Open sorcery, p.1
Open Sorcery, page 1
OPEN SORCERY
Copyright © 2022 by Robert L. Sheely
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Rob Sheely asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.
ISBN: 979-8-9869823-1-1
--for Annette. My rock.
CONTENTS
Friday
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Saturday
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Sunday
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Monday
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Tuesday
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Wednesday
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thursday
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Thirty-Five
Friday
Thirty-Six
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Big Thanks To:
About the Author
Friday
ONE
What a time to be alive! With memories of the Great War and the Spanish flu fading, even the passage of the Volstead Act can’t turn the national mood sober. The stock market seems to reach new heights weekly, and young people have thrown off the dour attitudes of their parents, preferring to be “flappers” and “dandies.” Above it all rises the new world of magic. Even if it fails at times to live up to the extravagant promises of its purveyors, modern gemstone magic has placed in the hands of the common man powers that would make the ancient alchemists weep with envy. Who among us can say what miracles lie ahead?
--from The Baxter’s Grove Times Opinion Pages
There was magic ahead. Jack Harrold could feel its dark power growing with every step.
The directions he’d been given had said nothing of this. In any other circumstance, he told himself, he would simply turn and walk back out the way he’d come. But a rich prospect was a rich prospect, and no less than beggars, young magicians could ill afford to be choosers.
The address was one of the toniest the city had to offer. In any decent world, Jack would already be inside, making his pitch in warmth and comfort. Instead, he had been instructed to go around the back, like a lowly delivery boy. It rankled. More than that, it made his mission more difficult. How did you ask a man to trust you with his business after allowing him to treat you with such calculated disrespect?
If you have to ask for his business, you’ve already lost. Jack heard his father’s voice. The trick is to make the mark ask you. If you can’t do that, boy, you’re no son of mine.
With an effort, Jack banished the painful memory. This was no time to be distracted by painful memories.
He had left nothing to chance in dressing for today’s meeting. His shirt, tie, waistcoat and gloves were a white of such intensity as to assault the eyes. His top hat, cape, frock coat, trousers and boots were a black so deep it swallowed light. A subtle glamour prevented any dirt or wrinkles from marring the effect.
His hair was black, as were his eyes. The smooth skin of his cheeks shone nearly white, as did the long line of his nose. The only touch of color on his face was the dark red of his lips, which, in context, appeared shockingly carnal.
His cape was bound to his wrists by a charm of attraction so that, as Jack moved his arms in intersecting arcs, it followed in a delicate ballet of flowing silk. With a simple command, he floated his cane between his open palms, deftly levitating it out of the path of the billowing cape. An imperceptible nod sent his top hat somersaulting across one shoulder and down the attached arm, then back up the opposite arm and shoulder before finally resuming its position atop his head. All the while, he maintained a gaze so fierce and self-sure, it could stare down the devil himself.
The sharp click of his boot heels on the cobbled alley echoed off the bricks on either side of him. A damp gloom seemed to seep from the cracks between the bricks. It swallowed up the daylight as well as the sounds of life from the busy street at his back.
A sudden wave of anxiety nearly knocked him off his feet. It was the magic, of course—a spell of discouragement or some such.
Should he regard the fact the prospect hadn’t bothered to disable it an act of further disrespect? Or was this, rather, meant to be a test of his abilities?
He decided it was wisest to treat it as such. Not breaking stride, he shot his left shirt cuff. A thick silver bracelet encircled his wrist. The glyphs engraved into its surface were glowing and warm to the touch.
Jack pressed a combination of glyphs with his thumb and index finger. He looked around him, but the gloom seemed, if anything, to have grown thicker. He pressed a different combination, with the same result. The glyphs were noticeably warmer beneath his fingers, their glow the only light reaching his eyes.
Jack increased his pace, extending his bracelet-clad wrist before him like a torch. His breath was the only sound reaching his ears, as the gloom swallowed up everything else, including his footsteps. The darkness was near-absolute, even as his wrist felt like it was encircled by fire.
After what seemed like an eternity, he finally arrived at a short stoop beneath a darkened doorway, but before he could take climb the first step, the earth at his feet split open like a rotten fruit, releasing a cloud of fiery gas. Its stench was beyond anything he had ever known—a choking miasma of death and decay.
Screams of utter and total damnation seemed to emanate from the very depths of hell itself as a howling demon burst through the hole gaping before him. “Who dares disturb my slumber?!” roared the demon, scouring the area with flaming eyes before settling on Jack’s quaking form. “Speak, wretched mortal! Speak or prepare to suffer my eternal wrath!”
