Isulka the Mageress, Book 1: The Stone of Isis: Isulka the Mageress

By Dorian Lake

Winner of the PRIX Imaginaire Découverte 2017 from Les Petits Mots des Libraires

Isulka is a mageress and an outsider, a little crooked and in a lot of debt, making her living by putting on magic shows in the cabarets of Paris. Scipione is a Venetian duellist like none other, a relic of the past exiled from La Serenissima, betrayed by his brothers and out for Vendetta.

Recruited by an English employer to pilfer a ruby ring, their mission quickly takes a perilous turn when they discover the true value of the jewel. The lure of profit will take them from Paris to Cairo, from low blows to cut-throats, in a high-speed chase with spies, criminals and an unsettling Egyptian cult…

• Language: English
• Publisher: Noir d'Absinthe
• Release date: Jun 2, 2020
• ISBN: 9781071543672

Book preview

Isulka the Mageress, Book 1: The Stone of Isis

Dorian Lake

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Translated by Ian Stephenson 

Isulka the Mageress, Book 1: The Stone of Isis

Written By Dorian Lake

Copyright © 2020 Dorian Lake

All rights reserved

Distributed by Babelcube, Inc.

www.babelcube.com

Translated by Ian Stephenson

Babelcube Books and Babelcube are trademarks of Babelcube Inc.

Table of contents

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Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Acknowledgements

More by this author

For Mélanie

Chapter I

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Isulka had never been remarkably lucky at the gambling table.

Nevertheless, that did not stop her from placing bets that were far beyond her means, with the consequences that might well be expected. That evening was hardly any different, save the fact that the individuals haunting that particular den were hardly the cream of the Parisian crop. The hovel was in a sombre cellar enveloped in a cloak of grey and black smoke. The ground was sticky, the tables filthy, and the cards had clearly suffered a lifetime of cruelty and abuse. The queen of diamonds, the only coat card in the mageress’ hand, had lost half of her head in a bygone battle with a cigarette.

Isulka, the only member of the fairer sex at that table, was a creature whose beauty proved difficult to classify. She sported too many curves to be vestal, but not enough to serve Ishtar. Her bosom no longer recalled the purity of childhood, but an Oedipus would not have found her maternal enough. A defiant smile played on her red lips that were neither truly innocent nor resolutely seductive. Her keen, blue-grey eyes pierced and tormented all those she looked upon, sowing disquiet and desire in equal measure.

Grimacing, the young woman counted the francs she had left for the umpteenth time. It was still early, and she had already lost nearly all of her earnings from a week of performances. God only knew just how dangerous her magic shows could turn out to be. Not that she was at risk of hurting herself—her affinity for fire was far too great for that—but attracting the attention of the Church and the self-righteous was never a good idea, even in 1888.

Well, my little redhead, are you playing or what? asked a gambler with a poorly-tailored beard and breath reeking of alcohol.

She contemplated her hand one last time with a sad vacuity. The other gamblers had put up masks that were so impenetrable that she was unable to guess whether they were confident or on the cusp of despair. She rubbed a clammy hand on her leather trousers in the vain hope of drying it, her teeth clenched. Should she play and risk losing it all one more time? Or stop footing the bill and go home, proud of having put an end to her maniacal spending?

The young woman was about to succumb to the devil on the gambling table when she heard a shrill and unfortunately recognisable voice mangle the sweet sonority of her name:

Mademoiselle Isulka.

She sighed and set down her cards before collecting the few francs she had left. She stood up and turned around to face her interlocutor who had judiciously placed himself in front of the staircase that was her exit out of the estaminet.

The little man had a shark-like face and a frighteningly preponderant nose on which were perched a pair of spectacles that would have nauseated Paris’ couturiers. He was not alone, a fact that bespoke of nothing good, especially as his companion must have stood nearly two metres in both height and breadth. In her head, Isulka called him Rex and hoped that he didn’t bite.

My dear Monsieur Occipis! What a pleasure it is to see you this evening, she lied. I was just about to drop by.

The other gamblers did everything they could to ignore the conversation, well aware as they were of the usurer’s reputation; never would they intervene and come to the aid of a damsel in distress if things took a turn for the worse.

Oh yes? Then fortune must be smiling on us, for I was on my way to see you, Mademoiselle Isulka. Pleasantries aside, I am a patient man, you cannot deny me that. Having said that, there is patience and then there is patience, and I am starting to believe that you are abusing my kindness.

Come now, Monsieur Occipis, you know that I would never impose on you.

So where is my money? You are a month overdue and I am starting to worry.

The silence which followed spoke volumes of Isulka’s ability to reimburse her creditor. She was well aware that the day to settle accounts would come, and it was not the first time she had found herself in such a situation, but money had an almost mysterious propensity to slip right between her fingers. What could she do in the face of such a cosmic conspiracy?

