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Lore and Order
by Steve K. Peacock
Chapter 1
I was drinking whiskey.
As drinks go, the stuff tastes like engine
lubricant, but I wasn't drinking it for the
taste.
The important thing about it was that she
couldn't stand the smell.
An odd sort of memorial, I suppose, but then
she'd always enjoyed my sense of humour.
Besides, it's a good thing to drink in front
of a roaring fire.
The fire station had been on fire when I arrived,
but it hadn't truly gone up until about five
minutes after I had perched myself on the
bonnet of my car.
From glowing windows to a flaming tower, it
was quite a soothing sight.
There's something dangerously hypnotic about
a lot of flames.
Or maybe that's just me.
I was getting closer.
This was the fifteenth building the mystery
arsonist had hit, and the first that I had
managed to reach in time to catch the main
showing.
Most of the time I managed to arrive at a
blackened husk of a building, smoke spirals
and sobbing families being the best entertainment
on offer by that point.
But I'd gotten a handle on his pattern now,
sussed out his signature.
I was gaining ground.
I took another sip from my glass and scowled.
The distant sirens of the fire brigade were
just creeping into earshot now, speeding hell-for-leather
on their way back from whatever wild goose
chase the arsonist had sent them on.
They hadn't been gone long, I'd put money
on that, but a pissed off wizard didn't need
long.
Better they not have to deal with something
they couldn't comprehend, anyway.
Trying to explain to a layman that the fire
they were chasing was an evocation at the
beckon call of some shadowy bastard-wizard
would have been too much effort, and great
pains had been taken to keep it that way.
With the last fourteen places, I hadn't been
willing to say one way or the other whether
magic had been involved.
Fire is a pain in the arse when it comes to
forensic techniques in the material realm,
but it's ten times worse in the arcane.
It eats magic, carves through it like it isn't
even there, and that means any trace magic
left by the arsonist tends to go up in smoke
quite literally.
But I'd made it to this one before that had
happened.
There wasn't much, nothing I could particularly
use, but there was something there, and that
was enough to confirm my suspicions.
My phone buzzed in my pocket and I whipped
it out and flipped it open.
Flip phones may be old-hat now, but they're
still cool.
'Hello, dear.'
'Tell me you've got something this time, Parker.'
The voice was a silky southern accent, echoes
of Oxbridge and a spoiled childhood, and young.
Charlie had sounded young five years ago,
when she had first started doling out instructions
to me via telephone, and her voice hadn't
seemed to want to change.
'Whitehall are getting uppity.'
I sighed.
'Whitehall are always uppity, Charlie.
Paranoia is their bread and butter.'
'True, but we still need to shut this down.
Did you get to this one in time?
Just give me something I can show them to
get them to back off a little.'
'There are definite traces.
Not enough that I can track it, but enough
that I can confirm we've got a problem,' I
said.
There was a small lie in there, but she wouldn't
know.
Charlie went quiet for a moment and hammered
at her computer keyboard.
Or possibly a typewriter.
I can never really tell the two apart over
the phone, and up at Whitehall it could really
be either.
They had been hesitant to embrace the information
age.
'Any leads?'
'Nothing solid,' I said.
'I'm going to have a wander around, see what
I can pick up.
Maybe I'll stumble across his casting site,
find something that the fire didn't consume.
Of course, if you'd approve a little tracking
spell...'
I'd been needling her about that little demand
for weeks now, and each time she had become
more exasperated.
Now she was one step shy of full-blown annoyance.
It did nice things to her voice.
'Oh for God's sake, Jameson!
You know they'll never sign off on that!'
'No,' I shot back.
'They would never have signed off on that
before I had proof that magic was involved.
But now we know for sure, and if they want
him caught I'm going to need to fight fire
with fire.'
There was a pause.
'If you see what I mean.'
'I'll see what I can do,' she said.
She did not sound happy.
I wrestled for a charming, yet patronising,
way of thanking her, then gave up and snapped
the phone shut.
Then I finished my whiskey and threw the glass
back into the boot along with the half-empty
bottle and various oddities that accumulate
in the rear of a man's car.
I swear most of them just come into being
on their own.
I certainly didn't put them there.
Now I was just procrastinating.
What I wanted to do was wait until Whitehall
signed off on some minor magics.
It had been so long since I had last cast
a spell.
Sensing the residue of our arcane arsonist
had been divine, and now I was grasping for
a way to throw off the enforced abstinence
of Whitehall, even if just for a moment.
The tracking spell was bullshit really, I
had a fair idea where to find my next lead,
but I wanted my hit.
Abstinence is all well and good when you've
got no temptation, but a brush with your old
mistress and the longing suddenly erupts in
force.
Realistically, however, I didn't have time
to wait.
There had been a sourness to the residue,
one that spoke of power borrowed rather than
the sweet tang of something innate.
