick the right door on three. One, two -

Simon lifted his leg and kicked the front door. The ice cracked and both doors swung open. Light bathed his face and chest, and he hoped warmth met their departure.

They escorted Braevarn from the factory and MacWhisk led them to a cobbled drive. Wood wagons lined the semi-circle drive, gates down and strong boxes readied for their payloads.

Simon’s face, arms, and feet stung, his shoulder throbbed, and his breath condensed. But it was warmer.

They lowered Braevarn against a wheel, and Simon asked, Where is everyone else? Where are the drivers and teams?

Pointing south, Braevarn said, Look, Simon.

He turned. Thick veins of ice swelled over the street. Brick and cobble littered the boulevard along a swath of ruptured earth beginning a block to the west and ending between the water seal and the factory. The southern half of the factory draped the crater edge.

Beside the factory, the ten-feet-wide and two-feet-thick water seal protruded through a shattered cement foundation. Effulgent streaks arced from the seal’s inner azure disc, struck the factory and ground, and spirited into the sky. Rime crystallized wherever the energy struck.

Simon looked around the seal. Tens of people, human and fairy, lay frozen on the street. Seals aren’t supposed to break.

Ceccarny had said she would be shopping for the baby today. Please, let them be safe. He didn’t believe in the robes’ preachings, and therefore didn’t know to whom he begged his plea.

He took a step towards the factory and spun full circle. Crowds gathered two blocks to the south, and an empty street to the north. Where is Visella? She’s still in there. We have to go back.

MacWhisk grabbed Simon’s arm and pulled him back. Visella is safe. I sent her to get help. She flew out the back.

Stars! She’s safe. But, how is Ceccarny? Simon heard wood beams snapping and iron carts clanking. Stone blocks cracked along the factory roofline. Daylight shone through the front doors. Thinking of those trapped inside, he started to run into the factory. Someone has to do something.

But, MacWhisk held him back. It’s too late, Simon. You can’t help them. He put an arm over Simon’s shoulder and turned him away from the factory.

What do we do? Simon asked. His co-workers and friends: Gone.

His teacher whispered, I don’t know.

Braevarn asked, "Did you send Visella to alert the royal archivist and sorcery council?"

MacWhisk shook his head and pointed.

An obsidian feminine form glided between buildings. Beneath the dark fairy, a chalk-white figure ran as fast as she flew. When the runner was a block away, Simon could identify the kind of help MacWhisk had requested. He hoped he hadn’t miscast his lot by following MacWhisk’s controversial teachings; the channel instruments weighed heavy in his pocket.

Braevarn straightened his back. "You asked the undead for help?"

However the spells are cast, when the magic breaks you call the people who made it.

"That is not a sanctioned view. Braevarn slapped his palm against the wagon. The seals are magic. The undead are the enemy of the -"

MacWhisk interrupted, We need any help we can get.

Visella swooped ahead of the undead and alighted near Simon. She furled her wings and then stared at the remains of the factory. Simon?

A modicum of relief relaxed the tightness in Simon’s chest. He put his arm across her wings and gave her a light hug. You’re alive. She spun, wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face against his shoulder. Tears welled in his eyes as the smells of frost-burnt flesh and quaked earth were overpowered by her honey-scented skin. Her taloned fingers dug into his back and he broke his embrace to take hold of her hands. He felt relaxed and at ease in her embrace, and a worrying thought followed. I shouldn’t take solace in her touch. What about Ceccarny? What about the baby?

Visella raised her tear-streaked face and said, Look who I found.

Simon turned towards the undead. A man sprinted behind the skeleton, and Simon released Visella’s hands to wipe his eyes. Caleb MacKay, his best friend, was back from the dead.

Grabbing a metal brace wrapping Caleb MacKay’s left forearm, Simon embraced his friend. It’s good to see you. And, when his frost-burned flesh ached against Caleb’s warm skin, he said, You’re still alive.

Aye, Simon, Caleb spoke with a thick Farlands’ brogue. It was undead training, not becoming undead.

The undead stopped beside MacWhisk, its two meter frame towering over his diminutive stock, and they conversed in a language Simon did not recognize. Midway through the conversation, he observed MacWhisk’s bearing of focused professionalism turn crestfallen.

MacWhisk switched to the common tongue. Nobody wants to die like that.

I’m pregnant, Simon. Ceccarny’s words swirled in his head around the word die. His legs wouldn’t remain still. Visella and Caleb wore grave expressions; he guessed they understood the undead’s words.

The undead gazed at Simon through yellow orbs flaming in chalk white sockets, and it articulated words in a metallic vibrato. The seal is misaligned. If it is not emulsified, it will vent bands of freezing energy, open random dimensional rifts, and culminate in an annihilating blast.

Across the boulevard, a column of soldiers round-stepped towards the factory, flanked by robed and sashed officials.

We have twenty minutes.

Chapter 2

Twenty minutes remained, according to the undead, until calamity struck. A behemoth sand ray had tunneled beneath the nearby water seal and the magic source faltered. Toppled stone pylons and split wood beams were all that remained of the nearby factory. Simon Stewart estimated the remaining factories built along the crater precipice would rend into its depths.

Farlands soldiers and sorcerers stormed the boulevard. Energy snapped at and froze those nearest the seal. Bodies, dulled blue with ice, toppled to the ground.

Caleb MacKay threw a canvas sleeve around Simon’s shoulder, turning him away from the crater. Sweat stains streaked the fabric; it smelled of dung.

MacWhisk beckoned Visella and Simon to the two meter tall undead. This is Serge Clairmont.

MacWhisk talked, but Simon only saw the dying. Ceccarny’s voice echoed in his head. I’m pregnant, Simon. He recalled first meeting her in a dive frequented by factory magicians...

Bone fingers snapped beside his cheek. Listen up.

Simon peeked upwards to find Clairmont focused on the approaching soldiers and officials.

MacWhisk said, Serge needs our help to fix the seal. He coaxed Simon and Caleb into a huddle with Visella, and spoke spittle and words betwixt the three:

This is a crisis of magic.

Braevarn scooted away from the wagon and stretched his pastel-dotted translucent wings across the wagon buckboard. There is time to escape. Visella and I could fly. You could - He flapped a wingtip westwards. A dimensional gateway -

Simon wanted to run, to find Ceccarny, and flee the disaster and possible vilification. Every limb demanded escape, pulling him in different directions. He shook his head, chest anchoring to the solidarity of his being; the fusion of heart and head.

There was only