Let There Be Light

“‘ By pain of prison or death, ’” Mom recites. “Kings say that a lot. On a scale of one to ten, how serious was it that time, you think?”

“Eleven,” Moretti replies.

“Well,” Mom sighs, “that’s discouraging.”

Mom, Moretti, Thorunn, and I are stuffed into a carriage that is just a little too small for all of us—Thorunn because he is large, and Mom because she has enough petticoats to set sail on a strong breeze. Every jostle of the carriage sends me practically tumbling into Thorunn’s lap, something that I would not mind were we alone, but which kills me with embarrassment now that I am sitting across from my very own mother.

“What a politically lukewarm speech,” I mutter. “Viscount, what are the chances that His Majesty calls a perfect draw, declines to decide, then at the last possible moment, sides with his ‘beloved wife’ over his prodigal son?”

“It’s possible,” says Moretti. “He has never been a ruler who takes risks. Everything is weighed in the grand scheme of things, and in the grand scheme of things…the nobles are unhappy. Breaking Olivia’s engagement would make them riot.”

You have no idea how right you are, I am tempted to say. In my last life, just before the civil war was formally declared, the world’s papers were dominated by news of angry noblemen and their allied commoners gathered in the very palace gardens we just left, attempting to storm the royal palace. I have no idea what compelled them to do so then. It couldn’t have been Olivia’s engagement, because Olivia and Edgar ended on great terms in that life—judging by my memory of Olivia’s belly, swollen with my new half-sibling.

“The question is,” I say, “whether a good-will token for the nobles is worth losing international support.”

“He won’t do it,” Thorunn says decisively.

“What makes you so sure?” Moretti asks.

“Long gone are the days when my people crawled through the seas in flimsy wooden sailboats. Look to the harbors—that great steel vessel, dwarfing all the other ships, that is ours. That is the fine beast that carries me to and from my homeland. Should His Majesty wish to command the waters, he would not sacrifice an alliance with the Oberjarl.”

We turn to look out the window. As the carriage trundles along, running parallel to the harbors, we can catch glimpses of the ships between gaps and alleys in the harborside buildings. At first, I do not see anything. Then, in the distance, I make out a new building that I do not recognize, a new addition to the Saelic skyline. But it is not a building. It is a massive steel-hulled ocean liner, with no sails and three great funnels soaring high into the sky. Indeed, it makes all of our sailed, iron-hulled and single-funneled steamers look like toys bobbing in the water.

In my past life, I was distantly aware of the Northerners’ great strides in ship design and engineering. Being a mountainous region, they had at their disposal a near unlimited supply of high-quality anthracite coal and iron ore, which can be forged into the strongest steel in the world. The Northerners, hand-in-hand with Saol Eile, were pioneers in the craft, developing these almost impractically giant ships that could cut across the seas with effortless speed, reducing a trip of weeks or months to a matter of mere days. I do not recall what Saol Eile gave the Northerners to forge such a relationship. Being the nearest established nation to the northern seas, Saol Eile is the natural choice for an industrial alliance. But if, in this life, Thorunn is truly ready to stake that alliance on an ideological pursuit of justice, the Northerners’ motives must extend beyond simple efficiency.

Moretti clears his throat. “Nevertheless, the King’s decision is not cut and dry. Support at home can be just as important as support abroad. After all, the Guildensterns are formidable shipwrights in their own capacity.”

Thorunn sniffs. “Shipwrights of fragile toy boats, yes.”

“With all due respect, Jarl, you seem awfully confident that your country will gamble an entire industry upon this issue,” Moretti says. “Why is that?”

“I don’t need to explain myself to you.”

“I suppose not,” I cut in, “but now I’m curious, too.”

Thorunn broods silently for some time, eyebrows furrowed. “Bah,” he scoffs. “I can only expect you to laugh. But if you insist. The title of Oberjarl is granted by the gods. I am proven to be the next Oberjarl; I have slain the Iron Wolf, and I wear its mantle. So, while the current Oberjarl stays at home, governing the present day life of our people, the gods grant me the authority to govern the future.”

“And your people are fine with such an arrangement? That their leaders blindly follow the will of some…gods?” Moretti frowns.