Buffeted by the fiery gas, Jack fell to his knees. He opened his mouth to plead for his life, but for once, no words came.
“Who dares disturb my slumber?!” roared the demon. “For the final time, identify yourself!”
Jack covered his eyes and prepared to die.
“Identify yourself or prepare to suffer my eternal…my eternal…my eternal...” The demon sputtered, then stuttered, then froze as a final slurred squawk escaped its quivering mouth.
From between his fingers, Jack watched the demon disappear into a cloud of blue smoke, along with the darkness, the foul hole in the earth, the screams of total and utter damnation, and, most mercifully of all, the choking stench.
A ghostly finger appeared in midair and inscribed a flurry of white letters on the cloud’s surface. A problem has been detected, and Majick has been shut down to prevent damage to your conjuring system. If this is the first time you’ve seen this Error Cloud, restart your system. If this cloud appears again, check to make sure any new spell or incantation is properly invoked. If this is a new Majick installation, ask your local Guild representative for any Majick updates you might need.
As the pounding in his chest began to subside, Jack became aware that he was sprawled in the dirt of the alley floor. For a long moment, he stared slack-jawed at the blue cloud hanging above him. The next thing he knew, he was on his feet, cursing and batting at the cloud like a long-limbed toddler in full tantrum.
TWO
Magic is not life. In life, when you extend an invitation to come over at six with a bottle of wine, as often as not, your guest will arrive at seven bearing a flagon of ale. If you attempt to ascertain the root of the misunderstanding, you soon find yourselves bickering over just exactly what was said to whom and what was heard by whom and whose powers of recollection are the more trustworthy. You can easily spend the evening trading accusations and never arrive upon the truth.
Magic, on the other hand, does exactly what you bind it to do. Nothing more and nothing less. It obeys your commands more faithfully than the most loyal of friends. If your spell does something other than what you expect from it, the cause is always the same:
You.
—from Spellbinding for Simpletons
The Spellmaster surveyed his domain. His desk in the rear of the bindery provided the perfect vantage point from which to obse
Beneath the high ceiling stood seven rows of four desks apiece. Each desk was tall, with a correspondingly tall stool. Upon six of the stools perched the six spellbinders under Griff’s charge.
They were an eclectic assortment of individuals whose differences in appearance exceeded their similarities. Five of them were male, and one female. Three were less than thirty years old, with the youngest being twenty-two. Of the other three, two were under forty, with the one remaining being of the advanced age of fifty-four.
Griff himself was forty-three, though his stooped posture and permanent scowl made him look ten years older. His head was smooth, with those portions where hair tried to grow shaved down to the skin. The only visible hair above his collar was the thick black stubble that lined his chin. That, along with the sunken caverns of his eyes, gave him the look of a skull whose jaw had been dipped in tar.
Griff’s process of observation was interrupted by the abrupt appearance of a tiny paper bird. It flapped its paper wings furiously, causing them to unfold, followed by the unfolding of the remainder of the bird’s body, revealing a note with a simple message in a delicate feminine hand. Shall I wait on you for dinner tonight?
Griff plucked the note from the air and shook it vigorously. The message slid to the bottom of the note, leaving space at the top for his reply. Expect me promptly at 6.
At his command, the note refolded itself, flapped its paper wings, and disappeared through the nearest window. The verisimilitude of the effect was only slightly diminished by the fact that the window was closed. Griff watched it go, then turned his attention back to the spellbinders.
Two of the five male binders were clean-shaven. The remaining three sported varying combinations of whiskers, beards, mustaches and sideburns. The clean-shaven pair kept their hair trimmed and bathed regularly. The other three displayed differing degrees of indifference to grooming and basic hygiene. The sole female binder wore her hair in a simple bun, and was unfailingly clean.
While all six dressed simply, four chose traditional tones of brown and gray, while two preferred conspicuous displays of color. Three wore boots, two shoes, and one no footwear of any kind. Three favored overcoats on chilly days, and three cloaks. Four wore hats to work, and two arrived each day bareheaded.
No matter the outward differences, all six spellbinders concentrated upon their work with the same intensity. Sitting before their open books with quills in hand, they looked like nothing so much as monastical copyists.
That impression was unmade every few minutes, however, when a random binder closed their book, placed a hand upon the cover, and muttered a few soft words.
