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Indistinguishable from Magic (Brendon/Spencer, Pete/Patrick, Tom/Jon)
Recipient: fanplankton
Author: allegedlykyle
Title: indistinguishable from magic
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer, Pete/Patrick, Tom/Jon (pre-Gerard/Frank)
Rating: R
Word Count: ~26k
Warnings/Disclaimer: Um. Clichés abound? This is a fairytale!AU, after all. Not real. Also unbetaed; apologies for any mistakes!
Summary: I’m pretty sure all of you know what Aladdin is about. A prince(ss) who’s being married off to an evil court advisor meets and falls in love with a street rat - well, that’s the premise, anyway. Features Spencer as the prince, Brendon as the boy he meets, Ryan as the mouthy magic carpet, Pete as the not-quite-evil antagonist, Patrick as the long-sufferingly court advisor, Tom as Spencer’s manservant and Jon as a robot. No, seriously, a robot. Also features bonus!Gerard as the genie.
Note to recipient!: This prompt bit the head off me when I first read it, and I ran around panicking for days because I had no clue what 1) steam punk was all about and 2) the exact plot details of Aladdin. Now I know the latter better but the former still eludes my complete understanding, and I have taken major liberties with details of both in order to fit them into the same story, very likely misrepresenting both, as well as ran away wildly with your prompt, but nevertheless, I hope you like it :D
Prompt: steam punk aladdin au with aladdin!brendon and jasmin!spencer.
"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."
- Arthur C Clarke
Once upon a time, there’s a quaint little village on the outskirts of -
Wait. That’s the wrong story. This is a story about political intrigue and magic, the romance of revolutions and the upheavals that make - or break - cities. This is a story about conflict, not between people, but between ideas and concepts.
Or, if you prefer, this is a story about two boys. Maybe more.
*
It is the year 1880, and the times are shifting, unobserved by all but the ones at the forefront of the change. They are not who you think they are - not the nobles, not the kings of the continent, but the little people on the ground, the ones filling up every corner and crevice of the city, in its gutters and shops and tiny apartment houses with gas lamps and the stink of tallow-smoke and the large, antiquated theatre halls and the brothels, all jammed up against each other in a press of culture and convenience.
The ones who make the city, in short. They notice the disappearance of the alchemists, the fortune teller on the streets, perpetually ready to tell a falsely knowing statement for a coin or two, the madcap charlatans with their dire forecasts of impending doom, the closing of one medicinal potionery after another, the owners -curious figures in capes and the odd feather on a cap, the tight, stinging smell of some rare herb or another wafting behind them - hurrying haphazardly out the doors, furiously muttering.
They don’t really understand, though. They just watch the old ones leave, those who speak of alchemy and sacred geometry and the esoteric arts in hushed, respective tones, and watch the new ones come in, the merchants with their predatory eyes and keen appetite for opportunity. They’re a new breed, these days, the ones that throng into the cities with their precariously stacked carts of strange new inventions, bronze-steel machines with teeth that snap and parts that clank.
After they move in, the cities change, almost imperceptibly. New-fangled creations appear on the streets every day, and soon there are brass-bound clocks that ring when a time is set, new lamp casings that keep out the smoke, burnished type-writers, steam-warmed door knobs appearing like blooming flowers on the stalls lining the streets, and the people took notice.
This is finally a development that involves the masses, to the expense of the aristocracy. When rumours spread of how a duke steeped in debt sold his town properties to two up-and-coming young merchants, those new ones specializing in the metal products, the people tittered over the irony, the reversal of roles and fortunes. It’s finally time, they say. They welcome the newcomers, the ones they call the Industrialists, with open arms.
*
Their kingdom stretches over a significant bit of what used to be part of England before the Queen offered it to the Smiths for “services rendered” a century back, meaning war efforts, of course. Spencer Smith is the end of the long line of Smiths, formerly aristocracy, elevated to royalty by the grace of the Queen. Their families have been, from the oldest days, built and flourished on a strong base of archaic magic and enchantments; most aristocracy are, after all, and the prestigious lineage shows in the strange symbols carved around the base of the palace, rising atop a hill like a jewel of the crown.
The Smiths have always been a powerful family, wielding a significant amount of influence over the royal family and the ton in London, and since the installation of James Smith the Fourth as the king of the New Territories, over the generations, various instances of intermarriage with other members of the aristocracy from other cities have increased the potency of the royal bloodline, which made subsequent marriages all the more important and valuable, and the prospects of marriage for each offspring brighter, more ambitious and also more urgent. For Spencer James Smith the fifth, the underlying circumstances are no different, but his situation is exacerbated by the threat of the new changes sweeping through the land.
Reports have been spilling in from the edges of the city and more importantly, from London itself, about the new developments being driven by the discovery of coal mines in the outskirts of England, and her colonies in South East Asia and Africa. Several very powerful men high up in the government have began heralding a new age, an age of invention and innovation like no other, framed by steel giants and bronze machinery, all whirring round the clock to create wealth for the population. Whispers from the ground speak of a new Industrial Age, one that would overthrow the ruling classes with its dependence on magic as a bourgeois right.
*
The royal court’s been flooded with messages of the upheavals in the cities; messengers report to the king in droves about the eviction of yet another magic-worker, the bankruptcy of yet another member of the ton, the purchase of yet another building for conversion into what the smiling businessmen, the enterprising merchants called factories. The king’s brows furrow with the appearance of each messenger; the court advisors exchange worried looks.
Stump steps forward. “Sire,” he says, cautiously, concern clear in his voice. “The developing situation must be closely monitored. The Industrialists are gaining too secure a position in the city, and if they should think to replace magic entirely with their inventions, our position -“ Stump trails off, faltering under the king’s displeased glare. Regardless, everyone in the room knows what Stump means to say.
“We need not concern ourselves with the trifling thoughts of a few men across the country who think to play at being scientists and inventors,” the king says, dismissive.
“They are more than a few men, sire, and rapidly gaining in favor.”
“The Queen will lend us her protection,” the king declares.
“Even the Queen cannot hold off the Industrialists’ advances forever. She’s under great pressure from government officials who don’t want England to fall behind France and the New World in terms of industrial developments.” Stump pauses. “And there have always been undercurrents of displeasure at the perceived seceding of our kingdom. They want a reunited, Industrial England.”
The king’s mouth tightens. “Foolish ambitions. It was hardly secession when Queen Elizabeth offered our ancestors this tract of property; they know my rule is legitimate.”
“That may be so, sire, but things can change in a blink of a ill-timed revolution.” Stump is deferential enough, but his words are steady. The king does not reply for a moment, deep in thought.
“Father,” Spencer speaks up. It’s the first time he has ever done so since he reached his age of majority a month ago and was allowed to attend court session, and both the king and Stump turn their attentions to him in a surprised turn of head, as though they forgot he was there for a moment. “If I may make a suggestion?”
“Oh?“ The king raises an eyebrow. “What do you make of this, Spencer?”
“I see only one way out of this,” Spencer replies honestly. It takes a certain amount of courage for Spencer to say the next few words, but he isn’t a prince for nothing, and he’s never let apprehension stop him before.
Act like a prince, and people will treat you like one, his father said. Spencer squares his shoulders and announces, “We need to form an alliance with the Industrialists.”
It takes barely a second for Stump to recoil sharply. “What are you saying, Spencer?”
“It would be a preemptory move, a first strike. They have the knowledge and the influence of their technology, but they lack the legitimacy and the establishment of the court, which we can provide.” Spencer elaborates, speaking fast. His hands have clenched unknowingly; he is certain this is the right move, and just as convinced that they don‘t have more time to decide. “By approaching them first, we bring them in under our terms.”
The king is silent, and Spencer continues. “We go to them now, we dictate the conditions. Any later, and we no longer have the upper hand.” Spencer pauses.
“It’s our only alternative.”
Stump exhales noisily, disapprovingly. “Surely I need not point out, sire, this is a dangerous move - if it should -“
The king wavers, his expression considering. Spencer decides to push. “At this stage, we need to take risks to advance.”
The king studies Spencer carefully, and Spencer tries to convey his resolution in the firmness of his stance, the set of his face. It’s an uncertain moment, dragged out, and Spencer feels tension wind up his body, curling tight in his shoulders and straining behind his eyes.
When the king finally announces, “I agree with Spencer,” the ensuing relief sweeping over Spencer leaves him a little lightheaded. “Do you have a plan in mind?” the king directs the question at Spencer, the implicit instruction for him to take charge of this project clear enough.
“I will begin arrangements for a ball to be held, and invitations will be extended to the leading Industrialists from all over England, and we will evaluate their suitability for this position.”
The king looks satisfied. “That’s very well, then.”
*
“A moment, Spencer,” the king asks, just before Spencer leaves.
Spencer stops. “Father?”
The king surveys him, and Spencer’s abruptly reminded of his twelfth birthday when he tried to convince his father he was old enough to have his very own horse. His father looked at him assessingly then, like it was another test Spencer has to pass even though he didn’t even know what was being tested, and this time, like then, Spencer can only stand as straight as he can and meet his father’s gaze fully, hoping whatever his father sees doesn‘t disappoint him.
“You‘ve thought about this,” the king says, oddly pleased. He lean idly back, a hand on the gilded arm; the throne is a royal heirloom, rumored to have been a gift from the very Queen who coroneted the very first Smith, and over the generations imbued with all sorts of protection and fortune charms, lending it a faint, antique glimmer. It looks regal and important, and it’s always lingered on the edge of Spencer’s consciousness that that’ll be his seat someday.
When that day comes, Spencer often promises, he will be as good as a king as his father.
Maybe even better. Spencer nods, a new kind of resolve entering his eyes.
The king looks satisfied. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you finally rise up to your responsibilities.”
“It’s what you trained me for.”
“Just bear in mind the legacy of this court,” the king says gravely. “And your duty to it, whatever the personal cost. A prince’s duty is first and foremost to his kingdom.”
Spencer nods. “Of course.”
“Very good, very good,” he says, dismissing Spencer. He gets up as well and begins walking to the exit; the king has a habit of enjoying a light meal after court session instead of breakfast before, and if court session went exceedingly well, he normally ate heartily.
*
Brendon bid goodbye to his family at the tender age of seventeen to travel to London and try his luck at making a fortune, like many other starry-eyed callow youths, but somehow he stops in the New Territories, running into a spot of trouble, and never managed to make his way out. He’s been here for a few years already, surviving on barely-sustained dreams of London and the occasional letter from his family.
He remembers pointing to a wildly spinning top floating carelessly in the air in an uppity shop tucked in a corner of the priciest street in London once, the only time he’s been there, on holiday with his parents before they lost their fortune, and his father shook his head at him. “That’s magic,” he said, solemnly, and Brendon looked, wide-eyed, at the rotating colours like a crazily spinning rainbow. He asked, “What’s that?” and his father explained, “It’s for kings and princes, Brendon”; Brendon dropped his eyes then - he knew, even back when he was a child, that he’s neither of them - but his disappointment fled completely when his father reproduced the effect entirely using just two dirty pieces of black metal he called “magnets”.
