CHAPTER 15
A boy’s clenched fist trembled with hesitation, hovering over a black door. He struggled with nerves. Historically, two calamities happened when passing his Lordship a correspondence notice. He’d never witnessed the wrath of either, but he’d seen it in the shape of broken jaws and employment exchanges to the mines.
The hallway still echoed his footsteps as though they were the only sound to fill it in decades. The black door towered over him. He took a long hard breath, filling his lungs. They stung with the intake. Perhaps the spell was on its way? He closed his eyes and hoped for it.
He knocked. The sound reverberated in the room behind it, sounding empty. The boy pressed his ear against the varnished wood. A subtle tapping of footsteps gaining ground grew in volume, harmonising with his fear.
‘Enter,’ rumbled a voice behind the door.
A final check of uniform, straightening of his shirt and the boy turned the handle.
Lucian Augustus Seagrave stood with his gloved hands together, tapping his left foot.
The boy was quick to enact the rehearsed etiquette. ‘A Coro letter from the Gypsy Moth, my Lord.’ He clipped his heels together.
The walls were painted a vibrant red, reminding him of firecrackers. He stood in the archway. Cool mint came from somewhere in the room. It calmed him for no longer than a second.
‘Bring it forward.’ Lucian said.
The boy bowed deep, keeping his head up, locked in eye contact and walked forward a few slow steps. Seagrave smiled, walking back to the open fire. A book hung over the nearby armchair.
The glow from the fire cast an ungodly luminosity wrapping around his Lordship. No sign of the crow.
‘Very good, close the door behind you, please.’
He hurried back and closed it. He wanted nothing more than to leave the note on the side, get out of the room as quickly as possible.
‘Pass it to me.’ There was frustration in his voice.
A lump swelled inside the boy’s throat. He didn’t know if it was real, he knew it wasn’t blocking his breath and questioned if it had palpable mass.
‘Stay here, don’t go anywhere.’
He stood and watched Lucian break the wax seal and unfold the parchment, revealing words penned by someone cursed with anxious hands. Lucian’s grey eyes danced over the contents.
‘How wonderful!’ Lucian said joyously. ‘We have finally caged a Nightingale.’ He crumpled up the note and threw it in the fire. As it burned, the wax sizzled.
Lucian stared at the boy, his eyes widening with excitement. ‘And what happens to caged Nightingales, my dear lad?’
He didn’t know the answer but decided to make the various expressions like searching for one. Taking a guess, he said, ‘They sing, my Lord?’
‘Yes!’ Lucian cried, delighted by the child’s trivial knowledge. ‘Dearest boy, they do indeed sing, and this Nightingale is going to sing the loudest of them all!’ He sat in his chair and pulled out a reservoir pen. ‘Boy, go over to the cabinet and bring me a pot of ink and parchment.’
He rushed over, following his excited Lord’s order. The ink he found easily. But the paper, where was the paper? Sweat broke away from his hairline and ran down both temples, racing each other, and two others followed in hot pursuit. He faced his Lord, body tensed as though the muscles received the orders to crush his bones. ‘There isn’t any, my Lord.’
‘Very well,’ Lucian said, ripping out the dedication page from his novel.
He handed his Lord the pot of ink. Lucian dipped his pen in, soaked it up and scribed the following,
Captain Barknuckle,
Dock at hanger three and meet with me and your guest in the library. I trust you know of its location...
‘Boy, what is your name again?’ he asked, looking up at him.
‘It’s Charlie Bradbury, my Lord.’
‘Good name.’
Charlie’s mouth grew a smile which didn’t stop.
If not, Charlie Bradbury, a messenger boy, shall direct you.
Well done Captain, and please make every assurance our guests treated respectfully. It’s great news you found your father, but please ensure under no circumstances can Francis and this Baxter fellow meet one another.
Good job.
LAS
‘When the Gypsy Moth docks,’ Lucian instructed, ‘ensure there’s space in hanger three. Go and tell the Captain I’ll be waiting for them in the library. These notes have a habit sometimes of losing themselves.’