“I could ask the same of you,” Thorunn replies. “Are your people fine with such an arrangement, that their leaders are chosen by ‘purity of blood’? You base your worth on mere happenstance. Blind luck of a birthright. Do you write your laws by rolling a handful of dice?”

I groan. “Enough, you two.”

They both fall silent. I enjoy the peace and quiet for only a few minutes before Moretti adds, “For the record, I’m not even Saelic. I am from the fine land of Rhotasca, where our leaders are elected by representative democracy. Chosen by the will of the people.”

“Ah,” Thorunn nods sagely. “Elected, you say? Even your high caesar?”

“Even him. Especially him.”

“Interesting! What about that one caesar…I can’t remember the name…the one who was stabbed twenty-three times? Was that the will of the people, too?”

“I told you both, cut it out,” I snap.

Again, they go silent. But of course, after another minute, Moretti cannot resist having the last word. “As a matter of fact, the stabbing was democratic,” he mutters. “He was a terrible caesar.”

Outside, the brisk evening breeze has picked up into a full-on gale. Thunder rumbles overhead, and occasionally, the dark clouds will spit out a shower of rain. I open the window-slat between the carriage and the driver, gently ask him to hurry, and slip him six shillings to make sure he gets the message. My favorite thing to do with Edgar’s bank account is give disproportionately generous tips to service workers and then write it off in the ledgers as charity. Such a small gesture can save lives. I know this from personal experience, as when I was young and worked in the stockroom; it was winning the lottery of a five-obol tip by a kindly old gentleman which helped me finally buy my beloved typewriter. In my past life as a wealthy businesswoman, nothing delighted me more than the elated glow upon a waitress’s face or the jumping of joy by an errand-boy when I handed them a whole gold obol, two days’ pay in a single tip. Plus, there are practical benefits. As soon as the carriage driver pockets his shillings, easily his whole day’s pay, he cracks the reins and urges the horses into a swift and dangerous canter.

Before long, we have reached the industrial sector of the city. It is the only city sector which lies to the east of the palace, meaning it is usually downwind of the residential, mercantile, and royal districts. As impoverished as Lavendel Road is, with its crumbling plaster-walled slums and narrow cobblestone streets, my home neighborhood is old poverty, its decay borne of natural weathering and the unkind passage of time. So many of its residents only live there because they were born there, just as their parents and grandparents were before them, with no way to break free of generational debt, no hope of ever finding a better life, and no choice but to make do and call it home.

By contrast, the industrial sector is new poverty. Smokestacks belch toxic smoke into the stormy sky. Construction equipment is a perpetual guest in the ever-changing skyline. The squat warehouses and tenements are all new, yet already tired, their sharp and unweathered bricks caked with soot and construction dust. Even the roads, though paved with tar asphalt to make it easier for vehicles to move through, are rocky and riddled with potholes from overuse. It is the sort of place where, if you lived here, you would never feel completely clean. When I look out the carriage windows, I see no children or elders, only young men and women in baggy, factory-made uniforms. Some of them are foreigners. Many share my and Mom’s dark skin, black hair, and shadowed eyes. Immigrants or bond-slaves, brought to a strange new country to work until they die. I wonder if any of them are Alamaric—if I have any cousins, uncles, or nephews here, somewhere in the sea of weary, soot-stained faces.

The carriage turns into a small gated property. It looks to be a much older building, perhaps some kind of old hospital or asylum, built long before the industrial sector rose up around it on all sides. The yard is terribly overgrown and littered with junk. But the building’s sturdy gray stonework and single, central tower still stand strong and proud, even while weighed down by decades of ivy vines. As we walk up the shriveled front garden, I have a hard time understanding how Lucienne—the sweet, shy, curious girl that I grew up with—could ever live in such a horrid place. Then I notice a new addition. Where there might have once been a beautiful stone staircase leading up to the double doors, there is now a pristine white concrete ramp.

No doubt about it. This is Luci’s new lab.

Moretti, who is the only one who has been here before, leads us inside. It is not quite as bad as the outside, since all the floors are swept clean and free of debris, but no one seems to have paid attention to the corner cobwebs and molding wallpaper. “No offense to His Highness,” says Mom, “but Ezra really couldn’t have picked a nicer place?”

“Not really,” Moretti replies. “This building has all the equipment Miss Lisle wanted, and it’s more or less off the Crown’s radar. It was one of the college’s medical school buildings before an…incident, about fifteen or so years ago.”

