The Executioner's Handbook: The Lailoyan Alchemist, #1

By Scott E. Douglas

A Somewhat Romantic Steampunked Comedy Adventure 

Magic will get you killed. If its practice doesn’t cause you to spontaneously combust, then the Department of Public Protection will happily ignite you in a safe and predictable manner in a place that endangers nobody.

When alchemist Alexander Hancock was commissioned by a suffragette journalist named Isadore Moorcock to help find her father, his answer was no. Risk his life looking for a journalist who’d gone missing while researching a Magic Cult? He had better things to do than that... well... not really... but his answer was still no. That was until he found himself on a train ride to trouble.

Now he’ll be lucky to avoid being ignited on one of the Department’s wooden stakes... and being with Isadore isn't so bad, really.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott E. Douglas
• Release date: May 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781513026909

Book preview

1.  The Fires of Drumchappel

Two apparently dangerous men and one apparently dangerous young woman were about to die in Drumchappel's town square. The three apparently dangerous victims were ushered by twelve inquisitors out of the courtyard of the Offices for the Department for Public Protection. They were strapped to poles erected in their honour in the centre of the courtyard. It wasn’t really an execution, which apparently made it right. They were guilty of the practice of magic. This meant they were already doomed to death by spontaneous combustion. This was merely speeding their inevitable demise in a safe and predictable place, apparently.

With the condemned safely strapped to their poles, snare drums began. Kindling was placed about their feet, tar was poured over the kindling and Alexander’s stomach started to turn. He was among the crowd ordered to witness the diligence of the Department of Public Protection as it dealt with these threats. They didn’t look dangerous though. They looked frightened.

Alexander didn’t want to see another execution. It was the third he’d been summoned to this month and the tenth this year.

Three meter tall figures called sentinels looked down upon the event. They were meant to look like benevolent guardians. Instead they looked grotesque. Their clockwork eyes that scanned the crowd served two purposes. The first was to find anything that might hamper the smooth running of the execution. The second was to ensure all present witnessed the Department’s diligence. Alexander tried to figure where their eyes were looking so he could sneak away.

Risking the fine, Alexander moved away from the crowd. Watching the sentinels’ clockwork eyes, Alexander slipped into the alleyway opposite the Department's Offices. The alley angled away from the event so it seemed a safe way to escape unseen. He could already smell the kerosene being poured over the victims. Walking off, he tipped his hat to a woman who was standing in the alley.

No stomach for the event then? she asked as Alexander approached.

I've no desire to witness yet another atrocity such as this. Alexander answered.

Then you must be either brave or foolish, she said to him as he passed her. Which is it?

I beg your pardon? Alexander turned to her.

Brave or foolish? she asked again.

Alexander looked at her suspiciously. She was in her late twenties, just a little younger than him. She had dark hair with even darker eyes and wore dark clothes. In fact, the only thing fair about her was her complexion. From the look of her, she was a suffragette. Her clothes were conspicuously discreet, but revealingly tight.

To tip my hat and wish a suffragette a good day, I must be both, Alexander replied.

I meant to desert an event like this. It is forbidden to refuse to witness the Department mete out justice.

Justice? Is that what you call it?

Careful. Words such as those can have you incinerated as well.

Dread seized Alexander’s gut. Not every inquisitor wore the distinctive brown cloak. This woman could be one of them.

I merely meant this is more an effect than a punishment. The crowd became quiet in the background. These poor misguided fools will burn regardless of whether they’re ignited today or not.

Really? the young lady said. You're sure these three practiced magic?

They have been due process of law and found guilty.

You didn't answer the question.

I believe I—

A frantic scream from the woman tied to the pole in the town square echoed up the alley way. They must have just doused her, Alexander thought.

You are obviously an alchemist, the suffragette said, seemingly oblivious to the sounds in the square. Does that qualify you to make such a judgement?

The cries of the woman began to gnaw at Alexander’s gut. What makes you think I’m an alchemist? he asked with more composure than he cared to maintain.

The alchemist jacket, she said bluntly. But even if it were a dinner jacket you give yourself away. You are too plain to be remarkable but too remarkable to be just common. You wear your shirt in an untidy manner, but pay attention to too many smaller details for it to be believable. Not born to privilege you must deal with those who are. That leaves few professions, and as you seem to lack imagination in your attire, that precludes anything artistic.

There was a scream from the town square accompanied by the woof of one of the victims ignited. The cries of the woman became even more desperate.

Look, if you’re going to fine me for shirking, then just do it. The sounds of the executions were making him feel anxious.

Walking away from an execution can be a serious offense. Especially since alchemy is so close to magic.

The Ministry for Public Protection publicly acknowledged that alchemy isn’t magical. Alchemy has recognized, understood and natural principles behind it. Alexander nodded an unspoken ‘so-there’.