“Is that magic?” Brendon asked, innocently, and his father laughed, ruffling his head. “No, Brendon - that’s called magnetism. Magic of the people.” and Brendon decides there and then that he’s going to be a scientist, even though the names sound more technical and less enchanting.
He didn’t know what it was called then, but it didn’t matter.
*
Ryan’s waiting for Spencer when he returns from court.
“Will you get off the bed?” Spencer hisses when he enters only to see Ryan flopped atop his quilt. He peers behind him furtively before closing and locking his door firmly. “What if someone sees you?”
“I’ll have you know, I was being a perfect, unmoving carpet,” Ryan grumbles, but levitates slightly off Spencer’s bed and zips over to lie at Spencer’s feet like an innocuous rug.
Spencer runs a weary hand through his hair; raising his idea with the king took a lot out of him. Stump obviously thought the idea was a lunatic one, and to be ruthlessly honest, if Spencer isn’t so sure about the way he’s going, he’ll think he’s nuts too, offering to partner with the very people who might herald their downfall.
Talking to Ryan - who’s relentlessly stubborn at the best of times and ridiculously bullheaded at the worst - has a way of taking his mind off things, though. Spencer snorts. “Yeah, because carpets are usually found on top of beds.” Even as a carpet, Ryan wouldn’t know normal if it hit him in the face with an unpleasant squelch.
Ryan doesn’t deign to respond, just slaps a corner of the carpet down on the floor. “What happened at the court today?”
Spencer’s deep in thought that it takes him a while to answer. “I convinced the king to consider collaborating with the Industrialists. We’ll hold a ball soon and invite the most famous ones as a kind of scope-out.”
“That’s a good start,” Ryan says, thoughtfully.
“Stump started protesting before my mouth even closed fully,” Spencer says, wryly but there’s no real amusement in his tone.
“You know how he is.” Ryan nudges his knee. “Anyway, this is the best way forward. Don’t second-guess yourself.”
Ryan‘s right. Both of them pored over enough tomes on histories of empires together to know what happens when a monarch finds himself slowly losing relevance under the dawn of a newer age, and he refuses to let his father or their kingdom fall victim to hubris. The rising tide of anticipation for what the radical progressives are terming, the Industrial revolution, grows stronger day by day, and the only way to make sure the royal family doesn’t get swept away by it is to place them atop the furious wave, leading the masses. Ryan’s also right about Spencer tending to doubt his conclusions, but he also knows how to shake off Spencer’s uncertainties before they eat away at him.
It still doesn’t sit well with him, though, this embrace of the new machinery. Magic’s in his blood the way the English bleed blue. “I just don’t believe this -” Spencer gestures to his room, filled with a positive cornucopia of magical artifacts and outlandish objects of fancy “- will one day be reduced to mere baubles.” Or worse still, by swarms of ugly, shiny-looking metal-wrought trinkets.
Ryan’s silent, long enough that it takes on weight, and Spencer sits up, suddenly wary. “Ryan,” he warns.
“Spencer,” Ryan returns. Spencer just waits, before Ryan fluffs himself up and mutters something about him being the magical object here, so Spencer’s inexplicable powers of mind-reading are grotesquely unfair. Spencer doesn’t bother pointing out that he just knows all of Ryan’s tells.
“There is an alternative,” Ryan says, finally. “A magical one.”
Spencer did not expect Ryan to say that.
Ryan continues, voice turning the mix of dreamy and professorial that promised a lengthy lecture ahead on some subject no one besides Ryan find exceptionally interesting, “There’s a legend -“
“Isn’t there always?” Spencer interrupts before Ryan can really get going, because once he does, there’s no stopping him.
Ryan huffs, “You have no proper appreciation for the rich tapestry of history that hangs behind each element of magic.”
Spencer rolls his eye, waving his hand dismissively. “The point, Ryan. Could we skip the ten pages of historical background and move on to the point?” It is not unusual for Ryan’s admonishments to be longer than his original point.
“History has a rumor that an ultimate source of magic exists,” Ryan intones, bored now that he’s deprived of his suspenseful build-up. “And it’s found in this very city, in a cave on the outskirts of the city, right where the line of the city meets the line of the desert.” It comes out like Ryan’s reciting it from memory.
Spencer falls back onto his bed, and stares at his ceiling. “And this ultimate source of magic. What does it do?” he asks, dubiously.
Ryan makes a sound that seems to be the verbal equivalent of an eye-roll. “It’s the ultimate source of magic,” he repeats, like he find it difficult to believe Spencer isn‘t getting such an obvious statement. “It’s like - the alchemists’ equivalent of the philosopher’s stone,” Ryan starts, before he corrects, “Except that’s inaccurate, because the alchemists chase an illusion, since the philosopher’s stone doesn’t exist. Although some scholars do postulate that it’s the physical form of the same kind of magic as the ultimate source, so -“
“Ryan.”
“In small, simple words so you can understand,” Ryan snaps. “There’s this genie. Who will grant any wish.”
“A genie?” Spencer repeats, half to himself. It’s not entirely foreign; there’s an entire school of mythology dedicated to genies, after all, but it falls under the less academically established disciplines, and most of magic mainstream dismisses it as just that, a myth.
Ryan shrugs, before scowling like Spencer’s missing the point. “According to lore, he’ll do it outside the law of equivalent exchange.”
Spencer sits up. “Outside the principle of equivalent exchange? He repeats, just to be sure.
Ryan corrects, “The law of -” but Spencer cuts him off, insisting, “So you can ask for anything you want?” Ryan makes a grudging noise that means, yes in the crudest version of the answer.
“I’m going to look for it,” Spencer declares, sitting up.
“And exactly how do you propose to do that?” Ryan asks, acidly. “You’re the prince, if you’ve forgotten. Your father’s certainly not going to let you traipse all around the place looking for a genie.”
Spencer looks at Ryan. “Oh no,” Ryan says, sliding backwards across the floor. “I am not -“
“It’ll be an adventure,” Spencer says, and is reminded of how Ryan and he used to stay awake through the nights when they were younger, talking about the strange, exotic lands far beyond the reach of the palace, and concocting complicated plans to travel and see them someday. “A treasure hunt, even. An expedition, Ryan.”
“You’re the prince,” Ryan says it like he means, you’re insane.
Then he grew up, and someday became one day became maybe became you’re the prince, Spencer.
“You’ve never let that come between us, before.”
The words drop into the room too fast for Spencer to pick them up and take them back, and the silence after that hits Spencer like a physical blow.
“I -” Ryan says, something uncertain and hurt in his voice that has Spencer immediately opening his mouth to apologize, but there‘s a knock at the door suddenly, and Ryan goes still mid-sentence.
Spencer frowns. “Enter.”
Tom pokes his head in. The tension that crept into his shoulders during the last moments intensifies when Spencer sees the worried look on Tom’s face.
“My lord,” Tom says. “The king requests your presence in the court immediately.”
It’s barely an hour after their daily court session; as far as Spencer remembers, there’s no royal dignitary visit scheduled any time soon, and so this is greatly unorthodox. Spencer follows Tom out of his room, anxiety pressing at the back of his mind.
He doesn’t look back at Ryan. That must wait.
*
There’s a man standing in front of the king when Spencer arrives, slightly out of breath from hurrying over. The man is standing loose, arms casually at his sides, completely at ease, while Stump stands a distance away, closer to the king, tension evident along the lines of his back, and Spencer feels a faint rise of worry. The king rarely grants personal appearances, and one in the middle of the day with no prior appointment or a member of the aristocracy as accompaniment to vouch for his integrity is highly unusual.
“There you are, Spencer,” the king says when he sees him, perfectly composed, but Spencer hears the underlying strain in his father’s voice.
“Father,” Spencer says, a question in his tone.
The king sends Spencer a brief but speaking look. “This is Pete Wentz, the leading Industrialist from London.” London, the heart of the Industrial stirrings.
There’s a jolt of awareness. Wentz is well-known among the Industrialists, and many messenger repots have carried his name at the top. Spencer turns to Wentz and nods, formally. “It’s an honour to meet you, Mr. Wentz,” he says, hoping none of his uneasiness show.
Wentz grins wolfishly, and then steps forward, quickly and unexpected enough that Spencer doesn’t move back in time to avoid Wentz reaching for his hand. “Mr. Wentz -” Spencer begins, startled, but Wentz just takes it, and gives it a firm shake with his own.
“This is how we greet each other in London,” Wentz says, like that excuses his eccentricities. “I prefer to think of myself as a businessman, none of this Industrialist nonsense,” he adds lightly, as though he isn’t contradicting the words of the king himself.
People have been executed for less, but then the times are changing. The king doesn’t comment, which speaks volumes about Wentz’s clout. Spencer feels his unease grow. Extricating his hand from Wentz’s grip, he asks, politely, “What brings you here to our court, Mr. Went?”
Wentz’s smile grows larger. “What brings an aspiring man to any place? Opportunity.”
“It seems Mr. Wentz here has heard of the ball we are planning to organize a week hence. He’s here regarding that very possibility of an alliance between the Industrialists and our court,” Stump says tightly.
Wentz spread his arms out. “As I said, opportunity.” The look he gives Spencer is positively lascivious, and dull colour suffuses Spencer‘s face. “And the chance to win the heart of a fair prince, of course,” he adds, in a low voice.
“You overreach your position, I’m afraid,” he replies, coldly, taking a step back.
“I think not, my prince,” Wentz says, eyes sharp. “You may have your title, but not much else. And soon even that will not count for much in the new England.”
It’s as boldfaced a statement as anyone can make, and Spencer’s stunned speechless at the audacity of this man; Stump looks equally flabbergasted.
“How dare you -” he begins, outraged, but Wentz turns his back on Spencer to address the king. “You must understand, my king, I mean no disrespect.” Sincerity rings improbably clear in his quiet words.
Wentz takes a step forward. “You are surely aware of the magnitude of the changes, the reforms, even, sweeping through England,” Wentz says; he isn’t smiling now. “Your messengers must have brought you news of the way the winds of change are blowing. Your court has stood for generations past, but it grows weak with every passing day you remain sealed like a fortress against the developments building in the cities, and it will not stand for generations hence if you do not take measures to safeguard your position.”
Wentz waits for the words to sink in before he says, “Merely a sampling of what I offer to the court, should be choose to ally,” Wentz says, and claps twice, loudly.
A man enters the room at the sound, and Spencer squints at him, wondering what lunacy Wentz is exhibiting now. “This is Jon,” Wentz says. “Jon, this is the king and his son, Prince Spencer.”
“My greetings, my king, my lord,” Jon says. Spencer stares closely at him, frowning; there’s something about Jon that seems off.
“Who -” Spencer begins.
