ETC Gift Ficlet 33: The Anthemicronicon
Jan. 8th, 2010 12:40 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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cookleta_etc had a holiday post where folk made requests for holiday gift ficlets. This one is lovely ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
lirielviridian's request. Sweet Anna has been having a tough week, and I'm posting rough/unbetaed in hopes it will cheer her a little!
Title: The Age of Music
Recipient:lirielviridian
Rating, Genre: G, steampunk AU
Wordcount: 3,800+ words
Characters: The Anthemic, David Archuleta, Jason Castro, Maroon 5
Request: "A ficlet in which DCook can do ~magic with his voice, as in, he's a songcaster. And the band is there for added power, to have his back, and Monty (him since he's oldest and the most ~experienced) directs the music in the right place when the spell needs to cover a specific area. Together, they BATTLE EVIL."
A/N: Anna, I am sorry that my vision of magic in this verse provides Monty with the "grounding" rather than "directing" role! * Extended A/N/footnotes at the end of the story.
Disclaimer: Not for profit work of fiction. No libel or intellectual property infringement intended. Full disclaimer at end of story.
Pulpy trade paperback fic cover made by the talentedciudad.
Anthemicronicon: the Age of Music
David Cook, lead singer of the Anthemic, loves the opening act of the opera Faust. It's tradition that the fall proms season opens with an old European work, and in the five falls he's been living in the New State of York, he's come here every opening night.
He could be sitting in the House box seats high above the theatre, like other members of House 19 here tonight, but he prefers to stand under the archway of the stalls instead, among the good people of this state.
He's dressed like one of them tonight, as he frequently is: battered leather coat bare of any insignia, plain shirt and vest and work trousers, his one concession to opera night a necktie and the ornate heirloom cufflinks that had been in his family for three generations. In place of refined theatre glasses, he's toting a piratic spyglass that hails from the last century.
The Faust set blends seamlessly into the gorgeous setting of the Metroglobe Opera House. The orchestra is doing such a stellar job with the Gounoud score that when the Scholar (played by local divo Joseph Lerou) sings his opening aria, in which he turns his back on science and faith and importunes the guidance of sorcery, Cook can almost sense the magic in the air.
Tiemann would deem that foolishness, of course. For almost half a century the scholars of the great Guild of Songcasters of the American States had tried to write spells for larger bands than twenty without success: too many instruments and the spells become unstable, the singer or singers unable to channel the power, and more than six singers can't songcast together coherently. There's a reason why the ideal warband unit size, like that of the marching bands of the Northern States, is fourteen.
A fifty-man orchestra like this, with only one singer onstage, and a minimal percussion section to ground the music? Couldn't possibly tap into and harness the heartrock of the world's power, no matter how prettily the aria's sung.
"Lead violin's offtempo," Tiemann's voice is actually in his ear rather than just in his head, and strong, square fingers grip Cook's shoulder; Cook's used to his friend's wont to lurk in the shadows, so he doesn't jump. Much, anyway. "Second string's actually sparking some power, not at all badly. Can you see who it is?"
Obediently, Cook trains his spyglass at the orchestra pit. "I recognize him. It's John Bondini, from one of the other Houses, Gramaphone maybe. Either he's left active service, or those other masters don't mind the moonlighting as much as 19 does."
Tiemann snorts. Trust him to sniff out the songcaster amongst the civilian musicians, as well as the off-tempo lead - Cook can't hear it himself, but Tiemann has the most discerning ear in the House. Not for nothing he's one of the subtlest, strongest stringcasters in York, and the backbone of the Anthemic's field band of five.
"If it's Bondini, the kid's better off with a permanent position in the Met," is what Tiemann says now. "Recall him freezing on the line, he's not a fieldcaster. He's good for House conservatory, or playin' for the Presidential Enclave, or a nice civvie orchestra like here."
"Nothing like you then," Cook murmurs back, clipping the spyglass back on his belt and leaning back against his friend's strong arm. Tiemann hails from one of the oldest aristocratic families in the Old Southern State of Oklahoma, gets to wear his clan's insignia ring and jewelry; his formal coat, not the one he's wearing now, bears the clan device as well as House 19's insignia. If Lady Tiemann could see her son wearing a plain black overcoat and a factory hand's boots to the opera as he's doing now, black guitar strapped to his back like he plans on doing battle at the drop of a debutante's kerchief, she might write him out of her will altogether.
Onstage, the Scholar has summoned Mephistopheles, who's appeared with some newfangled pulley trapdoor and a cloud of devil's egg smoke. Cook and Tiemann are standing and favorably considering the demon's vibrant bass voice from a fieldcaster's perspective when Cook's field watch chimes. It only does that when the field chief wants to talk to a band leader, and Cook mutters curses as he pushes his way out of the theatre stalls in search of somewhere private.
Cook finds a quiet corner in the lobby, and sings the watch's lock open. Tiemann's right behind him; Cook finds his familiar bulk and presence more comforting than any mere spell might be.
"Anthemic One. Anything amiss, Chief?"
"We have a situation," says House Chief Cowell, his resonant singing voice carrying to Cook over the watch's rhythmic mechanical beat and the strings of the large House pipe organ. "Is your Two with you?"
"Yes, Tiemann's here. Where and who? And isn't someone else on duty tonight?"
"Johns and the Circle, but they have a case on the upper East Side. Something's occurring in Central Park. There are two young journeymen on their way to claim sanctuary with us off the Hoboken eight o'clock train. It seems they've been waylaid by forces unknown."
