In the present, Xinfang Hua, prodigal daughter of the Hua family, teams up with a silver-tongued mage to rob a museum. But no heist goes off without a hitch—especially when a Hua is involved.
BY BENJANUN SRIDUANGKAEW AND DEVI LACROIX
“This is an absolute, preposterous outrage,” the silver-clad figure sitting across the desk snarls when the two security guards walk in. “I contact your hallowed institution in a reputable fashion—no back alley whispers, but a letter of marque bearing my credentials and references. I provide, as a sign of goodwill, a list of the numerous security weaknesses your museum suffers from. I offer my services at a modest consultative fee—an offer, I might add, you apparently accepted—and have now arrived with your invitation in my hand. And what I receive in turn is derision, suspicion, and”—here, they motion to the severe haircuts and body armor that now flank them—“an implicit threat of violence against my person.”
Museum Director Parakram Noor sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off an oncoming migraine. The “security consultant” is a mage, without a doubt. They said as much in their introductory letter, but the museum director knew it the moment he saw them; after twenty-five years appraising artifacts, Noor has a good eye for telling the magical from the mundane. Not that it is difficult with this specimen, handsome and haughty in the way only someone capable of bending the world to their whim can be: amber eyes that reflect a tad too much light; hair the shade of scarab wings that flows to the middle of their back; hands so perfect they look sculpted. Handsome and haughty in the precise way that makes Noor’s eyes itch and his head pound; mages stepping foot in his museum always means paperwork and often means blood.
“We don’t call them ‘letters of marque.’” Noor sighs. “That’s not even a term that exists in this profession. Pirates carry letters of marque.”
“Privateers carry letters of marque,” they say with a smile. This entire time, the “consultant” has framed the situation as one of true and mortal offense. But their voice is mellow, their smile sharp in an inviting, knowing way. It’s infuriatingly clear that they see this as a negotiation, as something to be talked past, as a fun romp that will have no consequences. “Enterprising captains who gained hard experience and, having seen how the other half lives, decided to throw their lot in with order and security. Two things which, as I’ve already articulated, your museum is in dire need of.”
For a moment, Noor is almost convinced; this mage seems affable, even trustworthy. But the ring on his finger—a thing of cool glass, sometimes the pale blue of ice and sometimes the incandescent light of a lifeless star—burns cold against his flesh, centering the museum director. He smiles, glad that the artifact protects against mesmers the way it was promised, but plays off his joy as a bit of good humor. “We can count among our patrons and docents a number of very wealthy, very powerful individuals who are committed, financially and otherwise, to the National Museum’s goal of preserving India’s history.” And that’s not even counting the personal connections Parakram has forged in his time, the artifacts—like his newest acquisition on his finger—that he has added to his private collection. “What could a newcomer like you provide an august organization like ours?”
The consultant leans forward, eyes suddenly very serious, voice even warmer; they are inviting Noor into their conspiracy. “A man of your talents and connections must know what has befallen the great, staid powers of our magical world. Sealing and Containment, our peacekeepers, were obliterated in a single day of great tragedy. High Command—the mages who originally founded Sealing and Containment—are dead now, too. The would-be tyrant Cecilie Kristiansen has been slain, and her killers—that meddlesome Hua family—have been unable to capitalize on their victory. Hells, I hear they were responsible for what happened to Singapore! Director Noor, how many of your powerful patrons have passed away or disappeared over the last year? How many of your old contacts have gone silent or stopped taking your calls? The old world is dying, Director, and the new world struggles to be born. In such interesting times, we could make great allies.”
The ring burns brighter, and it takes superhuman effort for Noor to not topple over as the pain in his head grows. “The thing is,” he says, surprised how even his voice sounds, “I agree with you. You’re absolutely correct—the Huas have broken the world. For the entire modern period, High Command, and its lackeys in Sealing and Containment, provided structure and order to magical society. And now all of us are plunged into anarchy, governed by the law of beasts alone. Only power matters in the world that is coming; everyone else just hasn’t realized it yet.”
The consultant nods thoughtfully. “I’m glad we’re in agreement.”
“But,” Noor continues, arching his hand over his desk so that each of his fingertips are braced above a sheet of paper, like a spider poised above prey, “I’ve checked your references. Some of them were even close friends of mine, no doubt chosen because I would implicitly trust them. And I say ‘chosen’, because that is what you very much did. How long did it take to implant yourself into their memories? Mind-control them just enough to think they’ve worked with you before?”
To their credit, the mesmer doesn’t break character. “I’m not quite certain what you’re implying.”
The pain has spread through Noor’s skull now, as if every bone in his head has become freshly smelted glass. But he soldiers on, a man possessed; it is so rare for him to get to put a mage in their place. “They all had very glowing things to say about you, all very earnest in their belief that you are a paramount security expert they have known for a sufficiently respectable amount of time. But the next time you run a con like this, scuff up the biographies a little bit; people this powerful don’t give unabashedly good reviews. They’re catty, they like to gossip—and yet not even one had a less-than-stellar word to say about you. Very suspicious, like an undercover cop with a too-clean fabricated record. But you’re not a cop, are you, Chun Hyang?”
This time, the liar—Chun Hyang—doesn’t feign ignorance. “I think we have a problem,” they say, mercurial humor gone from their voice.
“Did you know that there’s a sizable bounty on your head? Word is, you’re responsible for two of the deaths among High Command’s ranks. A very wealthy mage by the name of Vivianne Heloise says you killed her mother, the Cynosure.” Noor has never felt power like this, the ability to lord over his lessers, to see them squirm. “She’s very invested in… what were her words… ‘cutting out what you took from her.’ So this is the point where our interview ends, and you walk out of here without a job and in the custody of these two—”
It makes Noor giddy to see Chun Hyang squirm at hearing Heloise’s name. They raise their voice, as if speaking to someone in another room. “I said I think we—”
“I heard you the first time,” a new voice says, and in a burst of light, a beautiful woman in radiant gold appears at Chun Hyang’s side—tall and regal, with a severe close-cropped haircut and an immaculate suit. It doesn’t stay immaculate for long: in her hands are two museum exhibit pieces—a matched pair of Mughal daggers, if Noor’s snap assessment is correct, with carved jade handles befitting an empress—that slice through the guard’s throats with prenatural grace. “I told you that a con was pointless. We should have—oh fuck, we do have a problem.”
Noor is standing now, or floating, it doesn’t particularly matter to the museum director. What matters is that he’s looking down on these pathetic mages. He had made a deal with Heloise, but what good is the word of a mage? What good is the word of any maggot that crawls through the rotten meat of this reality?
He extends his hand and is pleasantly surprised to see the crystalline perfection of the ring has spread, empowering his feeble human form, replacing it. The putrid flesh is sloughing away like burning paper, revealing a thing of eldritch perfection, anathema to life. He splinters, his life and deeds, bone and sinew, merely the cocoon for something greater.
“We have unfinished business, daughter of Hua,” Nuawa says, and the world turns to glass.