There followed a silence of unpredictable duration during which the binder in question sat unmoving while their face betrayed varying degrees of anticipation, anxiety and resignation. Eventually, patience was rewarded, most often in the form of an error cloud or other discouragement. Infrequently, however, something delightful would appear in the air above the binder’s desk—a singing bird, perhaps, or a glowing orb filled with scenes of forbidden delight.
Whatever the result, discouragement or delight, the binder emitted a cryptic grunt, dismissed the results of his labors, reopened his spellbook, and returned to work.
The paper bird returned. Griff waited impatiently as it repeated its reverse origami and revealed a new missive. I can delay preparations if there is any chance you might need to remain after hours.
He grabbed the note and shook it with more force this time. He dictated his reply in crisp tones. I have given you my word to arrive promptly. I shall keep it.
In addition to the six binders and Griff himself, the bindery floor held two other occupants. One of these was a young apprentice, freshly arrived from the Academy and bearing the unfortunate name Tad. Griff had no doubt a new and impolite nickname would be found for him before long.
The desk of the final occupant was, in actuality, not a desk at all, but rather a variety of loom. Along the edge of its circular frame hung colorful strands arranged to replicate the color wheel. In the open center of the circle floated a single gemstone about the size of a child’s marble. The stone glowed from within, emitting gentle pulses of light whose hues changed in concert with the changing patterns woven around it.
The delicate fingers doing the weaving belonged to Daphne, a girl not long out of the Academy herself. As the resident Spellweaver, it was her responsibility to take freshly bound spells and interweave them with glamours, charms, and other aesthetic spellwork.
Some binders disparaged weaving as an inherently inferior discipline, simply because it involved the manipulation of existing spells rather than the creation of new ones. Griff was not among them. In his years as a binder, he had many times seen the proper glamour elevate an otherwise-pedestrian spell by adding the polish the public had come to demand from magic.
Nor did Griff share the, to his mind, lazy and contemptible prejudice of the largely male binding community, who tended to dismiss weaving as “women’s work.” After all, to the larger world, binding itself was not considered to be a manly endeavor, for how much strength did it take to heft a quill? It was ignorant and foolish to discriminate among specialties. Rightly understood, binding and weaving were complementary disciplines, each integral to the creation of professional magic.
In normal circumstances, any weavers on the bindery floor would have come under the authority of the Spellmaster. Circumstances were complicated, however, by the fact that Daphne Harrold was the only daughter of Joseph Harrold, the older of the house’s two founding brothers. To her credit, young Daphne deferred to Griff’s authority. In return, he spared her the public tongue-lashings he would have administered in response to the inevitable mistakes she made as one freshly out of school. Of such careful compromises was a harmonious bindery maintained.
She was a pretty little creature, Griff acknowledged to himself, with the porcelain skin and long, silken hair of a storybook princess. Her dress was a princess’s gown, long and shimmering, interwoven with shifting hues in a complex pattern of golds and violets. She carried herself with a regal air, yet managed not to seem haughty or arrogant. Everyone in the bindery was in love with her to some degree, including Griff, no matter how much he tried to remind himself she was young enough to be his daughter.
When the paper bird returned for a third time, Griff plucked it from the air and slammed it to his desk. Undaunted, it unfolded itself as before. Jolly Molly loves her Gruff Griff.
Griff shook the note with less force this time. He glanced about to ensure no one was watching before replying under his breath. Gruff Griff loves Jolly Molly, too.
The bird reassembled itself with no less vigor than before and flew off yet again. Griff turned his head away from the departing bird, as if by not seeing it, he could render it invisible to the rest of the bindery.
His eye fell on a row of empty desks, and his thoughts darkened. Each vacant stool held the memory of one whose years of faithful service had earned them a cold handshake and a few muttered words of consolation. As was all too frequently the case, those who had done their job well paid the price for those above them who had not. In each instance, it fell to Griff to deliver the bitter news, just as it now fell to him to manage the fragile morale of the survivors.
Griff completed his scan of the bindery floor, but when he attempted to turn his attention to the preparation of his daily report, he found himself unable to concentrate. Irritated, he lifted his eyes from his work. Everything appeared to be in order, yet some instinct told him differently.
He had learned by painful experience to trust his instinct in such things, so he gave the room another look. Something about the binder in the farthest corner of the room caught his attention. Smyth.
He watched the binder for a few minutes to see if he could identify what had triggered his inner alarm. Ah, there it was—a slight stutter in the motion of the quill in his hand. A few minutes later, it appeared again.
That was just sloppy! Did Smyth have so little respect for Griff that he couldn’t be bothered to conjure a more convincing facade?