“What is that stench?” Thorunn frowns. As soon as he mentions it, I catch a whiff myself. It’s subtle, but distinct enough that I immediately pull a handkerchief over my nose.

“Death,” I reply. “Moretti. Be honest. Was this a morgue?”

“There… may be a morgue in the basement,” he admits.

“Oh, saints,” Mom gags.

“And there are still bodies there?!” I shout.

“No! Gods, no! At least—I don’t think there are? Look, the only involvement I had with this building is handling the deed and title. I have nothing to do with the presence or absence of dead bodies on this property.”

“No offense, but that’s what someone who had something to do with the dead bodies would say,” Mom mutters.

Thorunn snorts. “Is this your dumping ground, assassin?” he asks Moretti.

“First of all, I’m not an assassin,” Moretti replies. “Second of all, if I did need to dispose of a body, I wouldn’t drag it to a massive building in the busiest district of the city where anyone could see me, you fucking imbecile. Third of all, if Miss Lisle has found anything unpleasant down there, then she hasn’t told me about it. Anyway…the smell isn’t as potent in the tower. The lift is this way.”

We are all too eager to hurry through the darkened hallways towards the elevator lift. Though the power seems to be shut off to most of the building, an amber bulb hums over the elevator, bathing it in an eerie reddish glow. Moretti pulls a lever. Deep in the earth, there is a great shudder, and the cage-like lift descends with a metallic whirring.

Mom and Moretti get in without issue, but Thorunn hesitates. I take his hand. “You coming?” I ask.

“Is that thing safe?” he asks.

“I’m in it. I hope so,” says Moretti.

Thorunn looks at me. I squeeze his hand reassuringly. “It’s this or the dead body stench,” I remind him. Reluctantly, he steps inside with me. Like the lifts in the royal palace, it has a solid steel bottom and shuttered doors, but unlike the well-oiled shiny brass lifts, this one creaks with rust as I pull them closed. Mom had been chattering to Moretti that she didn’t mind close spaces at all, on account of her past job as a chimney-sweep, but the rusty creak makes her pause.

“If we fall and get trapped, I expect you boys to be gentlemen about it,” says Mom. “You should decide now who gets eaten first.”

“Mother!” I exclaim.

The lift shudders and begins to rise. To my relief, it is a surprisingly steady ride, and I look up to see that the old rusted chains have been supplemented with a series of new steel coils and shining cables. Lucienne’s work, presumably. “See?” I nudge Thorunn and point out the renovations. “I trust Luci. We’re perfectly safe.”

He nods stiffly. After a few more seconds he says, “I volunteer to be eaten. The Viscount has no meat on his bones.”

“No one is being eaten,” I tell him.

The lift grinds to a halt. As the mechanical whirring of the engine dies down and the machine settles on the top floor, Moretti and I pull open the shuttered doors to find, to my utter shock, that I was not entirely correct.

The top floor is about what you would expect a mad arcanist’s laboratory to look like—a huge industrial space with vaulted glass ceilings, a sharply pungent odor of chemicals, and strange objects which can only be described as “contraptions” all over the place. Most notably, there is a medical examiner’s table in the center of the room, occupied by two people: Pansy, sitting up, and Lucienne, firmly in her lap. They are so deeply engaged in swallowing each other’s tongues that they have not even heard the lift arrive.

“Oh, shit,” Moretti mumbles, turning away. Thorunn shields his eyes with a hand. I feel like stepping back into the elevator and jumping until the cables give way.

Mom just clears her throat. “Excuse me, lovebirds,” she calls out.

They repel back from each other like the polar ends of two magnets. “Gah! Fucking hell—” Lucienne gasps, scrambling down from the exam table and back to her wheelchair, though not without some incident. “Ow! FUCK! I’m so sorry, Missus Rossach. We just—uh—”

“Do we really have to explain it?” groans Pansy, who glances over once as Lucienne stubs her toe but is too occupied with buttoning her blouse to offer any help.

“You’re right,” Lucienne agrees. “Let’s not.”

“Um,” I clear my throat, “let’s…yes? Let’s yes explain, please? How long have you two been together?”