Back when I had been part of the scene, power
brokers had been raking in the cash, although
that was very much a product of the old way
of doing things.
What few magicians that were still free of
Whitehall's clutches preferred to throw their
own magical muscle around, rather than that
of someone else, even if it was more potent.
Whitehall may not have had as firm a grasp
on the North as it liked to pretend it did,
but it had changed the landscape considerably
in the last five years.
It's always easiest to grab the noisy ones,
after all, and people selling their power
were always going to be near the top of that
particular list, and their top customers right
below them.
But, if I could get to this broker, I could
get to the arsonist.
Surely there couldn't be too many of them
left to sift through?
That would mean, however, a trip to the underground,
and I'm not exactly popular there.
Not that I can blame them, before they'd gotten
to me, I was suspicious of the Whitehall Warlocks
too.
Bastard turncoats, magic vacuums sent to enslave
or destroy every free magician in the country,
that's what I had thought.
It turned out that that my prior assumptions
was were mostly correct, but slavery did have
its upsides nowadays, at least the way Whitehall
did it, although I didn't expect my former
peers to see that.
Finding them would be tricky.
The knowledge that warlocks could come for
you at any time had driven the free magicians
underground, and I wasn't really equipped
to find them.
It wasn't as if the free magicians were going
to advertise themselves so people like me
could come and kick in their doors.
They had other means of feeling each other
out.
You need a wizard to catch a wizard, that's
more or less Whitehall's entire reason for
having warlocks.
Unfortunately, the easiest way of finding
a wizard is by feeling out the tremors of
his power and tracking it back to the source,
like ripples in a pond.
Ripples that warlocks can't see because we
are banned from using bloody magic.
Whitehall, therefore, likes us to use our
knowledge of the craft to find other solutions,
since clearly that would be terribly easy
to do.
I prefer to cheat.
Before Whitehall brought me in, I had my fair
share of connections.
Most of them had shunned me the moment I'd
been nabbed, but I had collected favours like
kids collect the trading cards put out by
whatever Japanese anime is big nowadays.
Enough that cashing one in was no big deal.
I took one last look at the blaze and then
climbed into my car.
Ordinarily I would have called ahead, as is
only polite, but I was quite looking forward
to playing the warlock card for once.
Humberside City was too far north of Whitehall
to have really developed a strong and active
cadre of warlocks, so most of my jobs were
wild goose chases and token gestures to get
our visibility up in preparation of the inevitable
big push.
It was a far cry from the well-regimented
and stringently controlled nature of the south.
But the name still had some weight to it,
and after so long chasing ghosts it would
be nice to swing it around a little.
My ego enjoys a good stroking.
As I drove, I tried some other telephone numbers
from the old days.
If this idea didn't pan out, I would prefer
to have a backup just in case.
No one answered, which wasn't exactly a shock:
when the warlocks come for you, people tend
to hear about it.
Doubly so when they came for me, I should
imagine.
I did not go gracefully, to which I'm sure
a great many will attest.
A few of the numbers I dialed didn't even
ring, and I caught myself wondering how many
people had been brought in since myself.
More out of curiosity than worry, truth be
told.
I'd never liked them enough to worry.
At least I was in the North, so I had that
on my side.
Northerners are not particularly well disposed
to people from the government rocking up and
telling them what to do at the best of times,
and as such things were going slowly for Whitehall
in this neck of the woods.
They had a firm stranglehold on the South,
but the bred in the bone independence of the
Northerners made them more brazen and less
careful than they should be.
This was why an underground existed at all.
And yet, as I pulled up outside the bar that
Toirneach Craic called his home, I felt myself
gearing up for a fight.
I swear I'm not always like this when I have
to talk to an Irishman.
Just the ones I have to meet in bars.
Which, I admit, is where I meet most of my
Irishmen.
But I promise that's just a coincidence.
It is.
Anyway, look, let me get back on track.
Part of the deal in becoming a warlock is
that you can't do magic any more, not even
the simplest of cantrips – that's what we
call the easy peasy baby spells, for you uninitiated
– but to try and even the playing field
you are allowed to have things ensorcelled
by the few enchanters Whitehall keeps on staff.
I'd eschewed the traditional amulets and bracelets
for rings and a jacket – they were more
practical and less likely to draw attention.
Everyone was looking for amulets and bracelets,
fewer people were looking for rings and almost
no one was looking for a fabric blazer to
hold an enchantment of any kind.
Of course, this didn't stop the entire room
staring at me when I walked through the door,
but I tend to get that reaction in any place
I enter.
I have one of those sexy faces, you know.
To be fair, describing the place as a bar
was a bit of a stretch.
It was only a bar in the same way sticking
a long table in front of your drinks cabinet
makes your dining room a bar.
So when I say the entire room turned to look
at me, I'm really only talking about two or
three people.