“What I offer,” Wentz repeats. “This is my prototypical robot.” At their puzzled looks, Wentz explains, “Artificial intelligence. It’s made of iron and wielded together with copper. It’s covered with a specially painted canvas to mimic skin.”
The king leans forward, intrigued. “You’re saying Jon isn’t a real person?” Both Spencer and Stump eye Jon warily; they’ve only heard about such inventions, but all the reports have spoke eloquently of the consistent failure of such devices’ functions. Yet here a perfectly working robot stands right in front of them, clear as day.
“No, my king, he isn’t,” Wentz replies. The king stares for another moment, before he releases a bark of laughter that has Spencer and Stump turning their eyes at him in startlement.
“Yet he bears a remarkable resemblance to a human person,” the king says, half to himself. “That is very interesting, Mr. Wentz,” the king declares. “I must say, I’m very impressed.”
Wentz dips his head in acknowledgement of the praise. “This is the first of its kind; you must have heard, few other inventors have achieved this capability, and most can only hope to dream of it,” Wentz says, without a trace of conceit. “I do not need to ask if you grasp the implications of technology such as this.”
He claps again, and Jon nods at all of them, before turning to leave. His gait is steady, with only the faintest stiffness only noticeable if Spencer knew to look for it. “Jon is a goodwill present of sorts.” He turns to Spencer, who stiffens a little. “I present him as a gift to Prince Spencer.”
Leaning in close enough, he adds, softly, “Think of him as a courtship gift.” Spencer tenses, and is ready to call Wentz on his impertinence when he turns back to the king, and spreads his arms confidently.
“What I propose is a merger of sorts.”
The king’s stopped laughing, but he’s clearly taken a shine to this Wentz character. There’s a moment of silence as the offer hangs in the air before -
“Stump,” the king says. “Make the appropriate arrangements for Wentz’s accommodations. Mr. Wentz, thank you for your visit today. We shall discuss this further at the ball.”
Stump nods tersely and beckons Wentz. Spencer takes cold comfort in the fact that at least both of them have a common enemy now and watches as Wentz accepts the dismissal and sketches an oddly mocking bow before following Stump out the court.
*
Spencer’s fuming every step of the way back to his room. The nerve of that - that merchant to threaten their court, and the worst of it, of course, is the fact that everything he said was perfectly true.
Spencer flings open the door to his room angrily, readying himself to launch into a tirade about the insufferable nerve of Wentz to Ryan before he remembers their not-quite fight earlier. He stresses long enough about what he’s going to say to Ryan that he doesn’t realize the room’s quiet in the way it is when no one’s in it.
“Ryan,” he calls, just to make sure. He’s feeling panic rise like bile in his throat at the thought that Ryan might have left because of what he said, and Spencer takes a few blind steps into the room, breathing growing faster. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Ryan left, how he’ll even find him, but he will, he doesn’t care what he has to do, he promises -
Then he sees the open window, and the broken vial on the floor right in front of it, like someone brought it over from the shelf deliberately to drop it on the floor right before that person - or more accurately, that carpet - flew out the window, an apology and an up yours at once, and Ryan’s the only person he knows to be able to combine two such diametrically opposite sentiments in one eloquent gesture.
Spencer takes a deep breath, relief and indignation flooding him in equal amounts, leaving him quite light-headed.
Oh, he’ll find Ryan, alright. There’s no way he’s letting him have all the fun.
*
Stump decides he mistrusts Wentz on first sight. He’s dressed queerly, and has the most improper manners, and seems to think that leering at the prince is a kind of compliment. He’s also slyly intelligent, and quick, and after a few rambling, nonsensical statements about the romance of revolution and the scene versus an arms race, he quickly dropped his deranged persona and fixed the king with serious eyes.
The king may be convinced of his brilliance but Stump’s less than impressed with his credentials, and he foresees nothing but trouble once he’s settled in the palace. Of course, the fact that Wentz winked imprudently at him just before he left might have contributed to his antipathy towards him.
Stump strides towards Wentz’s room; he needs to establish boundaries, and establish them fast.
*
Brendon’s seen enough of the city’s underbelly to know that the city’s not as glorious as it looks, from the palace, all prosperous and lively, but then few things ever are. He’s also lived in the city long enough to see that even in the cracks and fault lines of the city’s spit-slicked veneer, there is the occasional bloom, a startling burst of colour that’s entirely incongruous to the brick-and-brass surroundings.
All the city’s inhabitants need, Brendon thinks, sometimes, is a boost. That’s all, really, and from what Brendon hears, the rumours flying rampant around the city about the dawn of a new age promise a bright new future for all of them. The rich, perhaps, as the grumbled mumblings of the workers are a testament to, but so will the city’s poorest, the workers, and even, Brendon hopes, even people like him.
Someday, Brendon thinks, looking at the sky. A single chimney stands out in the foreground, stark against the sky like a portent of change. That’s where England is moving, and Brendon’s brought up on a steady diet of inventions and scientific curiosity. His parents hoped once that he would make a prestigious career as an inventor, but that hasn’t been on the cards for a long time, ever since it became obvious that he lacked the connections or financial backing for such.
Still, Brendon holds on to that dream of a better England, smoke curling rapidly from the chimneys of all the households, the morning broken by the bright sounds of steam clocks trilling the time excitedly; he sleeps dreaming of London, the mecca of aspiring Industrialists all over England.
*
Spencer tugs on the length of cloth tied to the balcony railing, staring down at the ground. It looks disturbingly far down, even though it’s only two floors.
The ground always looks a lot further down from above, though, Spencer thinks. This is another thing he’s going to kill Ryan for; if he were here, Spencer wouldn’t need to do this the hard way. He takes a fortifying breath, and then sighs before hoisting himself up onto the railing. He lets himself down slowly, relatively secure in the knowledge that the small flagon of sticky grip he found on his shelves will prevent him from losing his balance and falling.
He’s still shaking uncontrollably when he hits the ground though. Straightening, Spencer flexes hi shoulder before thanking the Chinese for their silk, sturdy as magic.
*
Ryan may not look like much; honestly, in a line-up of magical artifacts, it would be unlikely that he would be someone’s first choice. Or second. But, as he’s fond of constantly reminding Spencer, nevertheless he’s still magic, which means he wins any argument by default.
It also means he knows useful details like where the Cave of Wonders is and where to find the key.
Most people don’t know there’s even a key. It’s fairly classified information.
*
Possibly entirely by coincidence, Brendon returns home one day to find a rug on his floor. That wouldn’t be unusual in and of itself, since rugs are meant for floors (or conceivably the other way around: that floors were invented so rugs could lie on them, as Brendon sometimes privately suspected), but it is, considering Brendon hasn’t bought a rug since the last one inexplicably became a flea colony.
It’s exquisitely woven, royal purple, gold stitching creeping all around the edge of the cloth like a gilded ant track, a motif of black squares lending the impression of contemporary design, but the entire fabric feels centuries of years old, which doesn’t make sense since it looks very nearly brand new, vivid against the simple grey of his apartment.
It bears saying that in a world with magic, coincidence is just another euphemism. Brendon doesn’t know this, of course; looking at it, the rug evokes a strange sort of feeling in him but he’s really quite worn out by the day’s efforts and besides, struggling to make a living and save enough money to escape to London at the same time tend to occupy one’s energies, so Brendon just shrugs at the rug.
Presumably if the owner could get it into his apartment, he can retrieve it himself. Brendon wouldn’t even charge rent.
*
Tom likes his job, he does. It’s secure, and covers food and lodgings, and Spencer makes sure his family is taken care of. IT’s comfortable enough that Tom’s leant to the omnipresent oddities. He’s gotten used to enough that he even took walking in on Spencer conversing with a carpet one day in stride.
Spencer looked a little surprised, but he gestures at the carpet and introduces matter-of-factly, “Oh, Tom, meet Ryan.” Tom nodded awkwardly at it and the carpet presumably waves back - just a tiny lift of a corner, but it’s unmistakable. His aunt warned darkly of strange happenings in the palace before he came, but he doesn’t see any real harm in them, besides Spencer’s occasional oddities and the royal family’s predilection for getting into trouble with magic. Seeing spoons or forks dance on tables during meals is not an uncommon occurrence, but Tom finds that it breaks the monotony of palace servitude.
Therefore, when Tom enters Spencer’s room to find both Spencer and Ryan gone, and an empty potion vial piecing itself back slowly before tipping over on its side and rolling out of sight under the bed, he doesn‘t even blink.
There’s a note on Spencer’s back, just a will be back, S scribbled on it, and Tom groans mentally, because covering for Spencer will be tiring, and this just promised potential trouble, particularly if both Spencer and Ryan are out about the city frolicking.
“Is Spencer gone?”
Tom jumps. A man he’s never seen before is standing stiffly next to the door.
“Who are you? You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I’m a present for Spencer,” the man says, eyes dipping briefly. Tom frowns, wondering if the stranger meant have instead of am, before the meaning hits him, and Tom flushes slightly.
Looking closer, Tom supposes he sees the suitability of Jon for that. His face is smooth, well-proportioned, full lips and bright eyes, and his body looks lean enough under the odd clothes, and Tom’s face heats a little, even though he tells himself he’s just observing. He has no place with someone specifically brought for Spencer, anyway.
“Well,” he flounders. “In that case -”
“Jon,” the man says. “I’m called Jon.”
“Right, Jon.” Tom finds the way he seems to speak of himself as an object odd, but decides that it isn’t his problem. “You just stay here, then -”
“Am I - will my presence be interrupting anything?” Jon asks, phrasing worked carefully, and Tom has to think for a moment what Jon is saying, before his eyes widen, and he takes a literal step back, shaking his head emphatically.
“No, you can’t possibly think Spencer and I, of all people,” Tom splutters. That’s ridiculous. Spencer’s the prince, and he’s just a manservant, and - “God, no, no. You don’t have to worry about me at all.” He attempts a reassuring smile, because he can sympathize with someone brought all the way from god knows where for someone he doesn’t even know. Spencer could be a sixty and bedridden, for all he knows. Spencer could be a jerk. Spencer could be married. “I work for Spencer,” Tom clarifies.
It’s excellent for Jon, then, that Spencer’s none of these things. “Well, you just. Stay here, then. Spencer will be back - soon,” Tom says, and just stands there uselessly for a moment.
Jon looks at him. “Thank you. What do I call you?”
“Tom, I’m Tom,” Tom says, before dropping his eyes and backing away, because Jon’s gaze is intense. “I need to -” and he leaves.
*
In retrospect, Brendon thinks he should have expected this. No one would discard a perfectly functional carpet for no reason, so he should have suspected something the moment he saw it lying innocuously on the floor in his apartment.
“So, is this what you generally do with your life?” The carpet says conversationally one night.
