TVisTV Book 4: Chapter 19 (RAW) (Patreon)

Chapter 19 - A Certain Magitech Railgun

“Big shots are only little shots that keep on shooting.”

- Christopher Morley.

“Miriam, a report on our little ventures into the service industry,” Seraphina ordered over a cup of strong tea the next morning, feeling only a little out of sorts after having drunk enough alcohol to kill a battalion.

She vaguely remembered singing, though she could not quite place whether that was a nightmare or a true memory. The young girl looked down into the rich brown liquid in her cup, but found no answers there. 

“Training has been proceeding well,” Miriam began dutifully, spectacles catching the morning light as she glanced down at her notes. “Several of our candidates have been accepted into noble houses, and a few merchant houses as well, especially those with strong Royalist sympathies. Your emphasis on selecting those of a more aesthetically pleasing disposition has meant that many of them have been privy to certain bits of information they might otherwise have been denied. The de Montan family has been exceptionally welcoming, and, thanks to this, our trading interests facilitated through Lehman’s Bank have also seen remarkable profits.”

Of course, Michelié’s family could not resist such tempting little treats as those provided by her services. They were servants to their own pleasure, which was the reason Michelié enjoyed her food so much and had become so comfortably rotund.

Miriam hesitated for a moment before continuing, “However, there have been some losses due to your suggested training methods. Approximately one in nine, according to the latest count.”

“Acceptable,” Seraphina said. “And their loyalty? The ones who survived and have become better for it?”

She took a delicate sip of tea as she digested the presented information, feeling rather clearheaded despite the wringer she had gone through the previous evening. At times like this, she was glad of her high Constitution, even if that meant opening the gates to a group of elder gods just a smidgeon. There was simply no price one could place on convenience.

“They all send donations back to the Bottleworth Foundation to support our operations, and in return receive a care package filled with—”

Seraphina looked at her, and Miriam stopped at once.

“We do not talk about that here,” Seraphina commanded.

“Yes, milady.”

“Excellent. Excellent,” the young girl mused, setting her cup down and steepling her fingers. “And speaking of our trading interests? I assume you have at least tripled our profits?”

The bespectacled maid adjusted her glasses, and her freckled face took on the bleak courage of a soldier about to be sent over a wall.

“Lady Seraphina, unfortunately, due to pressure from the Crown over the lack of a Royal Warrant, certain limits have been placed upon our expansion. Added to that are the actions of several rivals, not to mention the exorbitant costs of acquiring particular substances for the training program, despite our direct connections to the source of such substances. As such, we have only been able to double our gross revenue, and due to rising costs…”

Miriam closed her eyes, fully expecting heaven’s judgment to descend in the shape of a fist.

“That is to be expected,” Seraphina replied.

The maid hesitantly opened one eye.

“But what of our market share?”

The maid gathered herself and rallied. “We control nearly all the bookmakers in Meridian, circumventing the guilds and allowing our printing presses to act unimpeded. The Oracle, under the direction of your friend Lady de Lehman, has become exceptionally popular. Your own lady mother’s predictions on the weather are now treated as near gospel, particularly by seafarers and farmers.”

“Of course,” Seraphina remarked.

It was only natural. Her mother had many faults, but on this, at least, she could be relied on. For her vanity, if nothing else.

“And our foreign interests?” the young noblewoman asked.

“We have been exporting our products through distributors in the Isles of Quas and Qis, and both markets have proven remarkably receptive to our line of goods. Though in Quas, they have placed a tariff on our products on top of the general tariffs already applied to Aranthian goods,” Miriam reported. “The Qis markets remain tariff-free due to the Treaty of Moronne.”

“Do we have anything we can use to influence the current Archon, or, failing that, the current Trade Prefect, into being more sympathetic to our cause?” Seraphina asked. “Or perhaps their political rivals could benefit from a sudden surge of support.”

“We have only just begun making inquiries there, milady. We have not made much in the way of inroads on Quas. Shall I make it a priority?”

“No, shelve that idea for now,” Seraphina decided, finishing her tea.

Miriam poured her a fresh cup. “Shelve, milady?”

“Apologies. A foreign turn of phrase. Put it aside for now. Our gaze must settle on the next frontier, the Empire.”

“As you say, milady. Through intermediaries, we have begun selling our products along the Free Cities at the border and have made some progress, but trade into the Empire proper remains limited, mostly passing through the caravans of the Traveling People.”