That’s what I thought, he went on, straightening his spectacles. I didn’t want it to come to this, believe me, but I am nonetheless convinced that you are in need of, let’s say, some motivation. I am loath to have come to this conclusion—especially as it concerns such a beautiful woman—but there you are, business is business, and I have a reputation to protect. I do hope you understand that none of this is personal.

It doesn’t have to be this way. I understand what you’re saying, truly I do. What would you say if I paid you tomorrow? It’s already well into the night, tomorrow has never been as close as it is now, isn’t that right?

Isulka had stepped back, sensing the growing physical danger and more aware than ever of her very fragile femininity. Her gaze swung over to Rex. She gulped and tried to negotiate once more:

We had an interest rate of five per cent, right?

Ten per cent, Mademoiselle, he answered wearily, ten per cent.

Ten, yes, that’s right. Let’s call it fifteen per cent. How about I give you half in the morning and the rest the day after? An honest proposal, I think you’ll agree.

Mademoiselle... sighed the creditor, shaking his head. So be it. Half tomorrow, the balance the following day at a rate of fifteen per cent.

Isulka smiled inwardly, pleased with the result, at least she was until he continued in the same tone of voice:

But before that, I am going to allow my friend Georges here to see to you. It is a matter of the reputation I mentioned a moment ago. Mademoiselle, I will see you tomorrow. Georges, be so kind and try not to kill her.

Isulka was a woman with numerous flaws: a chronic gambler, a loose tongue, fickle, a manipulator and a coward, the list went on. Yet, in spite of it all, she believed she was endowed with great resourcefulness when it came to avoiding the consequences of her actions, as Georges discovered when a mug of beer struck him right in the eye. Of course, it was hardly enough to deter a hulking bruiser like him, but it did foreshadow the sequence of events that were to follow: the impending punishment would not be as easy to administer as first thought.

Monsieur Occipis had departed and Georges was trying to trap his prey who had dug in behind the gambling table. She threw everything she could get her hands on while the customers spat obscenities as they were relieved of their drinks one by one. The thug maintained his composure; he grabbed the table and turned it over with a disconcerting effortlessness, forcing both the clientele and the young woman to back up. He rushed her at an improbable speed and grabbed her by the throat, slamming her against one of the walls.

The pain wrenched an almost bestial cry from her and she scratched at her attacker’s face. It was not enough; he grabbed her right wrist with his free hand, almost snapping it in two. The mageress’ vision began to cloud over and her breath came in ragged gasps. Panicked, she grabbed Georges’ earlobe with her left hand and pulled with all her strength, driving her knee towards the brute’s family jewels at the same time. He dropped her; the blow had hit the mark and the poor man nursed his crotch with one hand and his blood-drenched ear with the other.

Isulka felt a little piece of warm flesh between her fingers and dropped it in disgust. She fled without losing another second, still struggling for breath, a now truly furious Georges at her heels.

⁂

Exhausted from a flight of several minutes through the dirty streets of the popular and passably dangerous Les Halles quarter, Isulka—at liberty and in reasonable condition given the circumstances—managed to make her way to see Agelin, the boss of the Rue du Chat Pêcheur pickpockets. Access over rooftops made slippery by the rainy winter season was fairly tricky, but she had been there often enough to be able to recognise and circumnavigate the more perilous spots.

Agelin was there, a blonde-haired dandy whose belly was getting bigger the closer he came to thirty years of age. The majority of his protégés were likely stalking the streets, indiscriminately denuding the hordes of both drunkards and bourgeois alike. Isulka had tried her hand at pickpocketing several years earlier, but it was not an area in which she excelled. Agelin had suggested a subtler swindle whereby she might distract a gentleman with tricks and magic instead of slipping her hand into his pocket. It was also he who had encouraged her to use her talents in pyromancy in her street performances so that the spectators could be relieved of a handful of coins by discreet accomplices. It was not without risk, but her reputation had never soared high enough to turn the ears of the police or, worse yet, the Vatican.

Isulka! You’re alive? What a happy surprise!

Alive, yes, but only just.

Yes, I can see that. Have you caught a cold? Your throat is violet.

I was beaten up.

You? Beaten up? Who had the honour, Madame?

A thug who could have broken you in two, my little Agelin, believe me. I only managed to escape thanks to my legendary heroism. He was so big that he wouldn’t be able to fit under your doorway and he had the strength of three men. But none of that frightened Isulka, the grinder of jewels.

I see... replied Agelin without great conviction while his unexpected guest sat down in a chair with a painful wheeze. And what can I do for you, my sweet? I imagine you have not come to gaze into my beautiful eyes.

Why? Can I not come and see you without some ulterior motive? she said with an air of affected outrage. I am not that kind of woman, Agelin, you know that. Do you have anything to drink?

At once, princess.