Brendon leaps five feet into the air this time and whirls around to stare instinctively at the carpet, and then laughs a little at himself, because it can’t possibly be -
“You’re a talking carpet!” he blurts, eyes wide as saucers when Ryan flies up to float in the air in front of Brendon.
“Really,” Ryan drawls. “I never knew that.”
“You - but - carpet!” Brendon splutters.
“Yes, you’ve already made that point. You’re getting repetitive.”
This hasn’t been in any of Brendon’s plans for the future. He’s dreamt of saving enough money for a ticket to London, maybe sooner than he thinks if the steam engine manages to be approved for public use, and then traveling to London to apply for an apprenticeship under a scientist or an inventor, possibly even work under for the Royal Society, even as a secretary or a typist, just to be able to contribute to the revolution. He holds out hope still that he might even meet a sweet, friendly assistant somewhere, and settle down.
“Huh,” Ryan sniffs. “That sounds pretty boring to me.”
“Are you - did you read my mind?” His hands come up to cover his head as though that would help.
“No, you moron. You were babbling aloud.” The carpet moves a little, edges curling in a way that evidently dripped derision, although Brendon has no idea how carpets conveyed information. “I was wrong - you’re even more normal than I thought.” Ryan says that like he finds it personally offensive.
“You can move, too?” Brendon’s never going to get used to the casual ease of magic, assuming Ryan is magic, and not some incredibly advanced contraption running on electromagnetism. Brendon remembers seeing flyers in the marketplace for a lecture on that a month ago; he flashbacked on his father’s trick with the magnets then, but of course, there is an admission fee and Brendon didn’t think it worth three months’ wages. “Wait, you’re - magic?”
“Of course I’m magic,” Ryan snaps. The carpet rolled and unrolled with a literal snap of irritation. “God, are we ever going to be done with the ridiculous questions?”
“You could be a normal carpet suspended in a magnetic field or something,” Brendon points out, stung. “And the voice could be, I don’t know, someone outside the door playing a trick on me.”
“I am not a - a mechanical contraption,” Ryan exclaims. He turns away, horrified. “Oh my god, this is never going to work.” He jerks away and flies around the room once in a frantic circle.
Brendon tries following the movement with his eyes but soon becomes a little dizzy. “Hey, uh, carpet?” he calls. “Could you stop that before my eyes cross?”
“Ryan,” the carpet skids to a sudden stop right in front of Brendon, who jumps back.
“No,” Brendon says slowly. “My name is Brendon.”
The carpet rustles impatiently. “I know, I mean, my name is Ryan. Stop calling me carpet,” Ryan says sternly. Spencer did that all the time when he was a kid, and it gave Ryan an identity crisis for five months.
Brendon nods in a way that means he doesn’t really understand, but isn’t going to argue. “Ryan,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
Most people who know Ryan - that is, Spencer - know never to ask him an unqualified open question. Ryan launches into a complicated story about the beginning of the world and the ultimate source of magic which expanded and contracted until it exploded and now about four million years later the king is in jeopardy with the New Territories being at stake (Brendon can’t tell if the latter point is directly related to the former, but then he’s also stopped listening and has regressed to merely nodding at Ryan at strategic points) and there’s a genie and a cave of wonders and also a rough diamond.
Brendon blinks. “A rough diamond?”
“- and ergo, it becomes apparent that -”Ryan stops mid-sentence; the sentence has lasted multiple paragraphs. “You aren’t getting any of this, are you?” he says dangerously.
At Brendon’s shrug, Ryan subsides into a sort of petulant silence and refuses to explain anything anymore, a fact for which Brendon is mildly grateful.
On hindsight, Brendon really couldn’t have seen this coming.
*
Tom’s halfway into Spencer’s room again to drop off the pile of laundry when he sees Jon in the room, standing against the window this time.
“Oh, hey,” he says, friendly enough, before he remembers he’s talking to Spencer’s lover.
“Hi, Tom,” Jon says in a way that makes Tom shiver. Tom’s busy, he has a million errands to run before dinner, and he has no business lingering in Spencer’s room to converse with his lover, anyway, but he stops, asks, “Are you okay? Do you need anything - I can get it for you.”
Jon takes a while to process the question. “No, nothing is needed.”
“Just -” Tom tries hard to think of something to say to Jon. “Spencer might not be back for a while, so it’s just going to be you in the room.”
“That is acceptable,” Jon says.
“Good, that’s good,” Tom replies. “If you need anything - I mean, I’m supposed to look after Spencer, so I expect that extends to you too, so just get one of the servants to look for me if you need anything at all.”
Jon nods, slowly. “Thank you.” He keeps looking at Tom, though, and Tom feels heat creep up the back of his neck. He rubs there, awkwardly.
“Right, well,” Tom says. “I’ll leave you to it now.” He feels Tom’s eyes on his back keenly as he turns.
*
Walking about under the wide, black sky in the dead of the night while the city sleeps, streetlamps flickering restlessly is a wonderful experience, Spencer thinks, and it’s definitely not to be missed princes who run away from their homes should see. He revels in this unprecedented feeling of freedom for glorious moments, breathing in the smell of fresh air (which, to be honest, is a little more rank and fishy than he expects) and the way the wind sweeps around him, and then swears to never return to the palace.
An hour later, Spencer’s more than a little tired, having never walked around for so long before, and the wind is starting to pick up, sending dust and the occasional leaf at him, and he still doesn’t want to return to the palace, but he would like to maybe go someplace that has shelter and a fire.
Also, Spencer realizes belatedly he has no idea how he’s going to find Ryan. His stomach chooses this moment to growl, and he thinks that he wouldn’t say no to some food either, maybe a slice of apricot pie or a glass of fresh milk. That should be easy enough, he decides; he’s in one of the richest cities in England, after all, thanks to his father’s governance.
Spencer stops at the first house he sees, and knocks politely on the front door. He waits for the appropriate amount of time it should take for the butler to answer the door, and then remembers that it’s the middle of the night, and the occupants are undoubtedly sleeping, as they should be.
He feels a little pang of regret at having to wake them up, and then knocks harder, more impatiently.
A light is thrown up in the upper windows of the house, and Spencer waits, eagerly, listening to the heavy footsteps thud down the stairs.
The door opens, and a sleepy-looking man in night clothes yawns, “Where’s the fire?”
“There is no fire, sir,” Spencer says, a little stiffly. “I would very much appreciate if you could provide me lodgings for a night.”
The man stares at him incredulously. “You will be duly compensated for your trouble,” Spencer begins, and then is stopped short when the man snorts, and slams the door in his face.
Well. Spencer stares at the ugly lion’s head knocker on the door for a moment, stunned. That’s - that’s certainly the first time someone’s rejected him, much less slammed a door into his face, and if Spencer doesn’t suddenly feel a wave of nausea rise, his usual, confident self would have marched straight back to the palace and demanded that the man be arrested for insulting the Prince.
But this is different. Out there in the city, without his robes and crown and servants, he’s no prince, just Spencer. It comes as a shock, this abrupt delineation of his identities, the revelation that his status could make so big a difference.
The next five houses Spencer tries returns pretty much the same reply, and when the person who answers the door at the sixth house looks him up and down, and says, leeringly, that there wasn’t a spare bed available, but he could definitely share his, if Spencer knew what he meant, Spencer flinches, but fights down the humiliation and rejects the offer, as politely as he can, because the man looked twice his size.
The stars are especially bright and mocking when Spencer leans his head back and stares up into the sky, and Spencer’s not homesick for the castle, exactly. He’s just. Homesick. Discouraged, he sits down right in the middle of the streets, doing his best not to think about the amount or nature of refuse on it.
*
Strange sounds come from the streets at night, scuffles and duels and robberies not uncommon, and Brendon’s usually tired enough that he sleeps soundly through the night, but today’s no ordinary day, and Brendon’s thinking about seeing a magical object for the very first time in his life. It feels larger than life, too extraordinary to be true; in his head, he hears his father telling him, magic is for kings and princes, son. This explains why he hears the commotion out in the streets, just a block away, by the sound of it. This entire adventure sounds like the stuff of his childhood fantasies, but by now he’s sensible enough not to fall for the smoke and mirrors of magic anymore, preferring the concrete dependability of wielded steel and the heavy precision of cogs.
There’s still that bit of silly yearning in him for the enchantment of magic, though, the same way he habitually checks coach prices to London whenever he passes the station even though they have not fallen since the first time he looked. There’s always hope, though; rumors about the new steam engine that could half travel times - and costs - between the New Territories and London have begun for months now, and Brendon’s holding out that last vestige of hope for that.
It’s this same wistful flight of fancy that sends Brendon out in the middle of the night, trying to catch a glimpse of the stars as a cure of sleeplessness. Seeing them always bring him comfort from the distant certainty of their constant presence.
When he hears a noise farther up the streets, though, it’s plain curiosity to take a look.
*
“Um,” Brendon starts. “Are you - are you alright?” he says, dubiously, from a few feet away. He’s never seen a person who’ll lie willingly on the dirty streets, except for the dead and dying, and certainly, people don’t normally loiter about on the streets at night. The man seems content enough to just lie there, though, staring at the sky, and Brendon’s torn between the urge to just leave him alone, and the insistent voice that points out he could be mortally injured.
A quick question ascertains that, no, the man definitely isn’t seriously injured, because he sits up and turns in the sound of Brendon’s voice with a glare.
Brendon takes a quick step back, just in case. He raises his hands in supplication, and then calls out, “Well, if you’re alright -”
“Wait,” the man says. The command in the man’s voice stops Brendon instinctively.
Then the man stands up, dusting off his clothes as carefully as if he is wearing expensive robes instead of what looks like second-hand rags, and Brendon stills even further, breath catching, because he’s never seen a man quite like the one standing in front of him now, an aura of authority about him like the soft hue of the moon.
Spencer glares irritably at the man who’s staring at him imprudently, gaping slightly. He knows he’s a little scruffy but surely there’s no reason for Brendon to be so judgmental.
“I need residence for the night,” Spencer says, resisting the urge to fold his arms defensively at the man‘s continuous gaze.
“Okay,” the man says, a little slowly.
“Could I share yours, if you don’t mind? I’m willing to make the appropriate compensation, of course,” Spencer says, trying his hardest to quell his impatience; he’s learnt from past experiences.
It takes Brendon a while to answer because he’s too busy gaping over the fact that this strange guy he found lying in the middle of the street at night just propositioned him.
“I’m sorry?” he says uncertainly, just in case he misheard. The guy’s easy enough on the eyes on the eyes that Brendon doesn’t think he’ll have trouble finding a bed partner for the night, but Brendon’s not stupid enough to turn down an offer like this, even though his conscience prickles.
Spencer repeats slowly,” May I trouble you for lodgings for a night?” He walks closer just in case the person’s slightly deaf.
Spencer is really ridiculously attractive, and Brendon’s been alone long enough in the city to crave the illusion of companionship, at least for a night, and so he nods, heart beating faster than normal and turns to lead Spencer back to his house.