But they were angry looking people, so I thought
it fitting to make the thing sound a little
more grandiose.
I'm sure you understand.
'Well, that's a face I ain't seen in a while,'
came a voice from the far end of the room.
'Oh, Brendy,' I said, using his real name.
What, you thought his poor mother actually
named him Toirneach?
'Surely you see my beautiful face when you
close your eyes at night?
Quite frankly, I'd be hurt if not.'
He had fashioned himself a little throne out
of a wingback chair, a cheap plastic skull
resting under one of his feet to give him
a sort of bargain-basement Conan the Destroyer
look.
Well, if you substitute rippling muscles for
poor posture in equal measure.
He was going for the full slouch of villainy,
but hadn't managed the villain part.
'You've got some nerve coming to see me Jimbo,
as if I wouldn't know what side you're playing
for now.'
Obviously, I knew he'd know.
That was the point.
'Then let's keep things civil, shall we?
No need for me to start flexing the bulging
muscles of bureaucracy, right?'
'I'm always civil, pal.
You know me,' he said, but his hands were
gripping the arms of his little throne a smidge
tighter than they had been.
He'd always been good at masking his fear.
'What can I do to facilitate your fucking
off sooner rather than later?'
I know it might not look it, but this was
Brendy at his most civil.
He'd come a long way from when I'd first met
him – some would say he'd fallen rather
than come – acting as an agent of the Lord
of the North during the period Whitehall now
called The Dark Time.
I'll give you a greater run-down on that later,
when it's a bit more appropriate.
It's not something I like talking about for
personal reasons.
Suffice to say, back when things were at their
worst, Brendy was at his.
His Toirneach name was an honourific at first,
bestowed for his reputation as his Lord's
clean-up man.
He'd turn up after the slaughter, doll it
all up so word would get out and people would
know exactly who was the biggest bastard in
toy town.
The thunder that followed the lightning.
He also made it his business to know other
peoples', which was why he had survived as
long as he had and why I needed him now.
'We've got ourselves a rogue wizard burning
down bits of the city, as I'm sure you know,'
I said.
His eyes narrowed slightly.
'Are you here to accuse me?'
'Give me a break, Brendy.
I'm not daft enough to take a run at you on
my own, am I?
I'd at least drag along a couple of meat-shields
for that sort of thing.'
Part of the reason he had avoided the warlocks
coming for him as long as he had was down
to his reputation.
It wouldn't save him forever, but as long
as he believed it would it would also keep
me safe.
He wouldn't want to antagonise Whitehall by
getting into a scrap with a warlock, but he'd
have no qualms about ripping my soul out through
my eye sockets if he thought himself threatened.
He was a pleasant sod.
'Then what do you want?'
I took a few steps forward.
His boys, or whatever you call henchmen these
days, shifted in their seats.
'It seems our wayward mage is using someone
else's power.'
'A broker?'
'Looks that way to me.'
'Interesting,' he said and shifted his slouch.
'Not many people left with the balls or the
requisite debts to go into that game.
Your lot have properly fucked up this neck
of the woods, you know.'
'Now now, there's no need to start playing
the blame game with me, Brendy.
We both know we weren't exactly innocent in
the whole thing.'
One of Brendy's boys leapt to his feet, shouting.
'Don't claim kinship with us, you blood-traitor
fuck.'
Brendy held up a finger and the man sat back
down, frowning but without complaint.
'If you would like to argue about politics,
perhaps it would be best we have a few drinks
first.
Friends should never talk politics sober.'
'Is that what we are, friends?'
'We were once, as I recall.
It suits my purposes to keep you as that for
now, rather than an enemy.'
'Oh, mate,' I said and forced myself to blush.
'You say the sweetest things.'
'Do you want a drink or not?'
I shook my head.
'Already had one today, thanks.
The information will do me fine.'
'Just so's we're clear, this is you calling
in a favour, right?
I'm not about to sell you one of my own out
of the goodness of me heart, like.'
Seeing as he had started putting the accent
on thick, I figured it only fair to do the
same.
Besides, I'm English.
You come at us with some weird foreign way
of talking, it is in our nature to mimic it
like masochistic mynah birds.
Why do you think we've had so many wars?
'Consider it me callin' in one of me favours
te be sure, boyo.'
I admit, I'm not very good at accents.
I also admit that that was perhaps not the
most politically correct way to address him.
Then again, as you will learn about me, I
am naturally imbued with supernatural powers
of diplomacy.
Even when I'm being a dick, it works in my
favour.
Brendy let out a tight chuckle, although his
boys were less forgiving.
'Good, I've been wanting rid of that black
mark.
Although I can't give him to you directly.'
'That doesn't sound like something I'd want
to hear.'
'I've not been blind to your lot spiriting
brokers away in the dead of night.
I figured it best to maintain some distance
from them, in case Whitehall started casting
a wider net.