“Three months,” says Pansy, at the same time Lucienne says, “Just a few minutes ago,” which doesn’t clear anything up at all, and instead just makes them whirl back towards each other.

“A few minutes ago?!” Pansy echoes.

“Three months ?!” Lucienne shrieks.

“Of course! What do you think all of those dates were for?”

“Dates?! I thought you were just bringing me to museums because you think I like museums, dumbass!”

“I do think you like museums! That’s why I brought you there! That’s why we kissed in one!”

“And that’s why we got kicked out of one, too!”

BANG!

We all whirl around. Moretti is holding his gun in the air. I am just about to give him the scolding of a lifetime when he lowers the gun, turns to a metal barrel, and kicks it with his steel-tipped boot. BANG!

“Thank you for your attention,” he says. “Miss Lisle, is the mirror ready?”

Clearly shaken, Lucienne scowls and wheels across the laboratory. “Don’t even pretend to fire a gun here,” she snaps. “There are flammables in this lab that can turn this city into a statistic.”

The smug grin on Moretti’s face vanishes at once. Suddenly pale, he tucks the pistol back in his jacket. As Thorunn passes by, he elbows Moretti in the side.

“Guess I can make fun of you all I want now, eh?” Thorunn chuckles.

“I don’t need a weapon to kick your ass,” Moretti replies.

“Hah! I could take you. Easily.”

Moretti leans in, one eyebrow raised, the devilish grin restored in full force.

Instantly, Thorunn’s face goes bright red. “I-in a fight!” he blusters.

“Don’t be ashamed, Jarl,” Moretti teases. “It’s the modern age. Everyone’s bicurious nowadays.”

Thorunn grabs Moretti by his tie. Moretti just grins wider.

“This really isn’t helping your case,” says Moretti.

“Lucienne…sweetie…I don’t know what strange new chemicals you’re cooking up in here. But the sexual tension levels are not healthy,” Mom declares. “Can all of us please, for the love of God, get back to business?”

I elbow between the two men and grab Thorunn’s hand, forcing him to let go of Moretti. As irritating as Moretti can be, I am equally frustrated at how blindly enraged Thorunn can get from such obvious, low effort goading. Has he no self-control at all? Then again, I remind myself, he is only twenty. Though my body is younger than that, my mind is not, and I still remember how impulsive and foolish I was while shaking off the immaturity of my teens. I suppose I will just have to watch Thorunn and see if he grows out of it in his mid-twenties, like I did. For now, I just pull Thorunn away and lean in towards him.

“We’ll talk about this later,” I hiss. “He’s antagonizing you. Be better. ”

“I don’t want to,” Thorunn mutters. “I want to be worse.”

“I appreciate your candor but it’s not helping right now. Just behave.”

Thorunn continues to grumble under his breath—in his native language so that I cannot understand, though I need not interpret the exact words to understand the sentiment. I lead him to where the others have begun gathering around one of the multiple desks scattered around Lucienne’s lab. It was always her dream to have a lab with multiple desks, one for every possible project she is working on at once. This particular desk more resembles a woman’s makeup vanity, framed by three tall mirrors. Around the perimeter of each, arcane runes are etched into the silver.

“As I was telling Pansy…” Lucienne starts.

“Before you got distracted?” Mom adds.

“...before we got distracted,” she echoes begrudgingly, “I’ve made some improvements to the LucyBug in the time since L’Magnifique. The audio feed is clearer, the video auto-stabilizes from external motion, and the bug is now completely undetectable up to grade six divination.”

She splays her hands across the surface of the desk. But it is not a solid surface; rather, it is a segmented panel that slides back to reveal a massive switchboard, covered in dials and wires and all sorts of little glass meters that I cannot even fathom what they are meant for. “And of course,” Lucienne adds, “you’ll notice that the royal palace is quite far away from here. Six and a half miles, in fact. But I assure you, the new and improved LucyBug won’t have a problem with that—especially given the fortuitous weather conditions.”

She cracks her knuckles. A spark of electricity jumps between her palms at the same time that, in the sky above the tower, thunder and lightning ignite the sky with a crash. We all jump. Lucienne just laughs.

“Yes!” she caws. “This is perfect! Can you feel it? How each particle of air is charged and primed? It’s as if the whole world is waiting to watch this show. So—let it begin! Let there be light!”