[Part Two]
Author: allegedlykyle
Title: indistinguishable from magic
Pairing: Brendon/Spencer, Pete/Patrick, Tom/Jon (pre-Gerard/Frank)
Rating: R
Word Count: ~26k
Warnings/Disclaimer: Um. Clichés abound? This is a fairytale!AU, after all. Not real. Also unbetaed; apologies for any mistakes!
Summary: I’m pretty sure all of you know what Aladdin is about. A prince(ss) who’s being married off to an evil court advisor meets and falls in love with a street rat - well, that’s the premise, anyway. Features Spencer as the prince, Brendon as the boy he meets, Ryan as the mouthy magic carpet, Pete as the not-quite-evil antagonist, Patrick as the long-sufferingly court advisor, Tom as Spencer’s manservant and Jon as a robot. No, seriously, a robot. Also features bonus!Gerard as the genie.
Note to recipient!: This prompt bit the head off me when I first read it, and I ran around panicking for days because I had no clue what 1) steam punk was all about and 2) the exact plot details of Aladdin. Now I know the latter better but the former still eludes my complete understanding, and I have taken major liberties with details of both in order to fit them into the same story, very likely misrepresenting both, as well as ran away wildly with your prompt, but nevertheless, I hope you like it :D
Prompt: steam punk aladdin au with aladdin!brendon and jasmin!spencer.
"Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic."
- Arthur C Clarke
Once upon a time, there’s a quaint little village on the outskirts of -
Wait. That’s the wrong story. This is a story about political intrigue and magic, the romance of revolutions and the upheavals that make - or break - cities. This is a story about conflict, not between people, but between ideas and concepts.
Or, if you prefer, this is a story about two boys. Maybe more.
*
It is the year 1880, and the times are shifting, unobserved by all but the ones at the forefront of the change. They are not who you think they are - not the nobles, not the kings of the continent, but the little people on the ground, the ones filling up every corner and crevice of the city, in its gutters and shops and tiny apartment houses with gas lamps and the stink of tallow-smoke and the large, antiquated theatre halls and the brothels, all jammed up against each other in a press of culture and convenience.
The ones who make the city, in short. They notice the disappearance of the alchemists, the fortune teller on the streets, perpetually ready to tell a falsely knowing statement for a coin or two, the madcap charlatans with their dire forecasts of impending doom, the closing of one medicinal potionery after another, the owners -curious figures in capes and the odd feather on a cap, the tight, stinging smell of some rare herb or another wafting behind them - hurrying haphazardly out the doors, furiously muttering.
They don’t really understand, though. They just watch the old ones leave, those who speak of alchemy and sacred geometry and the esoteric arts in hushed, respective tones, and watch the new ones come in, the merchants with their predatory eyes and keen appetite for opportunity. They’re a new breed, these days, the ones that throng into the cities with their precariously stacked carts of strange new inventions, bronze-steel machines with teeth that snap and parts that clank.
After they move in, the cities change, almost imperceptibly. New-fangled creations appear on the streets every day, and soon there are brass-bound clocks that ring when a time is set, new lamp casings that keep out the smoke, burnished type-writers, steam-warmed door knobs appearing like blooming flowers on the stalls lining the streets, and the people took notice.
This is finally a development that involves the masses, to the expense of the aristocracy. When rumours spread of how a duke steeped in debt sold his town properties to two up-and-coming young merchants, those new ones specializing in the metal products, the people tittered over the irony, the reversal of roles and fortunes. It’s finally time, they say. They welcome the newcomers, the ones they call the Industrialists, with open arms.
*
Their kingdom stretches over a significant bit of what used to be part of England before the Queen offered it to the Smiths for “services rendered” a century back, meaning war efforts, of course. Spencer Smith is the end of the long line of Smiths, formerly aristocracy, elevated to royalty by the grace of the Queen. Their families have been, from the oldest days, built and flourished on a strong base of archaic magic and enchantments; most aristocracy are, after all, and the prestigious lineage shows in the strange symbols carved around the base of the palace, rising atop a hill like a jewel of the crown.
The Smiths have always been a powerful family, wielding a significant amount of influence over the royal family and the ton in London, and since the installation of James Smith the Fourth as the king of the New Territories, over the generations, various instances of intermarriage with other members of the aristocracy from other cities have increased the potency of the royal bloodline, which made subsequent marriages all the more important and valuable, and the prospects of marriage for each offspring brighter, more ambitious and also more urgent. For Spencer James Smith the fifth, the underlying circumstances are no different, but his situation is exacerbated by the threat of the new changes sweeping through the land.
Reports have been spilling in from the edges of the city and more importantly, from London itself, about the new developments being driven by the discovery of coal mines in the outskirts of England, and her colonies in South East Asia and Africa. Several very powerful men high up in the government have began heralding a new age, an age of invention and innovation like no other, framed by steel giants and bronze machinery, all whirring round the clock to create wealth for the population. Whispers from the ground speak of a new Industrial Age, one that would overthrow the ruling classes with its dependence on magic as a bourgeois right.
*
The royal court’s been flooded with messages of the upheavals in the cities; messengers report to the king in droves about the eviction of yet another magic-worker, the bankruptcy of yet another member of the ton, the purchase of yet another building for conversion into what the smiling businessmen, the enterprising merchants called factories. The king’s brows furrow with the appearance of each messenger; the court advisors exchange worried looks.
Stump steps forward. “Sire,” he says, cautiously, concern clear in his voice. “The developing situation must be closely monitored. The Industrialists are gaining too secure a position in the city, and if they should think to replace magic entirely with their inventions, our position -“ Stump trails off, faltering under the king’s displeased glare. Regardless, everyone in the room knows what Stump means to say.
“We need not concern ourselves with the trifling thoughts of a few men across the country who think to play at being scientists and inventors,” the king says, dismissive.
“They are more than a few men, sire, and rapidly gaining in favor.”
“The Queen will lend us her protection,” the king declares.
“Even the Queen cannot hold off the Industrialists’ advances forever. She’s under great pressure from government officials who don’t want England to fall behind France and the New World in terms of industrial developments.” Stump pauses. “And there have always been undercurrents of displeasure at the perceived seceding of our kingdom. They want a reunited, Industrial England.”
The king’s mouth tightens. “Foolish ambitions. It was hardly secession when Queen Elizabeth offered our ancestors this tract of property; they know my rule is legitimate.”
“That may be so, sire, but things can change in a blink of a ill-timed revolution.” Stump is deferential enough, but his words are steady. The king does not reply for a moment, deep in thought.
“Father,” Spencer speaks up. It’s the first time he has ever done so since he reached his age of majority a month ago and was allowed to attend court session, and both the king and Stump turn their attentions to him in a surprised turn of head, as though they forgot he was there for a moment. “If I may make a suggestion?”
“Oh?“ The king raises an eyebrow. “What do you make of this, Spencer?”
“I see only one way out of this,” Spencer replies honestly. It takes a certain amount of courage for Spencer to say the next few words, but he isn’t a prince for nothing, and he’s never let apprehension stop him before.
Act like a prince, and people will treat you like one, his father said. Spencer squares his shoulders and announces, “We need to form an alliance with the Industrialists.”
It takes barely a second for Stump to recoil sharply. “What are you saying, Spencer?”
“It would be a preemptory move, a first strike. They have the knowledge and the influence of their technology, but they lack the legitimacy and the establishment of the court, which we can provide.” Spencer elaborates, speaking fast. His hands have clenched unknowingly; he is certain this is the right move, and just as convinced that they don‘t have more time to decide. “By approaching them first, we bring them in under our terms.”
The king is silent, and Spencer continues. “We go to them now, we dictate the conditions. Any later, and we no longer have the upper hand.” Spencer pauses.
“It’s our only alternative.”
Stump exhales noisily, disapprovingly. “Surely I need not point out, sire, this is a dangerous move - if it should -“
The king wavers, his expression considering. Spencer decides to push. “At this stage, we need to take risks to advance.”
The king studies Spencer carefully, and Spencer tries to convey his resolution in the firmness of his stance, the set of his face. It’s an uncertain moment, dragged out, and Spencer feels tension wind up his body, curling tight in his shoulders and straining behind his eyes.
When the king finally announces, “I agree with Spencer,” the ensuing relief sweeping over Spencer leaves him a little lightheaded. “Do you have a plan in mind?” the king directs the question at Spencer, the implicit instruction for him to take charge of this project clear enough.
“I will begin arrangements for a ball to be held, and invitations will be extended to the leading Industrialists from all over England, and we will evaluate their suitability for this position.”
The king looks satisfied. “That’s very well, then.”
*
“A moment, Spencer,” the king asks, just before Spencer leaves.
Spencer stops. “Father?”
The king surveys him, and Spencer’s abruptly reminded of his twelfth birthday when he tried to convince his father he was old enough to have his very own horse. His father looked at him assessingly then, like it was another test Spencer has to pass even though he didn’t even know what was being tested, and this time, like then, Spencer can only stand as straight as he can and meet his father’s gaze fully, hoping whatever his father sees doesn‘t disappoint him.
“You‘ve thought about this,” the king says, oddly pleased. He lean idly back, a hand on the gilded arm; the throne is a royal heirloom, rumored to have been a gift from the very Queen who coroneted the very first Smith, and over the generations imbued with all sorts of protection and fortune charms, lending it a faint, antique glimmer. It looks regal and important, and it’s always lingered on the edge of Spencer’s consciousness that that’ll be his seat someday.
When that day comes, Spencer often promises, he will be as good as a king as his father.
Maybe even better. Spencer nods, a new kind of resolve entering his eyes.
The king looks satisfied. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to have you finally rise up to your responsibilities.”
“It’s what you trained me for.”
“Just bear in mind the legacy of this court,” the king says gravely. “And your duty to it, whatever the personal cost. A prince’s duty is first and foremost to his kingdom.”
Spencer nods. “Of course.”
“Very good, very good,” he says, dismissing Spencer. He gets up as well and begins walking to the exit; the king has a habit of enjoying a light meal after court session instead of breakfast before, and if court session went exceedingly well, he normally ate heartily.
*
Brendon bid goodbye to his family at the tender age of seventeen to travel to London and try his luck at making a fortune, like many other starry-eyed callow youths, but somehow he stops in the New Territories, running into a spot of trouble, and never managed to make his way out. He’s been here for a few years already, surviving on barely-sustained dreams of London and the occasional letter from his family.
He remembers pointing to a wildly spinning top floating carelessly in the air in an uppity shop tucked in a corner of the priciest street in London once, the only time he’s been there, on holiday with his parents before they lost their fortune, and his father shook his head at him. “That’s magic,” he said, solemnly, and Brendon looked, wide-eyed, at the rotating colours like a crazily spinning rainbow. He asked, “What’s that?” and his father explained, “It’s for kings and princes, Brendon”; Brendon dropped his eyes then - he knew, even back when he was a child, that he’s neither of them - but his disappointment fled completely when his father reproduced the effect entirely using just two dirty pieces of black metal he called “magnets”.