"We're on our way," Cook says, his mind racing. If the incident was occurring on the wide State streets he wouldn't need the full power of the Anthemic to handle it, but Central Park is riddled with maurauders, especially at this time of night, and for all intents and purposes it's outside the jurisdiction of the Guilds and the State.
House 19 isn't far from here, along Street 57, so he and Tiemann can circle back to House to pick up the other lads, and then they can ride the drums to the Park -
- "I've already sent your band to you," Chief interrupts him. "Skib is singing, so they're coming fast. Get outside now."
Chief cuts the connection in his usual abrupt manner and with a power dischord; grimacing, Cook almost pulls his watch off its fob. "I swear, whoever thought of using songcasting for remote comms needs to have their head examined."
Tiemann actually considers this, for all that they're hustling out of the theatre into the frosty night. "New Bell device's pretty good. Not portable, though. Need to make those magnetics smaller."
"Anything but magic," grumbles Cook, as they push onto the frigid stone steps.
The grimy, gaslit streets of York City are mostly deserted. There's a low evening mist compromising visibility at fifty paces. A couple of slow gasoline automobiles and horse cabs idle down the wide avenues, but it's too cold and gloomy for most Yorkers to be out and about for leisure, especially at this time of night. Awaiting the well-heeled theatre patrons are various new automobiles and old-fashioned horse-drawn carriages, lined up at the side entrance, the attendant footmen and bodyguards bundled up against the cold.
Cook pauses to take in the sharp, pungent air. Then he hears the deep rhythmic drumcasting of a field band, and looks up.
Overhead, out of the fog, come three figures in House scarlet.
His lads, the Anthemic's Three, Four, Five: Skib with his rhythm guitar and singer's headpiece, Anderson with his bass, flanking Peek's anchoring instrument platform. They're jacked in, Peek's big snare drum belting out the grounding beat in the syncopated time necessary for airborne maneuver.
The landing they make in front of the Metroglobe is not pretty, though. The Anthemic's airlift spell is designed for all five of them casting as one.
"Need more practice," Tiemann comments. "Also, strings not good tonight; we need more sustained power in the thirds, Anderson."
"Ah, screw yourself, Doctor T," Anderson returns amicably. He's broad and centered, the old hand of the band, has been casting for fifteen, twenty years with a number of other regional Houses before joining the Anthemic; on bass, he's their solid ground. "It's because we had to make an extra stop, to pick up a couple of swells who wanted to go watch opening night of proms."
Skib's too out of breath to say anything for a second, bracing against his knees and breathing heavily, dark hair falling over his pale face. The scarlet coat of their House covers his casual tunic and pants - clearly he was in his quarters when Cowell sounded the call to arms. Cook steadies Skib with one hand on his shoulder, and their second string takes a beat before he grins fiercely and says, "So, do we take it that you gents are coming with?"
In answer, Tiemann unstraps his instrument and cocks it casually, steel-stringed weapon at the ready.
Cook hasn't brought his; his momma had told him it wasn't polite to carry small arms to the theatre, and besides, an unsheathed guitar in a crowded opera house might start a fight. He's brought his singing wand, though, and unhooks it belatedly off its unobtrusive position on his belt.
Peek, with his Renaissance profile and easy smile, is the youngest member of their band, and the most naturally talented, Cook thinks; he's kept the beat idling in the night, running like a hot current through each of the bandcasters.
Tiemann strums an acoustic D, Cook shades his voice to match the note, and the other strings pull on board.
"Jack in," says Peek, and the five-man field band Anthemic connect with each other and the power at the world's spinning core (Not going to come down, heroes come and go), and they lift as one into the night sky.
*
Rising above the low-hanging fog gives Cook an unimpeded view of the Manhattan skyline, venerable old brownstones of the past century mingling with the new tall iron-girded buildings that seem to have sprung up overnight at the turn of this one, lit up with gas-lamps and, increasingly, the new electric lights.
It's a city on the brink of explosion, in a world on the brink of a reality-changing war. Though present hostilities seem confined to the various European kingdoms and the adversaries known as the Central Powers, the American States may well be drawn into the conflict at some stage, and if so, Cook isn't sure whether the Guilds are going to press their field members into service. He hopes not; he doesn't think he's cut out to be a soldier, nor his headstrong bunch of renegades, either - it's hard enough getting them to adhere to House rules as it is.
In any case, there's no time to take in the sights, they've a rescue mission to undertake. Singing the verse of their airborne song, Cook takes point and steers the band toward the vast blackness of Central Park.
The wind cuts through his leather coat, the notes curl through his body - this is something Cook lives for: leading the Anthemic, being its chief songcaster. They're the strongest band in House 19 and sometimes it feels like the whole American Guild.
"Park's big. Did Cowell care to share with us where the emergency was?" Cook hears Tiemann ask, Cook himself having no breath for conversation, of course, focusing the band's energies on maintaining lift.
Clearly there's some silent shrugging going on; the lads don't know the location. Cook doesn't need to see their expressions - when they're all jacked in like this he can sense their emotions running through the instrument link-up like it's a psychic bond.
They head lower, toward the lake, under the fog cover, and then it's not necessary for Jackson to have given precise co-ordinates, because all of them can feel it: the beat and flow of another field band's casting, in the unique back and forth rhythm of battle.
"There," Tiemann says abruptly, and Cook follows the bright line of his Second's attention to a thicket of trees lining the lake.