To whom should I issue this infringement?

Hancock, Alexander Noonan Hancock.

She smiled, nodded, took out a notebook and wrote. I’m not here to mete out infringement notices. I’m here to gauge the feeling of the public toward the increased number of these executions. There was another woof and the woman’s cries were now hysterical. They’ve obviously left her for last. Effective isn’t it? Her voice was icy.

So you’re a journalist? Alexander said, trying to ignore the sounds from the square.

"From the Daily Views. You sound like you disapprove." She answered.

"Not at all, just surprised the Daily Views would send a woman journalist to cover something like this."

What is it about my gender you have a problem with? Do you think a woman too frail for this job?

I’m not judging you. I was judging your employer.

For hiring a woman?

For being typical men of our times. I see I have misjudged them.

The third woof was followed by a piercing scream. The cries continued for several minutes before there was silence.

That was necessary? the woman asked.

Alexander took a deep breath. I bloody-well hope so, he said in a low voice. I bloody-well hope so.

The woman swallowed, and then nodded solemnly. You’re sure the Sentinels didn’t see you? she asked softly.

The sentinels are nothing more than glorified periscopes. No matter how high they are, they still rely on four inquisitors to watch the crowd. They would have been more interested in the executions than their assigned task.

Meaning? she asked.

Meaning, if they did see me, then they have some sort of magic inside them. That’s not something the Inquisition would tolerate, let alone use.

Don’t be so sure of that, she said while walking away.

Alexander watched as she walked away. Those clothes were tight.

2.  The Deal with the Alchemist

All Kinds of Stains Removed in a Jiffy. So read the sign out front of Alexander’s store. The store stood in a quiet part of Drumchappel, close to the centre of business but not central. It didn’t matter. Alexander’s business was indispensable so it didn’t need great exposure. The street it was in was a cul-de-sac full of flats above small shop fronts. Alexander shared the cul-de-sac with tailors, a couple of smiths, a pawn shop and various purveyors of knickknacks and novelties.

Yes he was an Alchemist, but alchemy was such a broad field he could specialize in any of a plethora of areas. Alexander plied his trade to cleaning. Cleaning clothes, walls, tiles even carriages. The only thing Alexander didn’t have were potions for getting stains off living creatures. That could be risky.

His store consisted of a counter with shelves behind it displaying a clutter of various bottles, solutions and jars of salts. People would come with their stains and Alexander would concoct a solution to remove them.

It was the morning after the executions and Alexander had to catch up with his orders. The calls for witnesses were tedious. The helplessness he felt from being forced to watch these bordered on despair. It was wrong, and he knew it, but to say so came with it the risk of being labelled a denier and becoming one of the next victims of the inquisition’s barbarous flames. Everybody believed it was right and if everybody believes it then it is truth, whether it is true or not. Deniers are set alight for the public’s protection because they were mages. They wouldn’t be deniers unless they were also practitioners.

His thoughts wandered. Rowena...

He looked along the top shelf for a special potion he kept there. It was the one he’d made up for when the weight of this life was too much and he needed escape. He called it his happiness bottle. Filled with apathy and blissful ignorance, it worked better than anything alcoholic. Too much of it would result in dependence though, so he stopped himself. It wasn’t quite that bad.

There was no time for this. Once the horror of witnessing the murder of innocents had passed, there was the inconvenience of customers expecting their potions in a timely manner. It took some time for life to feel normal after watching such a gruesome event. It was harder to explain this to his customers. Explaining that he hated how easy it was to no longer care was even harder. It meant he had to say it out loud.

Alexander was in the middle of making life normal again when the suffragette reporter walked into his shop.

Cleaning products? she announced. You say you’re an alchemist but merely make cleaning products?

I make potions to shift all kinds of stains. Alexander said as cordially as he could. May I help you with something?

I’m don’t know, she answered. What kind of stains are you prepared to remove?

Any kind on any surface or textile, coloured or plain. If I don’t have a potion suited for you, I’ll find one.

The stain of injustice? she asked while handing Alexander a printed business card.

I’m not sure what you mean Miss— Alexander looked at the card. Miss Moorcock.

That’s pronounced Moorcoh.

But it’s spelled Moor—

I don’t care how it is spelled, Mr. Hancock, it is pronounced Moorcoh.

That’s Hanglow, Miss Moorcoh, Alexander corrected.

I beg your pardon?

My name, it’s Mr. Hanglow, or Alexander.

Now you’re just being silly. She pouted.

What may I help you with Miss Moorcoh? Alexander clapped his hands. Do you suffer from some sort of stubborn staining?

I want you to help me find my father Mr. — Alexander.

I’m an alchemist Miss Moorcoh, may I call you Ava?

Isadore.

Which door?’.

