A Journey of Black and Red

“You know, if you wanted to remodel the place there were better ways,” I idly remark.

Melusine’s face twists with rage.

“You jest? A third of my warehouses went up in flames and you jest? Do you know how much time and money I lost? Do you comprehend that your own bottom line will be impacted?”

Financially as in life, I am confident with my bottom line. I would never invest most of my assets with a fire mage anyway.

“Of course. A tragedy. Chicago shall never be the same,” I comment.

“It will not because three square miles have gone up in smoke! A hundred thousand people are homeless.”

“But there is a silver lining,” I point out. “All those slums can be replaced with brand new buildings of much better quality. Parks, even. And the smell would be much improved.”

“Ariane, it was warm, dry, and windy for a long time. I know what you are trying to do and you are being silly. Childish. It was a terrible accident. Preliminary reports say a cow did it.”

“Yes, a cow did it,” I reply without concealing my smile. “The question is, did she use firebolt or inferno?”

I let Melusine scream incoherently for thirty seconds before cutting the communication. Pleasure is all well and good but I have work to do! The demonstration is about to begin. I must monitor the situation although the sun is out, and I am a prisoner in my own quarters.

Another spell and I get a blurry vision of an open field not too far from the Boston fortress where I currently reside. A helpful assistant has the dubious honor of carrying a silver plate in front of him for the entire day, despite the sweltering heat of summer. Curse summer. Curse the summer solstice most of all.

I cannot stop myself from sticking my nose to the metal surface of my scryer, even though the quality of the image does not depend on my own senses. Loth stands in the distance, looking regal in a beautifully made beige suit. He smiles genially at the sweating patent officer and assembled army officers. Their medals and decorations shine in the sun almost as much as their brows. I know for a fact Loth keeps a cooling steel plate stuck to his hairy back to handle the unbearable heat, the sly old dog. I sit back and wait for the show to begin.

The dragon vision was clear to me. I still have several decades before Nirari finally backs Semiramis into a corner. I would not say that time is on my side since her loss remains inevitable and I will have to intervene, however I have no reason to rush the final confrontation. There are still ways for me to grow more powerful and to add new tools to my arsenal while Nirari has already reached the peak of his power. My options are diplomatic, technological, and the last is a special project I started before freeing the fae.

As much as it annoys me, the world is also filled with threats against me and my allies. The major players will not show the basic decency to wait until I rid them of a world-conquering tyrant before shoving a spike in my heart, therefore measures are required.

I need to build up my forces.

Fortunately, I enjoy doing that immensely. Loth smiles in harmony with my own pleasure. He widens his arms in benevolent welcome, a show considering his size.

“Welcome, gentlemen, welcome to the first demonstration of the unthinkable. For the first time in the history of mankind we touch upon the true dream. Not a controlled fall, not floating at the mercy of the wind. I am talking about the holy Grail of modern engineering: man-powered flight.”

I wanted to put ‘woman-powered flight’ on the patent but the old Dvergur refused using my own weakness against me: the rules of language. He said that if I would not tolerate the utterance of the despicable term of ‘okay’ anywhere on my compound, I would certainly not allow my own patent to break the laws of grammar. Curse him and curse semantics.

“We have not come here for snakeoil speeches, Mr… Skoragg was it?”

The man who spoke is a reed-thin gentleman with a ruddy face despite his bookworm physique. Scaled glasses rest on a thin nose, while he keeps in his hand a worn leather case. Except for him, everyone wears the blue of the army

“Yes,” the old warrior replies with a slight Nordic accent. He decided to shelve the Scottish brogue for the occasion and for ‘respectability’, though it still surfaces when he swears. His new position demands it.

“My name is Loth Skoragg, head of Skoragg Heavy Industries. Our prototype is named the Prometheus and it was designed at the behest of Illinois Guns of Liberties, in collaboration with their engineering department. The patent includes both of us.”

“I have not come here for a history lesson, Mr —”

“If you will excuse us,” a colonel with a long brown beard and pale eyes interrupts.

The patent officer sighs but complies.

“Please, continue.”

“Although the Prometheus is a Swedish-American partnership, the plans and factories are all hosted on American soil. I have no need to explain how momentous this is.”

“You explain much, but I have yet to see any sign of a flying device.”

Loth grins and points up. On cue, the roar of an engine comes to life and rotors turn to move the air. A shadow falls upon the assembly. A hull with a flat bottom descends like a bird from heaven, side sails taunt in the wind. Its shade covers the waiting group.