Cook squints - he wonders if he needs to pull out the spyglass again - and then the dark shapes resolve themselves: a five-man band, grounded, wearing non-identifying coats and no House insignia, throwing out a web of crackling power.
Its target, twenty paces thence, is ringed with a protective shield. The shimmering magic is so opaque Cook can't see who's casting the shielding spell, but it's clearly a powerful one.
As the Anthemic swing to the ground in battle formation, Cook can hear snatches of the dueling songs: the strange, in a lilting, luminous voice he's never experienced before, and the familiar, an old, powerful spell from a band in a rival House.
(Give us one chance to make this right/we won't go home without you)
(Offer me protection/Salvation lets their wings unfold/when I come to call he won't forsake me)
"Levine, your lads are out late," Tiemann shouts above the cacophony of the duel, and of course Cook recognizes the flamboyant Maroon, the premier five-man band from the powerful House A snd M.
Crew-cut, clean-shaven, Maroon's First doesn't spare them a breath in response, but he does glare at them as they ground and approach, and long-haired Valentine, their lead stringcaster Two, shouts back, "You leave off, Tiemann! This doesn't concern 19!"
"It doesn't concern A and M either, officially, anyway, or you gents wouldn't be here all incognito," Tiemann remarks, pointing the head of his guitar at Valentine like he's drawing a bead on him; Valentine glances from Tiemann to Levine and back again, obviously unsure whether to ask Maroon One to redirect the band's energies and guard their flank from the Anthemic.
"Yes, like your outfit's really cognito," Valentine quips back, not particularly wittily, and then, "That's close enough, Tiemann, I'm not joking, stand down now!"
"We can't do that," Tiemann drawls, and with a roar Levine swings the Maroon's power round to bear on the Anthemic, shifting into a higher key to power up another spell.
Levine doesn't get the chance to get off a shot in their direction, though, because Tiemann's intervention has allowed the Anthemic to ground for battle perfectly, with Peek and Anderson braced at the rear, Skib and Tiemann flanking Cook, their instruments chording with power, and Cook heads straight into their spell-breaking song with the full rush of the Anthemic's heartrock magic in his veins.
(You broke when I just bent/I meant to break you down/This time I stole the best of you)
The power gushes out of him like a hose, stabbing red and gold into the heart of the Maroon's blue web. Cook targets the singer and the drums - cutting the focus and the source out from under it will stop a band cold - and Maroon's new Five, drumcaster Flynn, folds to the frozen earth instantly.
Levine stays on his feet, tries to cast, (Six foot tall came without a warning/So I had to shoot him dead), but he's badly winded, and without percussion the song isn't anchored; the blast glances inconsequentially off Cook's shoulder.
Cook grimaces, but doesn't stop singing, going right for Maroon's uncentered core with a classic House Universal song: (Day destroys the night/You tried to run and hide/Break down the other side). Universal had indentured the rights to that spell from House Rhino, and Universal's foremost band, the legendary U2 from the new Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, had sub-licensed their rights to its use to the Anthemic and 19. Though Universal was allied with A and M these days, this didn't signify that the songcasters were, and the great Sir Paul Hewson had taken a particular shine to Cook one evening last year, bonding over La Boheme and thus paving the way for the execution of the sub-licence covenant on very favorable terms.
It's most unfortunate for Levine, because the Universal song is highly explosive: it catapults Maroon's lead singer into the ground, unconscious, and scatters the other casters as if they're civilian songsheets in a high wind.
A beat, then Cook nods, and they jack out. As always, Cook feels the lost connection like a blow to the stomach.
"Nicely done," Tiemann says appreciatively, surveying the supine bodies of the rival band; he toes Levine's shoulder as if he's considering getting a couple of old-fashioned kicks in to Levine's ribs.
"No bad behavior. Neal, I'm serious," Cook warns, using Tiemann's first handle to show his friend just how serious he is, though he has to take a breath when Skib touches his bruised shoulder.
"Cook, are you all right? That last hit..."
"...Didn't have any power behind it, I'm fine. We should see to our targets," Cook says, straightening up, and both of them turn around to where the song shield had run aground.
In place of the shield stand two very young men, barely of journeyman age, attired in the rough garb of the outlying states. They're both carrying ungainly satchels most likely filled with clothes, food and water. One of them is dark and slender, a gold sheen to his skin that speaks of a provenance further south than the State of York, the other older, slightly taller, slightly fairer, with long Pre-Raphaelite hair, carrying a small travelling guitar like the one common minstrels would use.
Peek has decoupled from his instrument platform and made his way over to them, Anderson close behind. Cook makes an irritated sound at Tiemann, who settles for poking Levine's limp body a last time with the tip of his workman's boot, and reluctantly joins them in meeting the strangers.
The dark-haired boy is talking animatedly to Anderson as Anthemic's One, Two, Three pull up; his long-haired companion maintains a laconic silence. Anderson touches the speaker's arm gently at Cook's approach and says, "Lads, this is Cook, our lead singer," and both strangers bend their heads to Cook.
"Sir," says the dark-haired one; his eyes are huge and brown, his lashes longer than those of many of Manhattan's coquettes.
Cook waves a hand impatiently: he hates ceremony of this kind. "You gentlemen here to see House 19?"
"Yes. We bring greetings from House Searchlight in the original State of Utah. Our Master has a couple of scrolls to present with, um, compliments to your Grand Master Lord Fuller..." The young man starts to rummage in his satchel, but is brought up short again by Cook's upraised hand.