Seraphina pursed her lips in thought. “That will mean only the higher echelons of Imperial society, or at the very least the well-connected, will see and partake of our confectionaries at first. A curiosity, they will think, right up until it is too late. If those higher up the social pyramid acquire a taste for it, demand will filter down to the lessers soon enough.”

“I must also report that there are already several interests attempting to copy our unique production methods,” Miriam added.

“I assume you have dealt with them?”

“As per your instructions, we have dissuaded the greater portion directly. And, as you say, I have also personally dealt with a few of them… they will not be seen in civilized society again. The main obstacle to their success seems to be that they cannot identify our special ingredient, or at the very least, have been unsuccessful in sourcing it. On a more positive note, Bottleworth has become almost synonymous with candies. I believe that is thanks to your suggestion regarding ‘branding.’”

“Of course, Milly,” Seraphina said with a superior smile. “Just as planned.”

***

A few days later, as per her instructions, several cases of solid iron bolts, minus fletching and half a meter long, had been delivered to her.

Now, the young girl had arranged for Frest to follow her to the clearing she used to practice her magic or when she wished to be alone. And, for the sake of propriety, Miriam had also tagged along. They went on horseback, or in Seraphina’s case, Spike. 

Thanks to her regular practice of destructive magic, the clearing could perhaps be categorized as a large glade. The broken trees, splintered stumps, and several suspiciously glassy patches of earth gave testament to her endeavours.

At the edge of the clearing-turned-glade, Spike was busy nibbling on the bark of a tree that had somehow offended him by looking at him funny.

Kill everything! Spike sent across the bond that joined him to Seraphina, his thoughts carried through the Beast Lore amulet at her neck with all the subtlety of a dropped anvil.

Yes, dear, you do that, Seraphina replied mentally. Just stay back for a little while and do not be too surprised if there is a great deal of noise.

Kill noise too! Spike replied contentedly, before kicking the tree with his rear legs hard enough to shake snow from its upper branches.

I will take you hunting later, she soothed back. You can run down an innocent pack of wolves or perhaps some Cronir if you behave.

The young noblewoman was swiftly coming to the conclusion that Unicorns were far from the intelligent and majestic beasts they were supposed to be in the lore. That, or Spike was a special case. A very special case. Perhaps he was merely going through the Unicorn equivalent of puberty. Across the bond, she could feel all of his angry little agonies, his resentment, his appetite, and his general belief that the world had insulted him somehow.

He was just so darn aggressive.

The stablehands had to be practically forced to feed him and clear out his stall once their initial awe of him had faded into something rather closer to terror. Still, despite his terrible attitude, the querulous Unicorn had not actually harmed anyone. A firm slap from Seraphina had seen to that when he had tried to bite Lenin. Spike might have been stupid for a mythic beast, but even he could learn.

Negative reinforcement, though not without its critics, had the considerable advantage of being very quick.

Seraphina was beginning to think that Spike simply enjoyed threatening things and took a sort of perverse joy from it. A little like pubescent boys, or men, she thought. The Unicorn, it seemed, had a rather one-note personality.

Perhaps I should spike his feed this evening with certain herbs to mellow him out, she thought to herself, chuckling at her own private joke.

Kill happy sleepy herbs, Spike shot back.

Yes, Spike. I am sure you will. Now play with the tree.

“Lady Seraphina, is this quite safe to use?” Frest asked, interrupting her little mental exchange with her new pet.

“Yes, is using such an artifact wise?” Miriam added quickly. “Only, I heard from Boris that—”

“Oh, perfectly safe,” Seraphina replied, cutting them both off as she bent her knees and rolled a large boulder toward the edge of the clearing.

The stone was heavy enough that most grown men would have required a team, a lever, and several loud complaints to shift it. Seraphina merely set her shoulder against it, pushed, and watched with some satisfaction as it dragged a dark furrow through the snow and loam. Once it was in position, she dusted her gloved hands free of ice, dirt, and a few dead leaves before turning back toward her knight.

“You were saying, Sir Ferdiad Frest?”

“It is just that—” Frest and Miriam began at the same time, before stopping and looking faintly embarrassed at one another.

Miriam, being a maid and therefore somewhat more sensible about such matters, ceded the conversational battlefield to Frest.

“What I believe Miriam is trying to say,” Frest continued carefully, “is that according to your grandmother’s man, and the histories of your house, this item is apparently considered cursed.”

There was only the smallest flake of uncertainty in his voice, which Seraphina noticed he hid well. 

She smiled. “Cursed how? Be specific.”