No, you may call me Isadore. It is my middle name and I prefer it to Ava.

With a surname like Moorcock, I’d prefer that too. Alexander smiled.

I don’t find puerile jests about my name remotely amusing.

And neither would I if I’d heard as many of them as you have, Alexander said. I apologize, Isadore.

Charming apology accepted Mr. Hanglow. She smiled.

As I was saying, I’m an alchemist, not a detective and I don’t know why—

You’re an alchemist, and according to my research, a very good one. Others speak very well of Alexander Hancock. This is why I am here. I need a very good alchemist to help me find my father. You have knowledge that may be of assistance.

What kind of knowledge? Where do you think your father disappeared to?

My father is a journalist, like me. You judged my employers yesterday too moderately. He is the reason I have the job I have.

Alexander nodded. It must be difficult for a sympathizer of the suffragette cause to say that.

More than you can imagine. I don’t deceive myself though, Isadore said. My father was commissioned to find intelligence regarding a mystery cult, a magical mystery cult Mr. Hancock. I need somebody who knows something of the workings of such cults to help me with my enquiries.

Why do you think I can help you?

As an alchemist you stand closer to magic than most. From your vantage point you can see and perhaps even understand things others cannot. What I have found to date has been very confusing. Even if all you can offer is some understanding—

You ask too much, Alexander answered. I sympathize with you, I really do, but you must understand I cannot become involved in anything smelling remotely of magic. The Department would be after me very swiftly.

Yes, the inquisition. That’s something else. Isadore looked to the bottles on the shelves along the walls of the store. They nearly had all Alchemists labelled mages five years ago. But you know that don’t you?

That was completely foolish, Alexander answered. The inquisition exist to protect the general population from the spontaneous combustion of those who dabbled in the magic arts. No alchemist has ever burst into flames on his own.

But magical practitioners have?

According to all recent history books—

I notice you just said all ‘recent’ books, Isadore interrupted. Books written in the last fifty or so years. There’s no mention in any books older than that.

I wouldn’t know and have no cause to doubt my professors of history. The woman was becoming tedious. They would know better than me. I remember being taught about the great burning when I was in school. That’s all I know about it. The tone of Alexander’s voice said subject closed.

Isadore didn’t listen to his tone though. So you’re content to believe the Department of Public Protection unquestioningly?

I’ve questioned, and been satisfied with the answers, Miss Moorcoh.

So you agree with the inquisition Mr. Hanglow?

I may not like them, but I’m not stupid Miss Moorcoh.

Isadore nodded. Did you know one of those executed yesterday was an alchemist?

Even more reason for me to have nothing to do with this.

He was an apothecary. It seems he helped a young woman survive some incurable disease.

That still—

The woman whose life he saved was burned on the stake beside him. You would remember hearing her screaming while you tried to walk away... Haunting, wasn’t it? She was pregnant Mr. Hancock. Her husband is inconsolable, and so is her four year old daughter.

Alexander closed his eyes and sighed. Why do you need me? Why not some other alchemist, one closer to magic than cleaning products?

Because of the depth of contempt you exude for the Inquisition.

Alexander paused before speaking. To answer the question you had for me yesterday, I’m bloody foolish. I will help you Miss Moorcock.

Isadore, please.

Isadore. What is it you require?

I’ll return tomorrow with some papers. I need to understand the nature of their contents.

This sounds like a dangerous endeavour, he said before she left. Are you sure it wouldn’t be better left to others? Others who are more suited to such?

You mean men? she asked.

No, I mean detectives.

Who are men. Well Mr. Hancock, I’m not accustomed to being idle when there’s some truth to be found, and especially not when there’s a loved one in jeopardy.

Neither am I Miss Moorcock. I merely meant—

I know what you meant. I’m not one for foolish displays of emotion when action is called for. Remember that Mr. Hancock. She walked out of the shop too fast for Alexander to reply.

Alexander closed up the shop soon after she left. He had too much to contemplate to be productive and didn’t want to deal with customers.

3.  An Unfortunate Encounter

The day went. Alexander wasn’t sure where it went; it just went. He ate, he drank, and he went to the toilet. These were the only things he was sure of. To make it worse, he received another summons to witness another execution scheduled next week. This time, there was going to be a lot of them.

The memory of the smell of burning corpses had already ruined his favourite breakfast. He would never eat a slice of bacon again, nor walk past a café or restaurant where it was being cooked. He wasn’t the only one affected in this way. Many places now refuse to serve it or anything else that might remind their customers of the horrible sights they were regularly subjected to.

Alexander opted for an early night. He’d been to The Glass Chef, his favourite café on Airedale Street, and treated himself to a meal of beef with beans. Now, in his flat above his store, he just wanted to sleep.

The banging at the front door started as soon as Alexander was