"It's not safe out here. We need to get back to House, then we can engage in the formalities, which Fuller quite enjoys, as it happens."
"Hey, if anyone's safe out here it would be you! You were wonderful in that last maneuver, I had never heard anyone move from song to song so smoothly! But then I guess I must not get out much," and the young man has suddenly turned bright red.
Cook feels a reluctant grin taking over his face. All frontmen would be lying if they claimed they didn't desire the spotlight and the glory; he's not going to prevaricate, especially in front of impressionable youngsters as these.
"We get by," Cook says, with as much modesty as he can summon in this instant: he's aware the five Anthemic casters must look pretty impressive with their battle-hardened instruments, three in House colors and Tiemann and himself looking like the sort of common thug that might slit your throat under gaslight.
"Will you stop strutting." Tiemann's rolling his eyes, which merely enhances his thuggish countenance. "We need to exit the park, and some of us will have to do it on foot, unless these two journeymen can sing and play with us."
"We can," says the long-haired boy. "David sings, and I can sing and play strings. I don't think we've ever jacked in as a seven, though, or sung airborne," and Cook grins.
"There's always a first time for everything. Two-three-two is a possible config for our airborne spell. Chords intro in D and then shift to A - Tiemann will show you how. As for the lyric - David, is it?"
"David Archuleta," the boy supplies helpfully, smiling so broadly Cook wonders his face doesn't break in two; Cook's compelled to smile back.
"That was a nice shielding spell, by the way. A lot of power, even though you lads had to stamp your feet for rhythm. You have a good voice."
"Thanks," says Archuleta, blushing even more, which Cook would not have thought physically possible. "I wrote the spell myself, actually. I've written quite a few."
Cook raises his eyebrow; the journeyman's not what he seems. "You've talent," he says. "We don't get many spellwriters from the outer states. They tend to come here to the big city to write, which is why we can hoard all the major songbooks here like treasure."
"Actually, that's one thing I was supposed to transact with your Master," says Archuleta. "There was a big cold snap and rockslide in the mountains, and we found an old book in one of the new caves, which is supposedly very important and written by one of the oldest singers in the American States, it's called the Chronomicon? Well, when I say 'we' I mean Jason and me, because we happened to be out trying to bring the wild ponies out of the cold -"
Again Cook has to break out the hand gesture. "It's really not the time for this, Archuleta." Especially if Archuleta was carrying that fabled, dangerous prize in that shabby satchel of his - no wonder the other Houses might have heard rumors on the ether and sent a team to intercept them - they needed to get to sanctuary, and do it now.
It looks like Archuleta's stringcaster companion, Jason, is a quick study: Tiemann is nodding as they run through the chord changes together in synchronized tempo. It's time to get underway.
"Look, just you follow my lead, okay? We start with 'Pull me in like you were made for me, I've no faith in gravity'." Cook sings, and feels the thread of the song in his fingers; from the rapt look on Archuleta's face, Cook would say he feels it too.
"We're moving out," Cook announces to his band. At once Peek returns to his drums and the others slide into their designated positions.
"What about the Maroon?" Skib asks, hesitantly. "The Park thugs will rip them new ones if they don't know they're truly Guild fieldcasters."
"Who, these five? Don't see Guild insignia anywhere. These are merely five incognito citizens, unwisely out for a stroll in the Park on this wild night. Come, Mr Tiemann, let us take it away."
Tiemann gives them the note, and, a little unsteadily, the Anthemic Five lifts off, with two extra passengers casting into their song.
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Footnotes:
* I originally thought to set Anna's awesome request in futuristic/modern day, but struggled with lasers and electricity and cyberpunk; then I tried to make this regency, and had problems with a low technology universe and channelling magic through instruments.
Eventually, I ended up picking the turn of the 20th century by virtue of the fact that experiments with the electric guitar were occurring around this time (see, e.g., this article): my premise involves magic instead of electricity being harnessed through the guitar instead.
In its turn, the 1900s setting meant this became a pre-WW1 steampunk story, a genre I adore but know very little about. Unbetaed as well, so a double whammy - please forgive the likely errors!
* Title references H.P Lovecraft's Necronomicon (a magical lexicon/grimoire of immense power, fabled to summon the dread Old Ones who would destroy the Earth), categories of Western historical and philosophical eras and my favorite Edith Wharton novel.
* Map of New York showing the relative locations of 19E Inc's NY office at 140 West 57th Street, the Met Opera House at the Lincoln Center and Central Park here
FULL DISCLAIMER: Not for profit work of fiction. No libel or intellectual property infringement intended. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. 19 Inc, Gramaphone Records, Universal Music Group, A&M Records Inc and Rhino Records are not rival Songcasters' Guild Houses but existing corporate entities, owned by their respective shareholders. Fair use of song lyrics asserted. "Heroes" lyrics copyright David Cook, Cathy Denis & Raine Maida, "Breathe Tonight" lyrics copyright David Cook, "Angels" copyright Guy Chambers, Robbie Williams & Luis Gomez Escolar, "Won't Go Home Without You" lyrics copyright Adam Levine, "Wake Up Call" lyrics copyright Adam Levine & James Valentine, "Break On Through" lyrics copyright Jim Morrison & Ray Manzarek. All citations taken from www.metrolyrics.com, no accuracy asserted, will amend or remove upon valid request.