The witnesses’ flabbergasted expression is positively precious. Hiding a ship in a cloudless sky can be difficult, if one forgets that the sun exists and that no one stares at it willingly.

The Prometheus is not a proof of concept as most new designs are, it is a fully functional ship capable of flying at a height of a thousand feet and an autonomy of eight hundred miles at the moment. It can host a crew of twenty five and bears four light cannons aiming down. As a navy ship, it would do a decent job patrolling the coasts for smugglers. As a skyship, it bears a distinct advantage. No armies of the world can reliably take down a moving, plated target a thousand feet above their heads. It, however, can hit them just fine.

The plate bearer turns the mirror to show the Prometheus land in all its glory. Two of the officers fall on their posteriors and clamber back, their eyes wide as saucers. The ship comes to rest with a light thud while red-clad sailors lower the gangplank.

The Prometheus is flat-bottomed so it can rest on both land and seas, but not properly sail on anything too agitated. The decision came out of a joint accord. It pains me not to have a flying and sea-worthy ship now that Pookie guards my precious hoard, I mean, my art collection, however the result is worth it. I can be patient. Really. The world has not seen the end of the dread pirate. While I entertain the thought of a flying ship of the line, the officer and patent office agent have recovered enough to gather the shreds of dignity they still have. Loth walks them patiently around the ship, unveiling its attributes while a hired photographer captures the moment with his annoying contraption. Soon, they board the Prometheus with various levels of courage, and the ship takes off. The plate-holder has come aboard despite the limited space. The ship will not go very high, nor will it travel very far. Only to a pier where it will settle under the amazed eyes of the populace. I hum a little tune under my breath as the inspectors stick to the railing with hilariously fake nonchalance. Loth spoon feeds them anecdotes, knowing well they will barely remember their conversation.

After a flight of half an hour at a decent speed, the ship flies low over the streets of Boston. A gasping crowd trails our prototype with excitement until it lands in the harbor.

“Mass production can begin immediately. We have several models to choose from and we hope the army will consider our creation’s remarkable potential. A ship like the Prometheus can strike anywhere unimpeded, travel as fast as a running horse, and shoot without being shot at. It is as much a revolution as modern logistics was. The Prometheus will revolutionize the way we wage wars, gentlemen. You can count on it. And now if you will excuse me, I have to greet your compatriots.”

Loth steps on the railing with a sound amplifier of his own design. His rumbling voice rolls over the calm waves like an avalanche, as unstoppable as the march of progress.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is the year of our lord eighteen seventy-two. Welcome…. to the future!”

***

While Loth and the more business-oriented members of the Accords manage the development of the airship project, I focus on one of the greatest challenges we will have to solve if we want to keep living under the glowing light of gas lamps, that of photography.

Indeed, with every major event attracting the presence of picture takers, we will soon be forced to shun major public events or have people wonder why all their cameras only catch a blur. Unfortunately, the very idea of stabilizing our image poses a challenge. We do not lack a reflection so much as we lack presence. We remain the fleshy avatars of a curious and slightly strange god, and the Watcher has not seen fit to help us fit in too much. As usual, the solution lies in deceit and misdirection.

We need a mask.

After a little work, I believe I have found a way to cheat cameras reliably. Those accursed tools merely capture light through a lens, so I must give them light to process. The good news is that the energy required to produce the image of a single vampire is extremely limited. Sadly, there are obstacles.

First, the vampire must be aware they are being photographed to ‘aim’ the light properly.

Second, the projected image may not match the vampire because, again, there is no true self to project for some strange reason.

I circumvent the first issue by adding an extremely complex reactive component to the masking spell, one based on the flash a camera needs to produce a good image at night. A strong variance in the lighting will cause a reaction. The second issue is more complex, and the best way I find to handle this difficulty is to ‘save’ a standard realistic portrait the vampire must identify with.

In the first attempts, the results are still blurry and I have to make adjustments in material and complexity. Eventually, I pick electrum as a base component due to the vanity associated with both silver and gold. The resulting enchantments allow me to project not one but four different images depending on the vampire’s body positioning compared to the camera. It feels a little unnatural and forces the vampire to wear similar clothes or create suspicion, much to Sephare’s dismay. Fortunately, the canny Hastings finds an easy solution.

She orders twelve different pendants and rings bearing the enchantment.

She can afford them too.

The creation of said enchantments for the hundreds of Accords vampires occupies much of eighteen seventy-two. While time-consuming, the task also puts me in the good graces of Mask and Eneru vampires after I sell the design to the Rosenthal. It also requires me to meet every vampire I create tools for seeing as they need a firm image of what they currently look like and many have forgotten. I have to paint them first.