But that doesn't mean I don't know how you
can find him.'
I fired out a theatrical sigh.
'You're not good at suspense, Brendy.
Get to the point.'
'Keeping track of the clients is almost as
good as keeping track of the dealer,' he said.
He leaned forward, the horrid little plastic
skull squeaking an inch forward as he did
so.
'There's a gathering of minor talents, the
sort that didn't bother themselves with the
politics way back when, so haven't really
learned how the world is these days.
Might want to ask around there.
You'll find them at the University.'
I laughed.
'Of course.'
'You get the best and cheapest booze in a
university bar.
That's just a fact, pal.
Doesn't matter if the place has been shut
down, it's seeped into the walls by then.'
'God, I hope they're not drinking alcohol
out of the drywall.'
'You never know with these types.'
Here's a thing you may not have known: fighting
a secret war against your own magical citizens
is not cheap, and yet you still have to pay
for it.
Governments tend to get more leeway with their
overdrafts than your average wage-drone, but
it isn't infinite.
You start seeing black holes in the budget,
excessive cutbacks, and you can probably link
it to magicians somehow.
We're not cheap to keep.
This government had chosen to siphon the cash
from the education budget, and Humberside
had not done well.
Being as it had never been a particularly
popular university, the income from students
just wasn't enough to keep the entire thing
open.
They'd wasted millions on whole buildings,
only to find that they were now surplus to
requirement.
At this point half the campus was shut down,
mostly buildings that had never formally opened
at all.
Perfect place for the empowered to meet for
a tête-à-tête.
I'm not the super-spy or information broker
that Brendy is, but I have enough about me
to know whether I'm being spun a lie or not.
The information he had given me felt plausible,
however, and despite my current occupation
I still felt like I had earned enough good
will to get some measure of truth out of the
man.
You can't end a friendship so easily, not
with Toirneach Craic, in any case.
'You can consider your favour repaid, mate,'
I said as I turned to leave.
I was going for the whole dramatic exit, all
loud footsteps and billowing coat, but he
called after me.
'There's one more thing you might want to
know.
Consider it a freebie.'
I stopped but didn't turn around.
This was sounding awfully like the start of
a setup.
I made sure my rings were ready, just in case
things were about to get nasty.
'And what would that be?'
'Only that it might be in your best interests
to let this drop.'
'And why is that?'
'I am not in a position to comment.
Perhaps, as a favour to you –'
I interrupted.
'Goodbye, Brendy.'
I wasn't about to let him lure me in with
seductive little factoids like that.
The man would use words like weapons if you'd
let him, and I wasn't really keen on finding
myself indebted to him this time.
I made my exit before he could stop me, giving
the dramatic thing a second go.
I'm pretty sure it worked.
It was totally swoon-worthy.
Alas, the endorphins from being so cool had
largely worn off by the time I closed my car
door.
Brendy's boys watched me from the windows
as I pulled away from the last little embassy
of the old ways.
Steve K. Peacock has a Masters degree in media
writing, which he has found makes it sound
like he knows what he's talking about when
it comes to books.
It's certainly been useful in making him think
he knows what I'm talking about, which is
nice.
He also has the imaginatively named website
stevekpeacock.com, but Is mostly found on
twitter @stevetheblack.
Currently he has six books out:
Diplomancer - My debut novel.
Assassins, magic, university lecturers, all
that jazz.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0078102SO
Lore and Order - Warlocks, arson, revolution
and Northern England.
Continue the story from where this audio excerpt
left off.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00NJ2BVHC
Red Peace – The Sequel to Lore and Order.
Are you really on the run if you just never
came back from your holiday?
In your typical office job, probably not.
If you work for a secret cadre of government-controlled
magic users, maybe.
It's probably smart to err on the side of
caution.
Hair of the Dog - An e-novella prequel to
Lore and Order.
Dragged out of a life of megalomania, rehabilitated
and put to work on the mean streets of London
to track down a mythological killer, this
is Jameson Parker at his youngest and, some
would say, his best.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00X3PF3SI
Ghosts on the Wind - Crime, heists, corrupt
cops and secretive eldritch cults in Victorian
London.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0156U4QD0
Cold Dawn - A Frozen wasteland.
Stompy robot cities.
Humanity struggling to survive.
It’s one of those cute sorts of stories.
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01H0959GS
Coming soon will be the first novella in what
is intend to be a series of rotating characters
and genres, named The Calling.
Magic and intrigue!
That combination never gets old.
Ever since I found the Dresden Files I've
been a sucker for this kind of story!
But I have to say, the shadow government organization
kind of gives a more epic feel, am I right?
Make sure to get your fix of sci fi and fantasy
by subscribing, and if you've got a story
you think the world needs to hear head over
to TallTaleTV.com for submission guidelines.
I'm Chris Herron and that's it for today's
Tall Tale TV.
