A Conspiracy of Alchemists: Book One in the Chronicles of Light and Shadow (33 page)

EPILOGUE

PARIS, NOVEMBER 13, 1903

The café off the Boulevard Saint-Michel was never the same after its former owner disappeared. Without the Nightwalker to watch over them, the absinthe fairies had been sold off in their bottles, one by one. Without the absinthe, the artists and poets cleared off, leaving only hard sailors and a mix of riffraff from the underworld that drank in brooding silence as the red paint flaked from the walls.

A woman now worked behind the bar. Her black hair was always wet against her pale-blue skin and she looked ill at ease in the tight dress they made her wear. But the dress was still better than being stuck in equine form and being harnessed before a carriage and so she held her tongue. Every so often, her hand would creep to the nape of her neck, where freshly healed scars evidenced the cruelty of her former master. It was something she would rather forget.

The midnight shift was their busiest time and so she remained behind the counter. She sulked and poured rounds of cheap cognac and coffee for grubby gaslight trolls who stopped by after their shifts. They spent most of their time smoking cigarettes and grumbling about how the spark-light companies were stealing their work.

Outside, the cold gray rain slithered down the blacked-out windows of the café. A short man in a long carriage cloak with the collar pulled up around his face strode though the rain and opened the door. He walked over to the counter, leaving a trail of wet footprints in the thinning sawdust on the floor. The sylph shied away as she felt the power that surrounded him. Putting a safe distance between herself and the man, she lifted her chin in order to enquire after business.

He said nothing, but placed a coin onto the counter. “I have an appointment,” he said.

“Upstairs.” The sylph shrugged and inclined her head toward a set of molting red velvet curtains that led to the back.

The man touched his hat in thanks and ducked behind the fraying edges of the curtain. He climbed the iron stairs up to the dimly lit back room.

Patrice waited for him at one of the low tables. He was much thinner and paler than he had been, but he still smoked a small cigar that filled the room with its cheap, foul-smelling smoke.

“Glad to see that you made it out alive, Patrice.”

“Warlock Master De Montague. How do you do.” Patrice said. He did not stand or extend a hand to greet the Warlock. In the dim light, the grubby edges of a crutch was just visible above the edge of the table. “I see my offer was too good to resist.”

“So was mine.”

Patrice inclined his head in response.

“And how is your … injury?” asked De Montague with a slight hint of sarcasm. Patrice looked down at his leg. Black otherworldly burns flickered and played under the skin. He had dragged himself from the edge of the vortex, but not before it had seared his living skin to blackness. The specter of what remained of his bottom half hovered in the space between Shadow and Light. The effect left the bone and muscle in a state that was half-real, half-not-real and incredibly painful.

Patrice shrugged and shifted in his chair. “I have good days and bad. Did you bring the money?”

“Yes, I did.” De Montague produced a pouch from the inside of his cloak. He placed it onto the table. It made an expensive-sounding thunk on the stained wood.

“Open it,” said Patrice.

De Montague knocked the bag over and a heap of gold coins spilled out.

His companion gripped his cigar between his teeth and slid a coin onto his palm. He examined it in the light before dropping it back onto the heap on the table.

“It’s in the bag under the table,” he said.

The Warlock reached down and pulled out a wooden box. The box was smooth and polished, with slightly battered brass edging. A row of exquisite blue diamonds were inlaid into the lid.

“The carmot. Safely returned to you, as requested,” he said. “They never knew I took some of it. I left them with just enough to make the experiment look authentic.” He shook his head. “Who knows what the Alchemists might have done if they’d actually had the whole lot?”

“Who knows indeed.” De Montague tucked the box into his cloak.

Patrice scraped the coins into the pouch and tucked them into his waistcoat. “It was a pleasure conducting business with you, sir.”

“He’s gone, you know,” said De Montague.

“Who?”

“Marsh. He’s left the Council. Given up the path of Shadow for good. And I believe that over Christmas he’s marrying the girl over Christmas. A winter wedding—or so the London society papers say.”

Patrice shrugged. “How lovely for them. But it’s none of my business. You got what you wanted. The Alchemists are all but destroyed and we have a shiny new Oracle who has blasted loads of lovely power into the world without even knowing it. The rest, I don’t care about.”

De Montague put his hand out to stop him. “Not so fast,” he said. “I may have a few little matters that might interest you.”

Patrice shrugged and sat back. “I’m listening.”

“I need someone to do a collection for me. You see, Marsh made us a little promise and he has unfortunately failed to deliver. And I would be far happier if she was safely within our control, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, then, I might just be your man.” Patrice smiled at him.