The thief stood up and poured two glasses of wine. He turned the reasonable vintage slowly in his fingers. Isulka had already emptied hers.

I need a job, Agelin. I need nearly three hundred francs, with interest, and half of it by tomorrow.

Well I never, the young man sighed. You lost everything again?

You have to spend money to make money. Isn’t that what they say?

Except you spend it and you don’t make it.

That’s more or less it, she agreed. Anyway, a job, do you have anything?

"Perhaps, yes. There is an Englishman in town, I forget his name, but I know where to find him. He is looking for a pair of nimble hands for something shady. Being a rosbif, he’s having no small amount of trouble finding people around these parts to hire. What’s more, he is apparently willing to pay a little more than the average employer."

A tea drinker in something shady... Is there nothing else?

To make one hundred and fifty francs by tomorrow? No. Now, if you’ll excuse me...

Alright, fine. Where is this Englishman of yours?

Chapter II

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Scipione, nude beneath the red silk sheets, had his gaze riveted on his conquest for the evening, a pretty Frenchwoman with a name that was certainly charming, even if he couldn’t recall it for the time being. He swallowed a mouthful of French wine, his favourite, much to the chagrin of his amateur compatriots who preferred Chianti over Bordeaux. The sounds of Paris entered through the half-open window: passers-by hurrying through the showers that had a habit of turning violent at the onset of winter, carriages being pulled by draft horses and, more simply, the crowds striding along the nearby Champs-Élysées.

Now that the passion had left his veins, the Italian wondered whether it had been a good idea to seduce his ephemeral mistress after all. She had her charms, that much was certain—beautiful brunette tresses framing angelic features, emerald eyes and a figure that could make short work of shattering a heart of ice—but there was no doubt she was someone’s wife, and even though Scipione could no longer remember the charming creature’s name, the name of the Dragon to whom she was married was not unknown to him. Not a dragon such as a mythological beast, but a class of the French mounted cavalry which comprised the finest of France’s military; more specifically, he was Monsieur Raoul Mallaré, a colonel of the 22nd regiment and a Great Officer from Saint-Cyr, that prestigious military school that had produced so many French Messieurs.

The evening’s dalliance risked taking a hugely unpleasant turn if the colonel decided to appear unannounced, but that was something Madame deemed out of the question. Nevertheless, the austere portrait of Monsieur Mallaré hanging by the fireplace heralded nothing good about the man’s character.

Tell me more of your journeys, Scipione, she asked him, adorning his name with an enamouring French melodiousness.

Have you ever seen Russia, my dear Madame?

No! I have heard that it is terribly cold there, that the people who live in that country are coarse and vindictive, but also that the court of the Tsar is of a grandeur that has scarcely been imagined since the death of Napoléon.

You have not been lied to, my dear. I went there with my erstwhile brothers-in-arms who, I must say, were more felons than fellows. But who can resist the lure of adventure? We rented a modest fishing boat. Not one of us understood a single word of what those charming fishermen were saying and we had to rely on their very relatively modest command of French. The Russian nobility may speak your tongue even better than I do, but believe me that such is not the case among good folk. Imagine that they took us not to Saint Petersburg but to a little port the name of which I cannot recall...

Scipione helped himself to another drop of wine before shuffling closer to the young woman whose eyes were shining. Russia rarely featured among his most treasured memories, but the country lent itself well to tales and exploits not least because it was difficult to confirm the veracity of the claims. He seriously doubted that the colonel took the time to share his experiences with his wife, but tonight she was dreaming of legends without ever having left Paris. He did not want to deceive her.

I cannot say that we were warmly welcomed. We had not a penny to our name, we were practically the only foreigners present and the town had fallen prey to such horrible crimes that the people attributed them to vampires and other diabolical creatures.

Vampires? I’m not sure I believe you, Monsieur.

And I swear to you, Madame, that I hardly believed it myself, but my companions proved to be much more gullible than your obedient servant, as did the residents of that little town. The cause of the murders may have remained a mystery, but they were very real and would have made dear Jack seem a mere dilettante. Russians are very imaginative, you see...

At that moment the door opened and a man’s voice called out:

Églantine, I’m back.

Églantine—that was her name—immediately turned extremely pale. She threw the sheets over the body of her lover, who remained perfectly still.

Oh... Raoul, you’re back already? she hesitated. I thought you were on duty tonight.

Fortunately no, my sweet. The ambassador is going to be at least a day late because of the bad weather.

Silence settled in and Scipione found himself holding his breath. Neither Raoul nor Églantine said a word, something that did little to reassure him. The man’s footsteps went over to one side of the room. The Italian could not remember where he had left his affairs, having hastily undressed when the moment had arrived to become more intimately acquainted with the young vixen.

He heard the footsteps quickly approach. The sheet was suddenly thrown up and a ludicrous tableau vivant presented itself in