“Is that magic?” Brendon asked, innocently, and his father laughed, ruffling his head. “No, Brendon - that’s called magnetism. Magic of the people.” and Brendon decides there and then that he’s going to be a scientist, even though the names sound more technical and less enchanting.
He didn’t know what it was called then, but it didn’t matter.
*
Ryan’s waiting for Spencer when he returns from court.
“Will you get off the bed?” Spencer hisses when he enters only to see Ryan flopped atop his quilt. He peers behind him furtively before closing and locking his door firmly. “What if someone sees you?”
“I’ll have you know, I was being a perfect, unmoving carpet,” Ryan grumbles, but levitates slightly off Spencer’s bed and zips over to lie at Spencer’s feet like an innocuous rug.
Spencer runs a weary hand through his hair; raising his idea with the king took a lot out of him. Stump obviously thought the idea was a lunatic one, and to be ruthlessly honest, if Spencer isn’t so sure about the way he’s going, he’ll think he’s nuts too, offering to partner with the very people who might herald their downfall.
Talking to Ryan - who’s relentlessly stubborn at the best of times and ridiculously bullheaded at the worst - has a way of taking his mind off things, though. Spencer snorts. “Yeah, because carpets are usually found on top of beds.” Even as a carpet, Ryan wouldn’t know normal if it hit him in the face with an unpleasant squelch.
Ryan doesn’t deign to respond, just slaps a corner of the carpet down on the floor. “What happened at the court today?”
Spencer’s deep in thought that it takes him a while to answer. “I convinced the king to consider collaborating with the Industrialists. We’ll hold a ball soon and invite the most famous ones as a kind of scope-out.”
“That’s a good start,” Ryan says, thoughtfully.
“Stump started protesting before my mouth even closed fully,” Spencer says, wryly but there’s no real amusement in his tone.
“You know how he is.” Ryan nudges his knee. “Anyway, this is the best way forward. Don’t second-guess yourself.”
Ryan‘s right. Both of them pored over enough tomes on histories of empires together to know what happens when a monarch finds himself slowly losing relevance under the dawn of a newer age, and he refuses to let his father or their kingdom fall victim to hubris. The rising tide of anticipation for what the radical progressives are terming, the Industrial revolution, grows stronger day by day, and the only way to make sure the royal family doesn’t get swept away by it is to place them atop the furious wave, leading the masses. Ryan’s also right about Spencer tending to doubt his conclusions, but he also knows how to shake off Spencer’s uncertainties before they eat away at him.
It still doesn’t sit well with him, though, this embrace of the new machinery. Magic’s in his blood the way the English bleed blue. “I just don’t believe this -” Spencer gestures to his room, filled with a positive cornucopia of magical artifacts and outlandish objects of fancy “- will one day be reduced to mere baubles.” Or worse still, by swarms of ugly, shiny-looking metal-wrought trinkets.
Ryan’s silent, long enough that it takes on weight, and Spencer sits up, suddenly wary. “Ryan,” he warns.
“Spencer,” Ryan returns. Spencer just waits, before Ryan fluffs himself up and mutters something about him being the magical object here, so Spencer’s inexplicable powers of mind-reading are grotesquely unfair. Spencer doesn’t bother pointing out that he just knows all of Ryan’s tells.
“There is an alternative,” Ryan says, finally. “A magical one.”
Spencer did not expect Ryan to say that.
Ryan continues, voice turning the mix of dreamy and professorial that promised a lengthy lecture ahead on some subject no one besides Ryan find exceptionally interesting, “There’s a legend -“
“Isn’t there always?” Spencer interrupts before Ryan can really get going, because once he does, there’s no stopping him.
Ryan huffs, “You have no proper appreciation for the rich tapestry of history that hangs behind each element of magic.”
Spencer rolls his eye, waving his hand dismissively. “The point, Ryan. Could we skip the ten pages of historical background and move on to the point?” It is not unusual for Ryan’s admonishments to be longer than his original point.
“History has a rumor that an ultimate source of magic exists,” Ryan intones, bored now that he’s deprived of his suspenseful build-up. “And it’s found in this very city, in a cave on the outskirts of the city, right where the line of the city meets the line of the desert.” It comes out like Ryan’s reciting it from memory.
Spencer falls back onto his bed, and stares at his ceiling. “And this ultimate source of magic. What does it do?” he asks, dubiously.
Ryan makes a sound that seems to be the verbal equivalent of an eye-roll. “It’s the ultimate source of magic,” he repeats, like he find it difficult to believe Spencer isn‘t getting such an obvious statement. “It’s like - the alchemists’ equivalent of the philosopher’s stone,” Ryan starts, before he corrects, “Except that’s inaccurate, because the alchemists chase an illusion, since the philosopher’s stone doesn’t exist. Although some scholars do postulate that it’s the physical form of the same kind of magic as the ultimate source, so -“
“Ryan.”
“In small, simple words so you can understand,” Ryan snaps. “There’s this genie. Who will grant any wish.”
“A genie?” Spencer repeats, half to himself. It’s not entirely foreign; there’s an entire school of mythology dedicated to genies, after all, but it falls under the less academically established disciplines, and most of magic mainstream dismisses it as just that, a myth.
Ryan shrugs, before scowling like Spencer’s missing the point. “According to lore, he’ll do it outside the law of equivalent exchange.”
Spencer sits up. “Outside the principle of equivalent exchange? He repeats, just to be sure.
Ryan corrects, “The law of -” but Spencer cuts him off, insisting, “So you can ask for anything you want?” Ryan makes a grudging noise that means, yes in the crudest version of the answer.
“I’m going to look for it,” Spencer declares, sitting up.
“And exactly how do you propose to do that?” Ryan asks, acidly. “You’re the prince, if you’ve forgotten. Your father’s certainly not going to let you traipse all around the place looking for a genie.”
Spencer looks at Ryan. “Oh no,” Ryan says, sliding backwards across the floor. “I am not -“
“It’ll be an adventure,” Spencer says, and is reminded of how Ryan and he used to stay awake through the nights when they were younger, talking about the strange, exotic lands far beyond the reach of the palace, and concocting complicated plans to travel and see them someday. “A treasure hunt, even. An expedition, Ryan.”
“You’re the prince,” Ryan says it like he means, you’re insane.
Then he grew up, and someday became one day became maybe became you’re the prince, Spencer.
“You’ve never let that come between us, before.”
The words drop into the room too fast for Spencer to pick them up and take them back, and the silence after that hits Spencer like a physical blow.
“I -” Ryan says, something uncertain and hurt in his voice that has Spencer immediately opening his mouth to apologize, but there‘s a knock at the door suddenly, and Ryan goes still mid-sentence.
Spencer frowns. “Enter.”
Tom pokes his head in. The tension that crept into his shoulders during the last moments intensifies when Spencer sees the worried look on Tom’s face.
“My lord,” Tom says. “The king requests your presence in the court immediately.”
It’s barely an hour after their daily court session; as far as Spencer remembers, there’s no royal dignitary visit scheduled any time soon, and so this is greatly unorthodox. Spencer follows Tom out of his room, anxiety pressing at the back of his mind.
He doesn’t look back at Ryan. That must wait.
*
There’s a man standing in front of the king when Spencer arrives, slightly out of breath from hurrying over. The man is standing loose, arms casually at his sides, completely at ease, while Stump stands a distance away, closer to the king, tension evident along the lines of his back, and Spencer feels a faint rise of worry. The king rarely grants personal appearances, and one in the middle of the day with no prior appointment or a member of the aristocracy as accompaniment to vouch for his integrity is highly unusual.
“There you are, Spencer,” the king says when he sees him, perfectly composed, but Spencer hears the underlying strain in his father’s voice.
“Father,” Spencer says, a question in his tone.
The king sends Spencer a brief but speaking look. “This is Pete Wentz, the leading Industrialist from London.” London, the heart of the Industrial stirrings.
There’s a jolt of awareness. Wentz is well-known among the Industrialists, and many messenger repots have carried his name at the top. Spencer turns to Wentz and nods, formally. “It’s an honour to meet you, Mr. Wentz,” he says, hoping none of his uneasiness show.
Wentz grins wolfishly, and then steps forward, quickly and unexpected enough that Spencer doesn’t move back in time to avoid Wentz reaching for his hand. “Mr. Wentz -” Spencer begins, startled, but Wentz just takes it, and gives it a firm shake with his own.
“This is how we greet each other in London,” Wentz says, like that excuses his eccentricities. “I prefer to think of myself as a businessman, none of this Industrialist nonsense,” he adds lightly, as though he isn’t contradicting the words of the king himself.
People have been executed for less, but then the times are changing. The king doesn’t comment, which speaks volumes about Wentz’s clout. Spencer feels his unease grow. Extricating his hand from Wentz’s grip, he asks, politely, “What brings you here to our court, Mr. Went?”
Wentz’s smile grows larger. “What brings an aspiring man to any place? Opportunity.”
“It seems Mr. Wentz here has heard of the ball we are planning to organize a week hence. He’s here regarding that very possibility of an alliance between the Industrialists and our court,” Stump says tightly.
Wentz spread his arms out. “As I said, opportunity.” The look he gives Spencer is positively lascivious, and dull colour suffuses Spencer‘s face. “And the chance to win the heart of a fair prince, of course,” he adds, in a low voice.
“You overreach your position, I’m afraid,” he replies, coldly, taking a step back.
“I think not, my prince,” Wentz says, eyes sharp. “You may have your title, but not much else. And soon even that will not count for much in the new England.”
It’s as boldfaced a statement as anyone can make, and Spencer’s stunned speechless at the audacity of this man; Stump looks equally flabbergasted.
“How dare you -” he begins, outraged, but Wentz turns his back on Spencer to address the king. “You must understand, my king, I mean no disrespect.” Sincerity rings improbably clear in his quiet words.
Wentz takes a step forward. “You are surely aware of the magnitude of the changes, the reforms, even, sweeping through England,” Wentz says; he isn’t smiling now. “Your messengers must have brought you news of the way the winds of change are blowing. Your court has stood for generations past, but it grows weak with every passing day you remain sealed like a fortress against the developments building in the cities, and it will not stand for generations hence if you do not take measures to safeguard your position.”
Wentz waits for the words to sink in before he says, “Merely a sampling of what I offer to the court, should be choose to ally,” Wentz says, and claps twice, loudly.
A man enters the room at the sound, and Spencer squints at him, wondering what lunacy Wentz is exhibiting now. “This is Jon,” Wentz says. “Jon, this is the king and his son, Prince Spencer.”
“My greetings, my king, my lord,” Jon says. Spencer stares closely at him, frowning; there’s something about Jon that seems off.
“Who -” Spencer begins.