And this is the most pontification I've ever done in an A/N!
cookleta_etc had a holiday post where folk made requests for holiday gift ficlets. This one is lovely lirielviridian's request. Sweet Anna has been having a tough week, and I'm posting rough/unbetaed in hopes it will cheer her a little! Title: The Age of Music
Recipient:
lirielviridianRating, Genre: G, steampunk AU
Wordcount: 3,800+ words
Characters: The Anthemic, David Archuleta, Jason Castro, Maroon 5
Request: "A ficlet in which DCook can do ~magic with his voice, as in, he's a songcaster. And the band is there for added power, to have his back, and Monty (him since he's oldest and the most ~experienced) directs the music in the right place when the spell needs to cover a specific area. Together, they BATTLE EVIL."
A/N: Anna, I am sorry that my vision of magic in this verse provides Monty with the "grounding" rather than "directing" role! * Extended A/N/footnotes at the end of the story.
Disclaimer: Not for profit work of fiction. No libel or intellectual property infringement intended. Full disclaimer at end of story.
Pulpy trade paperback fic cover made by the talented
ciudad.Anthemicronicon: the Age of Music
David Cook, lead singer of the Anthemic, loves the opening act of the opera Faust. It's tradition that the fall proms season opens with an old European work, and in the five falls he's been living in the New State of York, he's come here every opening night.
He could be sitting in the House box seats high above the theatre, like other members of House 19 here tonight, but he prefers to stand under the archway of the stalls instead, among the good people of this state.
He's dressed like one of them tonight, as he frequently is: battered leather coat bare of any insignia, plain shirt and vest and work trousers, his one concession to opera night a necktie and the ornate heirloom cufflinks that had been in his family for three generations. In place of refined theatre glasses, he's toting a piratic spyglass that hails from the last century.
The Faust set blends seamlessly into the gorgeous setting of the Metroglobe Opera House. The orchestra is doing such a stellar job with the Gounoud score that when the Scholar (played by local divo Joseph Lerou) sings his opening aria, in which he turns his back on science and faith and importunes the guidance of sorcery, Cook can almost sense the magic in the air.
Tiemann would deem that foolishness, of course. For almost half a century the scholars of the great Guild of Songcasters of the American States had tried to write spells for larger bands than twenty without success: too many instruments and the spells become unstable, the singer or singers unable to channel the power, and more than six singers can't songcast together coherently. There's a reason why the ideal warband unit size, like that of the marching bands of the Northern States, is fourteen.
A fifty-man orchestra like this, with only one singer onstage, and a minimal percussion section to ground the music? Couldn't possibly tap into and harness the heartrock of the world's power, no matter how prettily the aria's sung.
"Lead violin's offtempo," Tiemann's voice is actually in his ear rather than just in his head, and strong, square fingers grip Cook's shoulder; Cook's used to his friend's wont to lurk in the shadows, so he doesn't jump. Much, anyway. "Second string's actually sparking some power, not at all badly. Can you see who it is?"
Obediently, Cook trains his spyglass at the orchestra pit. "I recognize him. It's John Bondini, from one of the other Houses, Gramaphone maybe. Either he's left active service, or those other masters don't mind the moonlighting as much as 19 does."
Tiemann snorts. Trust him to sniff out the songcaster amongst the civilian musicians, as well as the off-tempo lead - Cook can't hear it himself, but Tiemann has the most discerning ear in the House. Not for nothing he's one of the subtlest, strongest stringcasters in York, and the backbone of the Anthemic's field band of five.
"If it's Bondini, the kid's better off with a permanent position in the Met," is what Tiemann says now. "Recall him freezing on the line, he's not a fieldcaster. He's good for House conservatory, or playin' for the Presidential Enclave, or a nice civvie orchestra like here."
"Nothing like you then," Cook murmurs back, clipping the spyglass back on his belt and leaning back against his friend's strong arm. Tiemann hails from one of the oldest aristocratic families in the Old Southern State of Oklahoma, gets to wear his clan's insignia ring and jewelry; his formal coat, not the one he's wearing now, bears the clan device as well as House 19's insignia. If Lady Tiemann could see her son wearing a plain black overcoat and a factory hand's boots to the opera as he's doing now, black guitar strapped to his back like he plans on doing battle at the drop of a debutante's kerchief, she might write him out of her will altogether.
Onstage, the Scholar has summoned Mephistopheles, who's appeared with some newfangled pulley trapdoor and a cloud of devil's egg smoke. Cook and Tiemann are standing and favorably considering the demon's vibrant bass voice from a fieldcaster's perspective when Cook's field watch chimes. It only does that when the field chief wants to talk to a band leader, and Cook mutters curses as he pushes his way out of the theatre stalls in search of somewhere private.
Cook finds a quiet corner in the lobby, and sings the watch's lock open. Tiemann's right behind him; Cook finds his familiar bulk and presence more comforting than any mere spell might be.
"Anthemic One. Anything amiss, Chief?"
"We have a situation," says House Chief Cowell, his resonant singing voice carrying to Cook over the watch's rhythmic mechanical beat and the strings of the large House pipe organ. "Is your Two with you?"
"Yes, Tiemann's here. Where and who? And isn't someone else on duty tonight?"
"Johns and the Circle, but they have a case on the upper East Side. Something's occurring in Central Park. There are two young journeymen on their way to claim sanctuary with us off the Hoboken eight o'clock train. It seems they've been waylaid by forces unknown."