‘Very good, my Lord, I shall send the message.’
II
The sirens to the third hanger sounded as the iron gates opened. In the distance, the Gypsy Moth, sailed in with her bow tilted upward, arrogantly triumphant.
Francis stood on deck watching as the ship continued to reduce its speed. The Moth settled down; the hanger ground crew ran about hoisting ropes and chains to keep her from drifting off and upward to the ceiling. Although regarded as the safest form of air transport ever conceived, it didn’t take an idiot to note the gases aiding her flight were extremely explosive. One slight rupture of the balloon’s outer hull and the hanger would be ablaze with over two hundred airships in the Seagrave fleet, ignited in an epic disaster. Francis recalled the incident three decades prior. An entire crew died together with all the ground crew, good men lost. The hanger’s scars and single toast on the anniversary in the Mess among the officers were the only monuments. Pity no façade machine had been in place to look after the Nightingale explosion.
Francis decided to refrain from sharing his negative thoughts as the ship came to its final lockdown. Madeline had been in her quarters with the request to be left in private. He took it upon himself to get her. He knew, as he walked to the oval door to her quarters, she’d been taking those hours to doll up for him. Her infatuation worried Francis tremendously. No advice from him was heeded, the same as her mother. He had seen Lucian bewitch other girls, reel them in and have his way with them; make toys of them, like puppets. Francis had admired it, trying once or twice to replicate the Lord’s charms. Although an attractive man in his day, he lacked the status and the intelligence of Lucian. He remembered being privy once to eavesdrop on one such seduction.
III
Francis had a few weeks prior found a secret door to a tropical greenhouse. Many knew of the wonders on the Upper levels of the compound, but few dared to venture. He’d set himself a splendid bi-weekly trip to steal bunches of bananas. One such evening Lucian had taken some blue-blooded royal princess from Prussia out for a stroll around his top floor greenhouses. Having overheard her Prussian laughter, Francis hid behind a pile of giant watermelons, giving him a front-row seat in the Lucian Augustus Seagrave school of seduction.
The Lord and the princess sat in a tiny hovel in the ground surrounded by orange trees. The floor beneath them looked soft, laden with banana leaves.
‘You see, your Highness,’ Lucian explained, ‘the orange is like a bomb, being on the verge of exploding.’
Dressed to the nines in his best garb, Lucian plucked a big round orange from the tree and held it in front of the dainty creature.
‘The smell, my Lord.’ Her bosom puffed.
‘Yes!’ he nodded heartily, careful to match her enthusiasm. ‘I know, my Lady.’
‘Intense,’ she professed.
‘Severely so.’ The words left his mouth as though silk spun from his lips. ‘The orange is an explosion of flavours. Abundant in goodness and taste. I sometimes find myself feeling rather naughty when I peel the skin, almost like I’m undressing it.’
The princess giggled, her curly blonde locks bouncing in time with everything else on her being. She sounded like one of Lucian’s trains entering the station.
‘Calm yourself.’ Lucian’s glove touched her hand.
‘I’m so sorry, my Lord.’
‘Please, your Highness, call me Lucian.’
‘Sorry, and please call me Bethany.’
‘Bethany, I’m a
s excited. A bite out of these fleshy fruits can give all manner of turns.’
‘Turns?’
‘Yes, Bethany.’ He leant in close to her lips. ‘I do believe I’m having such a turn right now.’
The princess gulped. ‘But you haven’t taken a bite from the orange.’
‘Yes, I know,’ he said, pulling away from her. ‘I never rush things Bethany. I...take...my...time’. Finger followed by finger, Lucian removed his gloves. Francis watched the young girl’s reaction from his furtive position; her chest a race with sharp, shallow beats like the hummingbird. The princess ran a fingernail along the contours of her neck, caressing one of her many locks which dangled around her panting breast. Both men observing her, suspected other parts in the young tight body had also moistened.
Lucian clasped the orange and dug his nails in, ripping the skin from the fruity flesh, and took a segment and rammed it in his mouth. Juice went everywhere. The girl gasped and tore off several sections. Lucian continued to take everything else he wanted as Francis fell witness to the devil at work on a woman’s body, doing whatever he wanted in total animalistic chaos.