“What I offer,” Wentz repeats. “This is my prototypical robot.” At their puzzled looks, Wentz explains, “Artificial intelligence. It’s made of iron and wielded together with copper. It’s covered with a specially painted canvas to mimic skin.”
The king leans forward, intrigued. “You’re saying Jon isn’t a real person?” Both Spencer and Stump eye Jon warily; they’ve only heard about such inventions, but all the reports have spoke eloquently of the consistent failure of such devices’ functions. Yet here a perfectly working robot stands right in front of them, clear as day.
“No, my king, he isn’t,” Wentz replies. The king stares for another moment, before he releases a bark of laughter that has Spencer and Stump turning their eyes at him in startlement.
“Yet he bears a remarkable resemblance to a human person,” the king says, half to himself. “That is very interesting, Mr. Wentz,” the king declares. “I must say, I’m very impressed.”
Wentz dips his head in acknowledgement of the praise. “This is the first of its kind; you must have heard, few other inventors have achieved this capability, and most can only hope to dream of it,” Wentz says, without a trace of conceit. “I do not need to ask if you grasp the implications of technology such as this.”
He claps again, and Jon nods at all of them, before turning to leave. His gait is steady, with only the faintest stiffness only noticeable if Spencer knew to look for it. “Jon is a goodwill present of sorts.” He turns to Spencer, who stiffens a little. “I present him as a gift to Prince Spencer.”
Leaning in close enough, he adds, softly, “Think of him as a courtship gift.” Spencer tenses, and is ready to call Wentz on his impertinence when he turns back to the king, and spreads his arms confidently.
“What I propose is a merger of sorts.”
The king’s stopped laughing, but he’s clearly taken a shine to this Wentz character. There’s a moment of silence as the offer hangs in the air before -
“Stump,” the king says. “Make the appropriate arrangements for Wentz’s accommodations. Mr. Wentz, thank you for your visit today. We shall discuss this further at the ball.”
Stump nods tersely and beckons Wentz. Spencer takes cold comfort in the fact that at least both of them have a common enemy now and watches as Wentz accepts the dismissal and sketches an oddly mocking bow before following Stump out the court.
*
Spencer’s fuming every step of the way back to his room. The nerve of that - that merchant to threaten their court, and the worst of it, of course, is the fact that everything he said was perfectly true.
Spencer flings open the door to his room angrily, readying himself to launch into a tirade about the insufferable nerve of Wentz to Ryan before he remembers their not-quite fight earlier. He stresses long enough about what he’s going to say to Ryan that he doesn’t realize the room’s quiet in the way it is when no one’s in it.
“Ryan,” he calls, just to make sure. He’s feeling panic rise like bile in his throat at the thought that Ryan might have left because of what he said, and Spencer takes a few blind steps into the room, breathing growing faster. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if Ryan left, how he’ll even find him, but he will, he doesn’t care what he has to do, he promises -
Then he sees the open window, and the broken vial on the floor right in front of it, like someone brought it over from the shelf deliberately to drop it on the floor right before that person - or more accurately, that carpet - flew out the window, an apology and an up yours at once, and Ryan’s the only person he knows to be able to combine two such diametrically opposite sentiments in one eloquent gesture.
Spencer takes a deep breath, relief and indignation flooding him in equal amounts, leaving him quite light-headed.
Oh, he’ll find Ryan, alright. There’s no way he’s letting him have all the fun.
*
Stump decides he mistrusts Wentz on first sight. He’s dressed queerly, and has the most improper manners, and seems to think that leering at the prince is a kind of compliment. He’s also slyly intelligent, and quick, and after a few rambling, nonsensical statements about the romance of revolution and the scene versus an arms race, he quickly dropped his deranged persona and fixed the king with serious eyes.
The king may be convinced of his brilliance but Stump’s less than impressed with his credentials, and he foresees nothing but trouble once he’s settled in the palace. Of course, the fact that Wentz winked imprudently at him just before he left might have contributed to his antipathy towards him.
Stump strides towards Wentz’s room; he needs to establish boundaries, and establish them fast.
*
Brendon’s seen enough of the city’s underbelly to know that the city’s not as glorious as it looks, from the palace, all prosperous and lively, but then few things ever are. He’s also lived in the city long enough to see that even in the cracks and fault lines of the city’s spit-slicked veneer, there is the occasional bloom, a startling burst of colour that’s entirely incongruous to the brick-and-brass surroundings.
All the city’s inhabitants need, Brendon thinks, sometimes, is a boost. That’s all, really, and from what Brendon hears, the rumours flying rampant around the city about the dawn of a new age promise a bright new future for all of them. The rich, perhaps, as the grumbled mumblings of the workers are a testament to, but so will the city’s poorest, the workers, and even, Brendon hopes, even people like him.
Someday, Brendon thinks, looking at the sky. A single chimney stands out in the foreground, stark against the sky like a portent of change. That’s where England is moving, and Brendon’s brought up on a steady diet of inventions and scientific curiosity. His parents hoped once that he would make a prestigious career as an inventor, but that hasn’t been on the cards for a long time, ever since it became obvious that he lacked the connections or financial backing for such.
Still, Brendon holds on to that dream of a better England, smoke curling rapidly from the chimneys of all the households, the morning broken by the bright sounds of steam clocks trilling the time excitedly; he sleeps dreaming of London, the mecca of aspiring Industrialists all over England.
*
Spencer tugs on the length of cloth tied to the balcony railing, staring down at the ground. It looks disturbingly far down, even though it’s only two floors.
The ground always looks a lot further down from above, though, Spencer thinks. This is another thing he’s going to kill Ryan for; if he were here, Spencer wouldn’t need to do this the hard way. He takes a fortifying breath, and then sighs before hoisting himself up onto the railing. He lets himself down slowly, relatively secure in the knowledge that the small flagon of sticky grip he found on his shelves will prevent him from losing his balance and falling.
He’s still shaking uncontrollably when he hits the ground though. Straightening, Spencer flexes hi shoulder before thanking the Chinese for their silk, sturdy as magic.
*
Ryan may not look like much; honestly, in a line-up of magical artifacts, it would be unlikely that he would be someone’s first choice. Or second. But, as he’s fond of constantly reminding Spencer, nevertheless he’s still magic, which means he wins any argument by default.
It also means he knows useful details like where the Cave of Wonders is and where to find the key.
Most people don’t know there’s even a key. It’s fairly classified information.
*
Possibly entirely by coincidence, Brendon returns home one day to find a rug on his floor. That wouldn’t be unusual in and of itself, since rugs are meant for floors (or conceivably the other way around: that floors were invented so rugs could lie on them, as Brendon sometimes privately suspected), but it is, considering Brendon hasn’t bought a rug since the last one inexplicably became a flea colony.
It’s exquisitely woven, royal purple, gold stitching creeping all around the edge of the cloth like a gilded ant track, a motif of black squares lending the impression of contemporary design, but the entire fabric feels centuries of years old, which doesn’t make sense since it looks very nearly brand new, vivid against the simple grey of his apartment.
It bears saying that in a world with magic, coincidence is just another euphemism. Brendon doesn’t know this, of course; looking at it, the rug evokes a strange sort of feeling in him but he’s really quite worn out by the day’s efforts and besides, struggling to make a living and save enough money to escape to London at the same time tend to occupy one’s energies, so Brendon just shrugs at the rug.
Presumably if the owner could get it into his apartment, he can retrieve it himself. Brendon wouldn’t even charge rent.
*
Tom likes his job, he does. It’s secure, and covers food and lodgings, and Spencer makes sure his family is taken care of. IT’s comfortable enough that Tom’s leant to the omnipresent oddities. He’s gotten used to enough that he even took walking in on Spencer conversing with a carpet one day in stride.
Spencer looked a little surprised, but he gestures at the carpet and introduces matter-of-factly, “Oh, Tom, meet Ryan.” Tom nodded awkwardly at it and the carpet presumably waves back - just a tiny lift of a corner, but it’s unmistakable. His aunt warned darkly of strange happenings in the palace before he came, but he doesn’t see any real harm in them, besides Spencer’s occasional oddities and the royal family’s predilection for getting into trouble with magic. Seeing spoons or forks dance on tables during meals is not an uncommon occurrence, but Tom finds that it breaks the monotony of palace servitude.
Therefore, when Tom enters Spencer’s room to find both Spencer and Ryan gone, and an empty potion vial piecing itself back slowly before tipping over on its side and rolling out of sight under the bed, he doesn‘t even blink.
There’s a note on Spencer’s back, just a will be back, S scribbled on it, and Tom groans mentally, because covering for Spencer will be tiring, and this just promised potential trouble, particularly if both Spencer and Ryan are out about the city frolicking.
“Is Spencer gone?”
Tom jumps. A man he’s never seen before is standing stiffly next to the door.
“Who are you? You’re not supposed to be here.”
“I’m a present for Spencer,” the man says, eyes dipping briefly. Tom frowns, wondering if the stranger meant have instead of am, before the meaning hits him, and Tom flushes slightly.
Looking closer, Tom supposes he sees the suitability of Jon for that. His face is smooth, well-proportioned, full lips and bright eyes, and his body looks lean enough under the odd clothes, and Tom’s face heats a little, even though he tells himself he’s just observing. He has no place with someone specifically brought for Spencer, anyway.
“Well,” he flounders. “In that case -”
“Jon,” the man says. “I’m called Jon.”
“Right, Jon.” Tom finds the way he seems to speak of himself as an object odd, but decides that it isn’t his problem. “You just stay here, then -”
“Am I - will my presence be interrupting anything?” Jon asks, phrasing worked carefully, and Tom has to think for a moment what Jon is saying, before his eyes widen, and he takes a literal step back, shaking his head emphatically.
“No, you can’t possibly think Spencer and I, of all people,” Tom splutters. That’s ridiculous. Spencer’s the prince, and he’s just a manservant, and - “God, no, no. You don’t have to worry about me at all.” He attempts a reassuring smile, because he can sympathize with someone brought all the way from god knows where for someone he doesn’t even know. Spencer could be a sixty and bedridden, for all he knows. Spencer could be a jerk. Spencer could be married. “I work for Spencer,” Tom clarifies.
It’s excellent for Jon, then, that Spencer’s none of these things. “Well, you just. Stay here, then. Spencer will be back - soon,” Tom says, and just stands there uselessly for a moment.
Jon looks at him. “Thank you. What do I call you?”
“Tom, I’m Tom,” Tom says, before dropping his eyes and backing away, because Jon’s gaze is intense. “I need to -” and he leaves.
*
In retrospect, Brendon thinks he should have expected this. No one would discard a perfectly functional carpet for no reason, so he should have suspected something the moment he saw it lying innocuously on the floor in his apartment.
“So, is this what you generally do with your life?” The carpet says conversationally one night.
Brendon leaps five feet into the air this time and whirls around to stare instinctively at the carpet, and then laughs a little at himself, because it can’t possibly be -
“You’re a talking carpet!” he blurts, eyes wide as saucers when Ryan flies up to float in the air in front of Brendon.