I meet a lot of people over the next months. Some I even find tolerable. With enough money and goodwill collected for a while and with the first small flying skiffs shipped out to city masters across North America, the time comes for me to create one such item for myself. The issue is obvious and immediate. I cannot paint myself.

Fortunately, I have no need to do so.

During the dragon hunt, I challenged the Old One to a painting competition which he beat me handily at. I was allowed to keep his creation — which he casually sneezed on a canvas — and use it as a baseline. It leads my kin to say that I appear ‘sunnier’ and ‘of an easier disposition and temperament’ on film than in reality. I refrain from gouging eyes but I do gouge them on my prices for this affront.

While I work on preparing us for the future, I keep an eye on the larger events. Nirari has disappeared again into the maze of history, pursuing his mother and his ambitions. Mask has decided to bind us diplomatically rather than militarily to Sephare’s delight and my personal annoyance. I believe we should make them pay for their audacity but my kin are ever pragmatic and I cannot begrudge them the wealth that comes with having valuable trading partners.

I also manage to purchase many paintings as a result, so not all is lost. I favor impressionist paintings but I do find myself acquiring naturalist paintings, some neo-classical works so long as it does not depict temples and so long as the denuded butts remain anatomically correct. Romantic and pre-raphaelite masterpieces come to bring some spice to an ever-growing collection. I find myself less interested by older trends, preferring to capture the zeitgeist of eras I have lived through. This leads to some consternation among my friends.

“You will need an entire village to host your collection,” Jimena remarks at some point. “And not a single visitor.”

“I am the only visitor I truly seek to satisfy, and besides, have I not invited you?”

“Fair enough, sister. No one is owed a visit to your little haven. It is just such a shame. Art should be shared, should it not?”

I grumble some excuses about pedantic commenters and children with grubby fingers and no manners, but I know that she is correct. I believe I will eventually open my collection but only when I have adequate safety measures and such is not the case now. And by adequate I mean that both visitors and paintings are safe, the paintings themselves remain quite safe right now.

***

“I have a gift for you,” I tell Melusine at the inauguration of her new stone apartments.

“Is it syphilis?”

I roll my eyes at the cheap jab.

“If you could catch it you would have it by now. I am referring to a real gift, one that will benefit you and through your status as my faithful minion, me as well.”

Melusine’s suspicion does not ease. We stand in a small, newly opened park surrounded by storied buildings in a renovated part of Chicago. The city is gaining her letter of nobility now that the most defining architectural feature is no longer ‘slum’, and we have gathered to celebrate. I reach in my satchel and remove a single dark gem, glowing from an inner fire like an ember under a cloud of ash. The fire specialist’s eyes widen with surprise and greed. I feel her aura resonate with the slow pulse of the incandescent piece of jewelry.

“What is that thing? Where did you find it?”

“The fae spheres, of course. I brought gifts for everyone that mattered to me.”

“... thank you, Ariane.”

“And for you as well.”

“You bitch.”

“Darkfire gems help those who prefer their heat shrouded in shadows. I am confident you will find a use for it.”

“I need a new focus.”

We stare at each other in silence for a minute. She knows I am a very capable crafter myself with access to Skoragg expertise. She can do no better on this continent.

“I am sure someone could help you against just compensation.”

“So you gift me the jewel but I have to pay to use it.”

“You can sit on it for free. Does that count?”

We bicker for a while but I can tell she is most pleased.

***

It does not cost that much money to build a skyship. It does, however, require uniquely skilled workers, hard-to-source materials, and a patented technique.

I have achieved monopoly over the world’s most coveted arcane technological innovation.

For a year, IGL and Skoragg Heavy Industries achieve world-wide fame. Journalists besiege the city. Scientists beg to join our hallowed ranks, bringing with them knowledge and talents. I can dine on a spy every night and never drain from the same neck. More importantly, I become fabulously rich. Even accounting for Accords ships, taxes, and contributions to several projects for the Accords, a hundred and fifty thousand dollars for a ship will net unprecedented profit when the production cost is barely a tenth of that. And people will pay. Affluent investors, governments and military rushed orders to be the first to possess our work. I have no doubt that most of our sales to Europe were eventually dismantled and cracked like nuts for analysis but Loth and I made a significant effort to use fae and Dvergur runes, and there are very few experts capable of deciphering our work, not to mention understanding it. For now, life is perfect. And so, of course, it was not meant to last.