IV
Behind Francis, the door to Madeline’s quarters creaked open. She walked past him and gave an order to one of the female deckhands. Her brass buttons were done up as far as the neck allowed. Her jodhpurs were skin-tight, cutting a shape out of her, and her makeup was perfect, she was looking every part the airship captain.
‘Fetch the boy, please Mr Shanks,’ she ordered, adjusting her posture.
The first officer disappeared below deck, taking one of the lads with him.
‘Aren’t you going to straighten out your attire, father? You still have blood on your lapel.’
‘Don’t worry about me, Maddy; I’m not trying to impress anyone, least of all our scumbag boss.’
‘Father.’ She looked at each of her crewmembers to see if they’d reacted to his insult.
He chuckled, moving a part of his long thinning hair away from his brow. ‘Sweetheart, I’ve got nothing to show off about to any of the Upper egomaniacs. I’ve done what he’s asked.’
She came forward with a cloth in her hand, pressed it to his lapel and wiped the blood.
Looking at him, she wondered how much of the credit he’d take for her success. She didn’t expect him to keep his mouth shut.
From the dark hole of the deck came Baxter Nightingale, bound in ropes, unconscious, gagged and blindfolded. The crew had done as she ordered and changed his clothes. They didn’t fit but were far better than the filthy lock-up rags they’d found him in.
‘Mr Shanks, follow me with our guest and be sure to keep his bonds tight.’
V
Charlie Bradbury watched as the party from the Moth continued inside the compound. They were early. His heart raced as he looked for the Captain. He ran to a large group of the crew; they barged him out of the way as he shouted, ‘Captain Barknuckle, wait!’
A wasted effort, the doors from the hanger closed behind them, leaving Charlie to sink inside himself with the knowledge of what now awaited him.
VI
Cronus left Lucian’s shoulder and perched on the railings which lined the second floor, overlooking the library’s court of chequered stone tiles.
The room’s walls were books. They spanned the three levels accessed via a spiral staircase at the room’s centre. Diagonal bridges crisscrossed each other in the shape of a star, framed from the ornate ceilings rafters.
His father had collected the books from every corner of Terra. He’d spend months in this room, pondering his secrets. Lucian looked at the empty armchair. It was filled with the stuffy figure of his father’s ghost, nothing more than a manifestation of his overactive and cruel imagination, he thought, but it was always there, judging him, testing him, waiting for him to fail. The most private mind of any Lucian had ever known. Whatever thoughts the old man concealed, whatever feelings he held back, they all died with him.
The chair’s leather had turned orange in parts. Covered in dust; no maid was allowed to clean it. He thought about burying it with him, the ugly chair. Instead he decided times’ steady digestion was a more fitting fate. Time forgets with ease. With time the old man and any memory of him would decay. No future generation would carry the flame of his father’s precious ideas, Lucian had taken care of that detail. He was the final Seagrave. Some stranger to the halls of his ancestry would cast it out as a hunk of old furniture, no purpose, no memory, just a chair which time forgot and tore apart.
The doors at the other end of the library opened and a pillar of posture stilted in, saying something about the Moth Captain being ready outside. The ghost disappeared, and the servant’s voice registered.
‘Very good, send her in.’
To Lucian’s surprise, Madeline had brought a few members of her crew and her father, Francis. They scuffed in with an air of arrogance, daring to put their dirty boots on Persian rugs which were more expensive than their lives combined, apart from the prisoner. He wondered if any of them had even any awareness of a library’s etiquette.
‘Stop,’ Lucian shouted, ‘Captain, why have you disobeyed my orders?’
Madeleine halted in her tracks. ‘I haven’t, my Lord.’
Lucian directed his gaze over at the old man Francis. The fool adjusted his posture and smiled. ‘My Lord, I managed to locate the–’
‘Enough,’ he snapped. ‘Get out, Barnuckle, you can’t attach yourself to another success this time, even if she is your daughter.’