“Indeed. I’m glad to see that your new title and fortune hasn’t changed you too much, sir.” Greed and glee spilled over his De Montague’s face and into his beard. “I shall contact you with the details soon. I do believe that we will be able to continue to work together for our mutual benefit, don’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely, and I thank you for your time, sir.” Patrice wrestled himself up from his seat. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some unfinished business to attend to. Please stay as long as you need. Ask Marilique behind the counter for anything you might need.”

De Montague put out his hand. “I look forward to hearing from you. then.”

Patrice just gripped his walking stick, and limped past De Montague.

Patrice crossed the café with a brief nod at the bar. The girl nodded back. She knew better than to trifle with her new master, especially when he had that look about him. He had a proper temper when he was like that.

She went back to the task of wiping the sticky patches from the counter as two drunken sailors stumbled in through the door and started singing.

Around the corner from the café, a black steam-carriage waited in the dark. Patrice stepped up to the carriage and got inside.

“Where to, sir?” the driver said.

“The airfield, Chunk. I have a passage booked to Manchester. I need to see to the factory.”

“Right on, sir.” Chunk started the engine and the motor took off with a rumble. Patrice sat back against the leather seats of his plush new conveyance. With Eustace Abercrombie and the Nightwalker Aleix both sucked into oblivion, it had not been hard to forge the necessary documents that made allowed him to inherit lot—lock, stock and title. And the possibilities his new wealth and power presented made him dizzy when he thought about it. The Warlock’s money felt warm and heavy in the pouch inside his pocket. He patted it and smiled. He had work to do.

HISTORICAL NOTE

One of the greatest challenges of writing historical fantasy and science fiction is marrying up that which is fact and that which is fiction with a sufficient degree of competency, so that the work becomes a coherent whole. And thus I take a moment to apologize to those historians who might read this book and feel a sense of outrage. Any liberties taken with historical fact was done mindfully and with the intention of creating fiction rather than a work of academic reference. The world of Shadow and Light is not this world and so there must be differences.

Creating historical fantasy is not a task that can be achieved successfully without the requisite amount of research and for those who are interested in the facts, I mention a few:

The Wright brothers made their historical flight in December 1903, but hot air balloons, dirigibles and other flying machine prototypes were in existence for many years before then. Croydon aerodrome really was a dirigible airfield and the giant hangars and art nouveau building can still be seen today; it operated as such until the hydrogen gas explosion that was the
Hindenburg
disaster in the 1930’s all but put an end to the dirigible industry as it was then.

Stanley produced steam cars until the electric starter motor changed the industry, and I must say a big thank you to the British Car Club of Great Britain for their wonderful photographs and entertaining video footage of these cars in action. I am forever smitten.

The
Orient Express
is not just one train route, but it was possible to travel from Paris to Istanbul in three days, as can be evidenced from train timetables of the day. The Venice branch of the route was added a few years after the time of this book and so I amalgamated the train route for the sake of the narrative.

Thank you to the British Library for allowing me access to their rare and fragile nineteenth-century newspaper, patent and ephemera collections. I can honestly say that that I found things there that no author would ever be able to make up.

Thank you also to the Brooklyn Museum for their wonderful online collection of black and white survey photographs of Istanbul from 1903.

And lastly, I tip my brass-goggled hat to those women who fought for the rights of women and suffrage. From Mary Wollstonecraft to the Pankhursts and beyond. The faces of the past bring history to life.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

For most debut authors, the path to publication is a hard journey that is often lonely, but I was deeply fortunate to have met so many wonderful people along the way. To Celia Brayfield and Danuta Kean, who are both Oracles in this world: Without your wisdom and guidance, this series would never have seen its way to completion. To my dear friends: Mareen Goebel, who spent hours reading and who helped me heal the scars; Catalina Buciu, my PhD research partner, who always has time to listen to me bemoan the injustices of this world; and Siobhan McVeigh, who has been writing with me for the longest time. To all my friends at Brunel, who went through the painful process of turning a tiny ember of an idea into a big roaring work of fiction with me. To my agent, Oliver Munson who has supernatural powers when it comes to books. To my editors Tricia Narwani and Michael Rowley and the wonderful people at Ebury and Del Rey: Your wonderful insights and professional, supportive approach made the editing and production process seem almost effortless. And lastly, to my partner, Mark Hunt, who knows so much and who patiently puts up with the unenviable task of living with a writer.

Thank you all from the bottom of my heart.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

L
IESEL
S
CHWARZ
is a lifelong fan of nineteenth-century Gothic literature. She is also a hopeless romantic who loves Victorians, steampunk, fairies, fantasy monsters, the fin de siècle, and the correct way to drink absinthe. She also likes medieval things, pirates, zombies, space operas, and all subjects in between.