***

I wait patiently by my office, a hand placed against the nearest illusory window. Those are actually mirrors that reflect the exterior to let in a simulacrum of the sun’s light. Any casual visitor will simply see me in my office by day, working normally. Keen observers might notice the blurred nature of the image, and perhaps the slightly wrong angle of the third window from the entrance which I still have not fixed, though they could blame faulty glass. Anyone asking to open a window will be flatly refused. Nevertheless, the false sunlight is of such a color that I can never truly relax in its presence. A part of me sees the pale radiance and expects to burst into flame, and nevermind reason or evidence. As such, I tend to keep the mirrors off while alone.

Unfortunately, my next visitors must be given no reason to suspect that I abhor the sun. Unfortunately, our existence has reached the level of urban myth, though we have yet to deplore any loss from it. I should not give them an excuse in any case.

Four men in uniform walk through my front gate at a brisk pace. Their steps carry them through the main entrance with a decisive gait. My quietly competent receptionist Mrs. Starr directs them up and warns me afterward, which is good because my Magna Arqa cannot be cast during the day. They bang more than knock on my door then step in without an invitation.

I could do something drastic to them and get away with it, but the truth is that the office is still not technically the heart of my domain and I have suffered fools here before. I shall suffer these as well.

The four officers stride in and stop with various expressions of disapproval.

“So it was true. A woman. I cannot believe the War Office would leave the arming of our nation’s military to a mere girl.”

“Not that there is much to equip, Colonel Andrews. Our army’s manpower is not even a tenth of France’s,” I casually observe. “But we are getting sidetracked. You have an injunction to deliver, yes?”

“Before we begin, I would like to give you one last chance to do what is right. I do not know whether this is some sort of trickery or you inherited this position and no heir came to contest it, you must listen to reason. The sky ship is no less important to the development of our nation and the industrial revolution we find ourselves in than the cotton gin, the steam engine, the railroad and many other innovations have been over the past century. Manufactories now occupy a lot of our workforce because we have wisely protected it from the predation of the old world with reasonable tariffs and other adapted measures. The sky ship gives us a chance to compete on the global scale against those who have occupied the arena since its inception. I beg you to reconsider the export of this strategic resource to countries that have done little to deserve such boons. Countries that, I may add, are even now peeling off the hulls IGL designed to get at the secret marrow. Do not squander such a treasure.”

I was going to let my guest handle it, but I believe a small precision is in order.

“Correction. What I have is first and foremost MINE.”

I sit back down in my comfortable chair, doing my best not to claw my desk’s surface off as it is quite expensive. Before the officers can react to my outburst, I ring a little bell I have ready. I would have normally done without but my guest insisted that it was no sign of disrespect. A moment later, a dark-haired, handsome man in an exquisitely tailored suit and a winning smile crosses the threshold. While the soldiers’ uniforms are a little crumpled, the newcomer is so neat his appearance is almost surreal. From his pomaded hair to the flawlessly polished shoes, even a maniac would be hard-pressed to find a single flaw.

“Gentlemen, hello,” he says. “I am Isaac Rosenthal of the Rosenthal Consortium, Banks, and Legal services. It has come to my attention that you were to produce a ‘requisition order’ hmm? Let us see it? If you please?”

He snatches the wrinkled envelope from off of the officers’ stunned hands and opens it with ceremony. His brow wrinkles while he reads the official document. Soon, he tuts under his breath.

The officers do not speak and for good reason. The asset grab they were sent to perform was decided at the highest level and by people I never suspected of treachery. Grant, you devil, I trusted you. I even got you promoted. I soothe the anguish in my heart by watching sweat pearl on the officers’ skin. They came in expecting resistance, I am sure. Threats. Grandstanding. I bypassed all that by calling upon the last option.

I brought in a lawyer.

They should not have messed with my property!

“As expected, I see several issues with this ‘requisition’ order and I regret to tell you that they are as I expected. First, we are not a belligerent state…”

Thus begins a litany of complaints that lasts for a good ten minutes, a remarkable achievement considering the order itself is merely two pages long. Isaac finishes with a nice touch.

“... and last but not least, a requisition order may not cover patents, plans, and contracts as you seem to believe. I admit to knowing in advance the broad lines of this order, though I hoped you might have reconsidered this foolish endeavor, and would like to present you this executive order signed by Governor Spencer himself rescinding your permit to seize my client’s property.”

If I understand properly, all of those are meaningless documents disputing everyone’s legitimacy and mandate in general. Pah, I care not, so long as we block their attempt. Unfortunately, it also means that we will have to trigger a certain operation early.

***

“My little treacle tart! What brings you here in my humble abode?”