"We're on our way," Cook says, his mind racing. If the incident was occurring on the wide State streets he wouldn't need the full power of the Anthemic to handle it, but Central Park is riddled with maurauders, especially at this time of night, and for all intents and purposes it's outside the jurisdiction of the Guilds and the State.
House 19 isn't far from here, along Street 57, so he and Tiemann can circle back to House to pick up the other lads, and then they can ride the drums to the Park -
- "I've already sent your band to you," Chief interrupts him. "Skib is singing, so they're coming fast. Get outside now."
Chief cuts the connection in his usual abrupt manner and with a power dischord; grimacing, Cook almost pulls his watch off its fob. "I swear, whoever thought of using songcasting for remote comms needs to have their head examined."
Tiemann actually considers this, for all that they're hustling out of the theatre into the frosty night. "New Bell device's pretty good. Not portable, though. Need to make those magnetics smaller."
"Anything but magic," grumbles Cook, as they push onto the frigid stone steps.
The grimy, gaslit streets of York City are mostly deserted. There's a low evening mist compromising visibility at fifty paces. A couple of slow gasoline automobiles and horse cabs idle down the wide avenues, but it's too cold and gloomy for most Yorkers to be out and about for leisure, especially at this time of night. Awaiting the well-heeled theatre patrons are various new automobiles and old-fashioned horse-drawn carriages, lined up at the side entrance, the attendant footmen and bodyguards bundled up against the cold.
Cook pauses to take in the sharp, pungent air. Then he hears the deep rhythmic drumcasting of a field band, and looks up.
Overhead, out of the fog, come three figures in House scarlet.
His lads, the Anthemic's Three, Four, Five: Skib with his rhythm guitar and singer's headpiece, Anderson with his bass, flanking Peek's anchoring instrument platform. They're jacked in, Peek's big snare drum belting out the grounding beat in the syncopated time necessary for airborne maneuver.
The landing they make in front of the Metroglobe is not pretty, though. The Anthemic's airlift spell is designed for all five of them casting as one.
"Need more practice," Tiemann comments. "Also, strings not good tonight; we need more sustained power in the thirds, Anderson."
"Ah, screw yourself, Doctor T," Anderson returns amicably. He's broad and centered, the old hand of the band, has been casting for fifteen, twenty years with a number of other regional Houses before joining the Anthemic; on bass, he's their solid ground. "It's because we had to make an extra stop, to pick up a couple of swells who wanted to go watch opening night of proms."
Skib's too out of breath to say anything for a second, bracing against his knees and breathing heavily, dark hair falling over his pale face. The scarlet coat of their House covers his casual tunic and pants - clearly he was in his quarters when Cowell sounded the call to arms. Cook steadies Skib with one hand on his shoulder, and their second string takes a beat before he grins fiercely and says, "So, do we take it that you gents are coming with?"
In answer, Tiemann unstraps his instrument and cocks it casually, steel-stringed weapon at the ready.
Cook hasn't brought his; his momma had told him it wasn't polite to carry small arms to the theatre, and besides, an unsheathed guitar in a crowded opera house might start a fight. He's brought his singing wand, though, and unhooks it belatedly off its unobtrusive position on his belt.
Peek, with his Renaissance profile and easy smile, is the youngest member of their band, and the most naturally talented, Cook thinks; he's kept the beat idling in the night, running like a hot current through each of the bandcasters.
Tiemann strums an acoustic D, Cook shades his voice to match the note, and the other strings pull on board.
"Jack in," says Peek, and the five-man field band Anthemic connect with each other and the power at the world's spinning core (Not going to come down, heroes come and go), and they lift as one into the night sky.
*
Rising above the low-hanging fog gives Cook an unimpeded view of the Manhattan skyline, venerable old brownstones of the past century mingling with the new tall iron-girded buildings that seem to have sprung up overnight at the turn of this one, lit up with gas-lamps and, increasingly, the new electric lights.
It's a city on the brink of explosion, in a world on the brink of a reality-changing war. Though present hostilities seem confined to the various European kingdoms and the adversaries known as the Central Powers, the American States may well be drawn into the conflict at some stage, and if so, Cook isn't sure whether the Guilds are going to press their field members into service. He hopes not; he doesn't think he's cut out to be a soldier, nor his headstrong bunch of renegades, either - it's hard enough getting them to adhere to House rules as it is.
In any case, there's no time to take in the sights, they've a rescue mission to undertake. Singing the verse of their airborne song, Cook takes point and steers the band toward the vast blackness of Central Park.
The wind cuts through his leather coat, the notes curl through his body - this is something Cook lives for: leading the Anthemic, being its chief songcaster. They're the strongest band in House 19 and sometimes it feels like the whole American Guild.
"Park's big. Did Cowell care to share with us where the emergency was?" Cook hears Tiemann ask, Cook himself having no breath for conversation, of course, focusing the band's energies on maintaining lift.
Clearly there's some silent shrugging going on; the lads don't know the location. Cook doesn't need to see their expressions - when they're all jacked in like this he can sense their emotions running through the instrument link-up like it's a psychic bond.
They head lower, toward the lake, under the fog cover, and then it's not necessary for Jackson to have given precise co-ordinates, because all of them can feel it: the beat and flow of another field band's casting, in the unique back and forth rhythm of battle.
"There," Tiemann says abruptly, and Cook follows the bright line of his Second's attention to a thicket of trees lining the lake.