“If I may be so bold, milady,” Miriam said, clasping her hands before her, “according to your Boris, those who used this weapon, if the artifact is indeed a weapon—”

“It is more than just a weapon, silly duck,” Seraphina said. “It is, in essence, a scroll of power that does not impart most of its madness. It teaches without leaving its lesson behind. A tool more than anything else.”

Frest looked at the strange heirloom in his hands with the expression of a man who had not found that explanation as comforting as she had intended.

“Then why, if I may beg your pardon, milady,” he asked, “does Master Boris say that the thing has a history of killing its wielders?”

“Oh, that silly little detail,” Seraphina began, only to pause when she realized that she would need to explain matters in a way their lesser intellects could understand.

She could explain the theory. The function of the Wind-attuned Zajasite. The way the artifact awakened the Withered Tree of Lightning through the flight groove, shaping force along a conductive path. She could explain how the wrong material would make the entire system stutter, split, and discharge violently back through the user. But there was no real need to make their eyes glaze over when the end result was perfectly simple.

“They used the wrong bolts,” she said with a small shrug of her shoulders. “Only iron or steel, perhaps Mithril. But Mithril would be a waste. Of course, anything else will cause a catastrophic failure.”

Frest and Miriam both stared at her.

Seraphina smiled. “So it is absolutely imperative to try and not use the wrong bolts.”

The former bandit looked at the weapon in his hands, then at the case of bolts, then back at his mistress.

It was a look she had become rather familiar with over the past several months. The look of a man who had been given instructions by his betters, understood them perfectly well, and nevertheless found himself wishing that the world was a kinder place.

He selected one of the iron bolts from the case and set it along the empty flight groove.

“Now, all you have to do is press the trigger, tickler, or whatever you call it,” explained Seraphina. “There, aim at the boulder.”

Unable to disobey, Frest lifted the weapon and settled it against his shoulder, though not with anything approaching confidence. He looked first to the boulder Seraphina had rolled to the far end of the clearing, then down along the empty groove where the iron bolt rested. 

“There will be a little bit of delay after pressing the trigger,” continued the blonde girl with her explanation.

Frest, against his better judgment, slowly pulled the trigger.

The purple Zajasite set along the body of the artifact woke. Not all at once. One crystal brightened, then another, then a third, each answering in sequence down the length of the weapon with a low, rising hum. Thin strands of violet-white light crawled along the groove and wrapped around the iron bolt like roots seeking purchase in stone. For a few moments, nothing happened.

Miriam took a careful step back.

Sir Frest continued to squint down the groove, uttering a quick prayer to the Goddess. He felt something being taken from him. Felt something change, a key had turned a lock that he never knew he had.

The missile was released and with it came the shriek of metal and storm. The iron bolt vanished from the groove accelerated to a fraction of the speed of light as the air in front of the weapon tore itself open in a straight line. The boulder did not immediately explode in a dramatic shower of fragments. Instead, the bolt punched into it with a flat, brutal finality. Then it exploded a half a heartbeat later, cracks racing across the stone from the point of impact before turning into flying shards as the bolt continued on into the forest, creating a line of destruction through the trees.

For a few moments, no one spoke, as the hot, bitter smell of ozone and winter sap filled the air.

Frest lowered the weapon.

Then his knees softened, the artifact almost dropping from his hands. The color drained from his face and Miriam rushed forward with a little gasp, but Frest caught himself before she could take his arm, his pride rallying.

“I feel,” he said slowly with a weak smile, “as if I have been drinking for three days and then kicked by a mule for my trouble.”

“That is to be expected,” the young girl replied, entirely untroubled. “The weapon draws somewhat upon the wielder. Not enough to kill you if used correctly, obviously, but enough to be inconvenient. Your Mana and Stamina, what little you have of it, as payment.”

She had, of course, “forgotten” to mention that although the weapon shielded its wielder from the greater madness of magic, the shield was imperfect at best. It was the reason she had decided not to wield it herself. Still, in her rough estimation, her Knight’s ingrained cynicism toward the world in general should prove defense enough against the lure of Mana. 

Frest looked back at the destroyed remains of the boulder. Then at the weapon. Then at the destroyed remains of the boulder again.

“Inconvenient,” he repeated, voice hollow.

“Yes. Quite draining, perhaps, but manageable with practice. Eventually you will be able to fire off more than one shot or I will be terribly disappointed,” Seraphina explained innocently.

“Practice,” he replied, schooling his face to stillness, his voice the voice of a man who had realized there would be more than one mule.

“Of course.” Seraphina folded her hands neatly before her. “You have until the snow begins to melt to master it,” she declared simply.