“Hello Nami. I am on my way to see Isaac, and I wanted to use this opportunity to bring you a gift.”

“A gift? How precious. What manner of gift?”

“Do you have your book around?”

“You know I do, sweet thing. You asked me in your latest letter, did you not?”

“I am just confirming. You will need quick access.”

“Stop titillating me! What is it that you believe the experience will be worth it?”

“A potion. A memory potion made by a servant of the Court of Darkness. It will work on you.”

“A memory eh? Whose?’

“Mine. It will not be as impactful as the genuine article, but I believe that given your love of dancing and new experiences, it shall still satisfy you.”

“And who will be dancing?”

“The Old One.”

***

The world is changing fast. Technology carries it, but the rest follows. Population leaves the countryside to glut the outskirts of town, feeding their flesh and labor to the fires of industry. Alcoholism runs rampant, and with it tax evasion and corruption become the norm. The victors devour the vanquished. The vanquished blame devil worshippers for their defeat, rewriting history to fit the agenda of the Intergrist party. The persecution of anyone suspected of magic becomes routine in the south while authorities either turn a blind eye or stand complicit. As a result, White and Red cabal recruitment are at an all time high.

Perhaps my time in the faerie world has given me a sense of perspective or perhaps history is accelerating. In any case, recent developments challenge the way we act and evolve in society. Sephare, Isaac, and Constantine take to it like fishes to water. One wields the law, the second wields finance and the third influence to achieve what armies could not. We are now in eighteen seventy three and I have not had to wield my Magna Arqa to solve issues in two years.

I still used it, I just did not have to.

It is a strange new world we are leading to in this end of a century. Magic has returned to the forefront after being trimmed and unveiled by the purging blaze of enlightenment, and yet rather than wonder or fear, it is dogmatic hatred and bleak resignation that celebrate its rise. It has all become so very normal. Standard. Taxed and regulated according to well-defined laws. There are even chartered trinket shops for the discerning customers now, and alchemy shops pop out selling pimple removers and birth control elixirs of women wearing shawls so as not to be recognized.

All those challenges require new solutions and it is Isaac I meet to keep control of my ships.

“The current administration has proven unable to keep their office clear of corruption despite our assistance. We face an endemic issue, so like all such problems we shall ride the wave instead of fighting it,” the banker says as we watch out the window of his New York office.

“Will they not lash out when they figure out someone operated from the shadows?”

“There will be no proof, just a succession of unfortunate events. Remember, we are not intimidating your foes. We are replacing them.”

“I am ready to sign on those authorizations.”

“I know. The fireworks begin tomorrow.”

“And when do they stop?”

Isaac’s smile could not be more savage, an unsettling sign on a face of one usually so composed.

“When we are done.”

***

A tidal wave sweeps across the financial landscape, a terrible event that sinks many rickety ships, their decks too weak from years of prosperity. The portents were there: railroad constructions had boomed after the war with much money tied up in risky, illiquid ventures. The fires in Chicago and Boston put a strain on national reserves. To slow down the rampant inflation, the government raises interest rates and thus the cost of debt, punishing the typically indebted farmers.

And then it happens. Jay Cooke and Company, a major actor of the banking establishment, finds itself unable to market several million dollars worth of Northern Pacific Railways bonds. There is much to finance but the money to do so is too scarce.

In September seventy-three, the company’s unfortunate financial situation is revealed via a series of reports. The same month, the company declares bankruptcy. The fall of the giant creates ripples, a cascading effect that culminates in the closure of the New York Stock Exchange for several weeks. Most of the railroad companies go bust. The construction of new railroads stops due to a lack of financing. Unemployment explodes while the demand for lumber collapses.

And then, the cash which the industry was starving for flows again from mysterious actors, the very same who had held back at the height of speculation and saved their profits. Several mysterious consortiums and obscure interest groups gobble up their competitors for a fraction of what they cost a year before. The behemoth, the leviathan raking the most profit, becomes famous for the Gothic R that starts its name. The polite yet merciless lawyers they send to conduct their affairs become known to most as last resort saviors. Many protests are broken peacefully through harsh yet human negotiations, for no one knows better than us that humans should never be backed into a corner.

Because of the economic downturn, IGL successfully asks for a right to export its goods, considering the weak local demand and the need for additional profits. The secretary of war replaces its negotiators with smoother agents. Lumber prices stop tumbling down as Marquette grows to match the demand. Three years later, the country has stabilized and we are immeasurably more powerful than when we started.

Four years later, there is a transatlantic flying ship line, sky navies, and I have more money to my name than I could possibly ever hope to spend.

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