Cook squints - he wonders if he needs to pull out the spyglass again - and then the dark shapes resolve themselves: a five-man band, grounded, wearing non-identifying coats and no House insignia, throwing out a web of crackling power.
Its target, twenty paces thence, is ringed with a protective shield. The shimmering magic is so opaque Cook can't see who's casting the shielding spell, but it's clearly a powerful one.
As the Anthemic swing to the ground in battle formation, Cook can hear snatches of the dueling songs: the strange, in a lilting, luminous voice he's never experienced before, and the familiar, an old, powerful spell from a band in a rival House.
(Give us one chance to make this right/we won't go home without you)
(Offer me protection/Salvation lets their wings unfold/when I come to call he won't forsake me)
"Levine, your lads are out late," Tiemann shouts above the cacophony of the duel, and of course Cook recognizes the flamboyant Maroon, the premier five-man band from the powerful House A snd M.
Crew-cut, clean-shaven, Maroon's First doesn't spare them a breath in response, but he does glare at them as they ground and approach, and long-haired Valentine, their lead stringcaster Two, shouts back, "You leave off, Tiemann! This doesn't concern 19!"
"It doesn't concern A and M either, officially, anyway, or you gents wouldn't be here all incognito," Tiemann remarks, pointing the head of his guitar at Valentine like he's drawing a bead on him; Valentine glances from Tiemann to Levine and back again, obviously unsure whether to ask Maroon One to redirect the band's energies and guard their flank from the Anthemic.
"Yes, like your outfit's really cognito," Valentine quips back, not particularly wittily, and then, "That's close enough, Tiemann, I'm not joking, stand down now!"
"We can't do that," Tiemann drawls, and with a roar Levine swings the Maroon's power round to bear on the Anthemic, shifting into a higher key to power up another spell.
Levine doesn't get the chance to get off a shot in their direction, though, because Tiemann's intervention has allowed the Anthemic to ground for battle perfectly, with Peek and Anderson braced at the rear, Skib and Tiemann flanking Cook, their instruments chording with power, and Cook heads straight into their spell-breaking song with the full rush of the Anthemic's heartrock magic in his veins.
(You broke when I just bent/I meant to break you down/This time I stole the best of you)
The power gushes out of him like a hose, stabbing red and gold into the heart of the Maroon's blue web. Cook targets the singer and the drums - cutting the focus and the source out from under it will stop a band cold - and Maroon's new Five, drumcaster Flynn, folds to the frozen earth instantly.
Levine stays on his feet, tries to cast, (Six foot tall came without a warning/So I had to shoot him dead), but he's badly winded, and without percussion the song isn't anchored; the blast glances inconsequentially off Cook's shoulder.
Cook grimaces, but doesn't stop singing, going right for Maroon's uncentered core with a classic House Universal song: (Day destroys the night/You tried to run and hide/Break down the other side). Universal had indentured the rights to that spell from House Rhino, and Universal's foremost band, the legendary U2 from the new Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, had sub-licensed their rights to its use to the Anthemic and 19. Though Universal was allied with A and M these days, this didn't signify that the songcasters were, and the great Sir Paul Hewson had taken a particular shine to Cook one evening last year, bonding over La Boheme and thus paving the way for the execution of the sub-licence covenant on very favorable terms.
It's most unfortunate for Levine, because the Universal song is highly explosive: it catapults Maroon's lead singer into the ground, unconscious, and scatters the other casters as if they're civilian songsheets in a high wind.
A beat, then Cook nods, and they jack out. As always, Cook feels the lost connection like a blow to the stomach.
"Nicely done," Tiemann says appreciatively, surveying the supine bodies of the rival band; he toes Levine's shoulder as if he's considering getting a couple of old-fashioned kicks in to Levine's ribs.
"No bad behavior. Neal, I'm serious," Cook warns, using Tiemann's first handle to show his friend just how serious he is, though he has to take a breath when Skib touches his bruised shoulder.
"Cook, are you all right? That last hit..."
"...Didn't have any power behind it, I'm fine. We should see to our targets," Cook says, straightening up, and both of them turn around to where the song shield had run aground.
In place of the shield stand two very young men, barely of journeyman age, attired in the rough garb of the outlying states. They're both carrying ungainly satchels most likely filled with clothes, food and water. One of them is dark and slender, a gold sheen to his skin that speaks of a provenance further south than the State of York, the other older, slightly taller, slightly fairer, with long Pre-Raphaelite hair, carrying a small travelling guitar like the one common minstrels would use.
Peek has decoupled from his instrument platform and made his way over to them, Anderson close behind. Cook makes an irritated sound at Tiemann, who settles for poking Levine's limp body a last time with the tip of his workman's boot, and reluctantly joins them in meeting the strangers.
The dark-haired boy is talking animatedly to Anderson as Anthemic's One, Two, Three pull up; his long-haired companion maintains a laconic silence. Anderson touches the speaker's arm gently at Cook's approach and says, "Lads, this is Cook, our lead singer," and both strangers bend their heads to Cook.
"Sir," says the dark-haired one; his eyes are huge and brown, his lashes longer than those of many of Manhattan's coquettes.
Cook waves a hand impatiently: he hates ceremony of this kind. "You gentlemen here to see House 19?"
"Yes. We bring greetings from House Searchlight in the original State of Utah. Our Master has a couple of scrolls to present with, um, compliments to your Grand Master Lord Fuller..." The young man starts to rummage in his satchel, but is brought up short again by Cook's upraised hand.