“Really,” Ryan drawls. “I never knew that.”
“You - but - carpet!” Brendon splutters.
“Yes, you’ve already made that point. You’re getting repetitive.”
This hasn’t been in any of Brendon’s plans for the future. He’s dreamt of saving enough money for a ticket to London, maybe sooner than he thinks if the steam engine manages to be approved for public use, and then traveling to London to apply for an apprenticeship under a scientist or an inventor, possibly even work under for the Royal Society, even as a secretary or a typist, just to be able to contribute to the revolution. He holds out hope still that he might even meet a sweet, friendly assistant somewhere, and settle down.
“Huh,” Ryan sniffs. “That sounds pretty boring to me.”
“Are you - did you read my mind?” His hands come up to cover his head as though that would help.
“No, you moron. You were babbling aloud.” The carpet moves a little, edges curling in a way that evidently dripped derision, although Brendon has no idea how carpets conveyed information. “I was wrong - you’re even more normal than I thought.” Ryan says that like he finds it personally offensive.
“You can move, too?” Brendon’s never going to get used to the casual ease of magic, assuming Ryan is magic, and not some incredibly advanced contraption running on electromagnetism. Brendon remembers seeing flyers in the marketplace for a lecture on that a month ago; he flashbacked on his father’s trick with the magnets then, but of course, there is an admission fee and Brendon didn’t think it worth three months’ wages. “Wait, you’re - magic?”
“Of course I’m magic,” Ryan snaps. The carpet rolled and unrolled with a literal snap of irritation. “God, are we ever going to be done with the ridiculous questions?”
“You could be a normal carpet suspended in a magnetic field or something,” Brendon points out, stung. “And the voice could be, I don’t know, someone outside the door playing a trick on me.”
“I am not a - a mechanical contraption,” Ryan exclaims. He turns away, horrified. “Oh my god, this is never going to work.” He jerks away and flies around the room once in a frantic circle.
Brendon tries following the movement with his eyes but soon becomes a little dizzy. “Hey, uh, carpet?” he calls. “Could you stop that before my eyes cross?”
“Ryan,” the carpet skids to a sudden stop right in front of Brendon, who jumps back.
“No,” Brendon says slowly. “My name is Brendon.”
The carpet rustles impatiently. “I know, I mean, my name is Ryan. Stop calling me carpet,” Ryan says sternly. Spencer did that all the time when he was a kid, and it gave Ryan an identity crisis for five months.
Brendon nods in a way that means he doesn’t really understand, but isn’t going to argue. “Ryan,” he says. “What are you doing here?”
Most people who know Ryan - that is, Spencer - know never to ask him an unqualified open question. Ryan launches into a complicated story about the beginning of the world and the ultimate source of magic which expanded and contracted until it exploded and now about four million years later the king is in jeopardy with the New Territories being at stake (Brendon can’t tell if the latter point is directly related to the former, but then he’s also stopped listening and has regressed to merely nodding at Ryan at strategic points) and there’s a genie and a cave of wonders and also a rough diamond.
Brendon blinks. “A rough diamond?”
“- and ergo, it becomes apparent that -”Ryan stops mid-sentence; the sentence has lasted multiple paragraphs. “You aren’t getting any of this, are you?” he says dangerously.
At Brendon’s shrug, Ryan subsides into a sort of petulant silence and refuses to explain anything anymore, a fact for which Brendon is mildly grateful.
On hindsight, Brendon really couldn’t have seen this coming.
*
Tom’s halfway into Spencer’s room again to drop off the pile of laundry when he sees Jon in the room, standing against the window this time.
“Oh, hey,” he says, friendly enough, before he remembers he’s talking to Spencer’s lover.
“Hi, Tom,” Jon says in a way that makes Tom shiver. Tom’s busy, he has a million errands to run before dinner, and he has no business lingering in Spencer’s room to converse with his lover, anyway, but he stops, asks, “Are you okay? Do you need anything - I can get it for you.”
Jon takes a while to process the question. “No, nothing is needed.”
“Just -” Tom tries hard to think of something to say to Jon. “Spencer might not be back for a while, so it’s just going to be you in the room.”
“That is acceptable,” Jon says.
“Good, that’s good,” Tom replies. “If you need anything - I mean, I’m supposed to look after Spencer, so I expect that extends to you too, so just get one of the servants to look for me if you need anything at all.”
Jon nods, slowly. “Thank you.” He keeps looking at Tom, though, and Tom feels heat creep up the back of his neck. He rubs there, awkwardly.
“Right, well,” Tom says. “I’ll leave you to it now.” He feels Tom’s eyes on his back keenly as he turns.
*
Walking about under the wide, black sky in the dead of the night while the city sleeps, streetlamps flickering restlessly is a wonderful experience, Spencer thinks, and it’s definitely not to be missed princes who run away from their homes should see. He revels in this unprecedented feeling of freedom for glorious moments, breathing in the smell of fresh air (which, to be honest, is a little more rank and fishy than he expects) and the way the wind sweeps around him, and then swears to never return to the palace.
An hour later, Spencer’s more than a little tired, having never walked around for so long before, and the wind is starting to pick up, sending dust and the occasional leaf at him, and he still doesn’t want to return to the palace, but he would like to maybe go someplace that has shelter and a fire.
Also, Spencer realizes belatedly he has no idea how he’s going to find Ryan. His stomach chooses this moment to growl, and he thinks that he wouldn’t say no to some food either, maybe a slice of apricot pie or a glass of fresh milk. That should be easy enough, he decides; he’s in one of the richest cities in England, after all, thanks to his father’s governance.
Spencer stops at the first house he sees, and knocks politely on the front door. He waits for the appropriate amount of time it should take for the butler to answer the door, and then remembers that it’s the middle of the night, and the occupants are undoubtedly sleeping, as they should be.
He feels a little pang of regret at having to wake them up, and then knocks harder, more impatiently.
A light is thrown up in the upper windows of the house, and Spencer waits, eagerly, listening to the heavy footsteps thud down the stairs.
The door opens, and a sleepy-looking man in night clothes yawns, “Where’s the fire?”
“There is no fire, sir,” Spencer says, a little stiffly. “I would very much appreciate if you could provide me lodgings for a night.”
The man stares at him incredulously. “You will be duly compensated for your trouble,” Spencer begins, and then is stopped short when the man snorts, and slams the door in his face.
Well. Spencer stares at the ugly lion’s head knocker on the door for a moment, stunned. That’s - that’s certainly the first time someone’s rejected him, much less slammed a door into his face, and if Spencer doesn’t suddenly feel a wave of nausea rise, his usual, confident self would have marched straight back to the palace and demanded that the man be arrested for insulting the Prince.
But this is different. Out there in the city, without his robes and crown and servants, he’s no prince, just Spencer. It comes as a shock, this abrupt delineation of his identities, the revelation that his status could make so big a difference.
The next five houses Spencer tries returns pretty much the same reply, and when the person who answers the door at the sixth house looks him up and down, and says, leeringly, that there wasn’t a spare bed available, but he could definitely share his, if Spencer knew what he meant, Spencer flinches, but fights down the humiliation and rejects the offer, as politely as he can, because the man looked twice his size.
The stars are especially bright and mocking when Spencer leans his head back and stares up into the sky, and Spencer’s not homesick for the castle, exactly. He’s just. Homesick. Discouraged, he sits down right in the middle of the streets, doing his best not to think about the amount or nature of refuse on it.
*
Strange sounds come from the streets at night, scuffles and duels and robberies not uncommon, and Brendon’s usually tired enough that he sleeps soundly through the night, but today’s no ordinary day, and Brendon’s thinking about seeing a magical object for the very first time in his life. It feels larger than life, too extraordinary to be true; in his head, he hears his father telling him, magic is for kings and princes, son. This explains why he hears the commotion out in the streets, just a block away, by the sound of it. This entire adventure sounds like the stuff of his childhood fantasies, but by now he’s sensible enough not to fall for the smoke and mirrors of magic anymore, preferring the concrete dependability of wielded steel and the heavy precision of cogs.
There’s still that bit of silly yearning in him for the enchantment of magic, though, the same way he habitually checks coach prices to London whenever he passes the station even though they have not fallen since the first time he looked. There’s always hope, though; rumors about the new steam engine that could half travel times - and costs - between the New Territories and London have begun for months now, and Brendon’s holding out that last vestige of hope for that.
It’s this same wistful flight of fancy that sends Brendon out in the middle of the night, trying to catch a glimpse of the stars as a cure of sleeplessness. Seeing them always bring him comfort from the distant certainty of their constant presence.
When he hears a noise farther up the streets, though, it’s plain curiosity to take a look.
*
“Um,” Brendon starts. “Are you - are you alright?” he says, dubiously, from a few feet away. He’s never seen a person who’ll lie willingly on the dirty streets, except for the dead and dying, and certainly, people don’t normally loiter about on the streets at night. The man seems content enough to just lie there, though, staring at the sky, and Brendon’s torn between the urge to just leave him alone, and the insistent voice that points out he could be mortally injured.
A quick question ascertains that, no, the man definitely isn’t seriously injured, because he sits up and turns in the sound of Brendon’s voice with a glare.
Brendon takes a quick step back, just in case. He raises his hands in supplication, and then calls out, “Well, if you’re alright -”
“Wait,” the man says. The command in the man’s voice stops Brendon instinctively.
Then the man stands up, dusting off his clothes as carefully as if he is wearing expensive robes instead of what looks like second-hand rags, and Brendon stills even further, breath catching, because he’s never seen a man quite like the one standing in front of him now, an aura of authority about him like the soft hue of the moon.
Spencer glares irritably at the man who’s staring at him imprudently, gaping slightly. He knows he’s a little scruffy but surely there’s no reason for Brendon to be so judgmental.
“I need residence for the night,” Spencer says, resisting the urge to fold his arms defensively at the man‘s continuous gaze.
“Okay,” the man says, a little slowly.
“Could I share yours, if you don’t mind? I’m willing to make the appropriate compensation, of course,” Spencer says, trying his hardest to quell his impatience; he’s learnt from past experiences.
It takes Brendon a while to answer because he’s too busy gaping over the fact that this strange guy he found lying in the middle of the street at night just propositioned him.
“I’m sorry?” he says uncertainly, just in case he misheard. The guy’s easy enough on the eyes on the eyes that Brendon doesn’t think he’ll have trouble finding a bed partner for the night, but Brendon’s not stupid enough to turn down an offer like this, even though his conscience prickles.
Spencer repeats slowly,” May I trouble you for lodgings for a night?” He walks closer just in case the person’s slightly deaf.
Spencer is really ridiculously attractive, and Brendon’s been alone long enough in the city to crave the illusion of companionship, at least for a night, and so he nods, heart beating faster than normal and turns to lead Spencer back to his house.
[Part Two]