"It's not safe out here. We need to get back to House, then we can engage in the formalities, which Fuller quite enjoys, as it happens."
"Hey, if anyone's safe out here it would be you! You were wonderful in that last maneuver, I had never heard anyone move from song to song so smoothly! But then I guess I must not get out much," and the young man has suddenly turned bright red.
Cook feels a reluctant grin taking over his face. All frontmen would be lying if they claimed they didn't desire the spotlight and the glory; he's not going to prevaricate, especially in front of impressionable youngsters as these.
"We get by," Cook says, with as much modesty as he can summon in this instant: he's aware the five Anthemic casters must look pretty impressive with their battle-hardened instruments, three in House colors and Tiemann and himself looking like the sort of common thug that might slit your throat under gaslight.
"Will you stop strutting." Tiemann's rolling his eyes, which merely enhances his thuggish countenance. "We need to exit the park, and some of us will have to do it on foot, unless these two journeymen can sing and play with us."
"We can," says the long-haired boy. "David sings, and I can sing and play strings. I don't think we've ever jacked in as a seven, though, or sung airborne," and Cook grins.
"There's always a first time for everything. Two-three-two is a possible config for our airborne spell. Chords intro in D and then shift to A - Tiemann will show you how. As for the lyric - David, is it?"
"David Archuleta," the boy supplies helpfully, smiling so broadly Cook wonders his face doesn't break in two; Cook's compelled to smile back.
"That was a nice shielding spell, by the way. A lot of power, even though you lads had to stamp your feet for rhythm. You have a good voice."
"Thanks," says Archuleta, blushing even more, which Cook would not have thought physically possible. "I wrote the spell myself, actually. I've written quite a few."
Cook raises his eyebrow; the journeyman's not what he seems. "You've talent," he says. "We don't get many spellwriters from the outer states. They tend to come here to the big city to write, which is why we can hoard all the major songbooks here like treasure."
"Actually, that's one thing I was supposed to transact with your Master," says Archuleta. "There was a big cold snap and rockslide in the mountains, and we found an old book in one of the new caves, which is supposedly very important and written by one of the oldest singers in the American States, it's called the Chronomicon? Well, when I say 'we' I mean Jason and me, because we happened to be out trying to bring the wild ponies out of the cold -"
Again Cook has to break out the hand gesture. "It's really not the time for this, Archuleta." Especially if Archuleta was carrying that fabled, dangerous prize in that shabby satchel of his - no wonder the other Houses might have heard rumors on the ether and sent a team to intercept them - they needed to get to sanctuary, and do it now.
It looks like Archuleta's stringcaster companion, Jason, is a quick study: Tiemann is nodding as they run through the chord changes together in synchronized tempo. It's time to get underway.
"Look, just you follow my lead, okay? We start with 'Pull me in like you were made for me, I've no faith in gravity'." Cook sings, and feels the thread of the song in his fingers; from the rapt look on Archuleta's face, Cook would say he feels it too.
"We're moving out," Cook announces to his band. At once Peek returns to his drums and the others slide into their designated positions.
"What about the Maroon?" Skib asks, hesitantly. "The Park thugs will rip them new ones if they don't know they're truly Guild fieldcasters."
"Who, these five? Don't see Guild insignia anywhere. These are merely five incognito citizens, unwisely out for a stroll in the Park on this wild night. Come, Mr Tiemann, let us take it away."
Tiemann gives them the note, and, a little unsteadily, the Anthemic Five lifts off, with two extra passengers casting into their song.
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Footnotes:
* I originally thought to set Anna's awesome request in futuristic/modern day, but struggled with lasers and electricity and cyberpunk; then I tried to make this regency, and had problems with a low technology universe and channelling magic through instruments.
Eventually, I ended up picking the turn of the 20th century by virtue of the fact that experiments with the electric guitar were occurring around this time (see, e.g., this article): my premise involves magic instead of electricity being harnessed through the guitar instead.
In its turn, the 1900s setting meant this became a pre-WW1 steampunk story, a genre I adore but know very little about. Unbetaed as well, so a double whammy - please forgive the likely errors!
* Title references H.P Lovecraft's Necronomicon (a magical lexicon/grimoire of immense power, fabled to summon the dread Old Ones who would destroy the Earth), categories of Western historical and philosophical eras and my favorite Edith Wharton novel.
* Map of New York showing the relative locations of 19E Inc's NY office at 140 West 57th Street, the Met Opera House at the Lincoln Center and Central Park here
FULL DISCLAIMER: Not for profit work of fiction. No libel or intellectual property infringement intended. All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. 19 Inc, Gramaphone Records, Universal Music Group, A&M Records Inc and Rhino Records are not rival Songcasters' Guild Houses but existing corporate entities, owned by their respective shareholders. Fair use of song lyrics asserted. "Heroes" lyrics copyright David Cook, Cathy Denis & Raine Maida, "Breathe Tonight" lyrics copyright David Cook, "Angels" copyright Guy Chambers, Robbie Williams & Luis Gomez Escolar, "Won't Go Home Without You" lyrics copyright Adam Levine, "Wake Up Call" lyrics copyright Adam Levine & James Valentine, "Break On Through" lyrics copyright Jim Morrison & Ray Manzarek. All citations taken from www.metrolyrics.com, no accuracy asserted, will amend or remove upon valid request.
And this is the most pontification I've ever done in an A/N!