Francis looked at Maddy, puzzled.
‘Immediately.’ Said Lucian.
The old man obeyed, leaving his daughter, Mr Shanks and the Nightingale boy with their employer.
Lucian watched, waiting for the door to close behind him. ‘Captain, why on Terra is our guest restrained? Did I order him restrained? Untie him at once!’ The agitation in Lucian’s voice made his words shake as the bonds fell, revealing the discomfort in Baxter’s body. Although garbed in clean clothing, his body was filthy, no state for a prize. ‘Leave us.’ Lucian’s order met with faces concealing their protest – but all obeyed. Lucian removed a pot from his pocket and held it under Baxter’s nose – the boys eyes sprang open and his jawbone cracked. Lucian watched his eyes draw their focus, they sized up their host, assessed, and he saw the intelligence in his enquiry, caged like a wild wolf.
‘It’s ok, Baxter.’ Lucian bent over to meet the boys eyes square. ‘You’re safe. Are you hungry? God forbid, of course you are.’ He looked around for a bell on the scattered tables, there were none. ‘Sidney!’
Lucian’s shout came out of him like a demon trying to escape the body of a wrongfully chosen possession.
‘Do you care for,’ Lucian enquired, softening his voice, ‘lamb, venison? I can fetch anything you like to fulfil your Moorlander appetite.’
Baxter coughed several times, then said in a broken voice, ‘Lamb is fine, thank you.’
‘Speak up! Lucian demanded. ‘Oh, I see,’ he said changing his tone. ‘Yes, your cough – trust me, before my Brunel Ducts erected, it would’ve been a lot worse.’
The boy had never set foot in a room like this before, but was able to measure it, eyes rolling, judging then returning to his host as though they never left.
Lucian caught a thrill in his stomach. ‘I’m Lucian Augustus Seagrave. I was a friend of your father.’
‘Have you seen him, Mr Seagrave?’
‘No,’ Lucian said, ‘and its Lord Seagrave, but please call me Lucian.’ He picked up the restrains, held them away from his suit. ‘I have no idea why you were restrained. My Captains have a habit of misreading orders.’ He dropped them. ‘So, your father survived the attack from the Brotherhood?’
‘How do you know?’ Baxter asked.
Lucian looked over to the table next to his father’s chair. A copy of the Mercury Gazette folded over, the headline read.
Moors Village Attacked by Brotherhood.
He noted Baxter’s
gaze turning vacant as though the mind behind them had wandered off to contemplate.
‘He left before it happened,’ Baxter said, lowering his head and voice.
Lucian noted the pity in his tone. ‘Left for where, exactly?’
‘Here.’ said Baxter.
‘I see. You realise he’s exiled from The Machine City?’
‘Exiled?’ Baxter said, frowning.
‘Yes, he and your uncle.’
Baxter’s expression was vacant.
‘I’ve been looking for him myself.’ said Lucian, ‘perhaps he’ll come here.’
‘Why would he?’
‘He and I were working on a few things, he and I, yes, well. He was a dear friend.’ Lucian pointed up at the books. ‘Have you ever seen so many, Baxter?’ Lucian asked, changing the subject and expecting he already knew the answer.
‘Can you help me find him?’
Lucian smiled. ‘These books, Baxter, have you seen so many?’
‘Not as many as this,’ he said, tilting his head back and looking up at the three different levels.
‘My father’s collection.’ Lucian handed Baxter a handkerchief. ‘He loved to read.’ He patted the leather arm chair with a tenderness, it felt awkward but necessary. ‘My father was a brutal man, Baxter. At the best of times he was troubled by the inherent laziness in people, he hated company and was convinced every man, woman and child hid some dark agenda for self-preservation. But when he was in here, he was at peace.’
Baxter’s eyes recollected recent memories.
‘Fathers, Baxter, they want to understand us, but it’s us who needs to understand them, it’s always been that way.’
Lucian looked over at the table by the far end. Next to a stack of books, the remains of his guest’s clockwork drone, arranged like the components were jewels displayed under protective glass.
‘You see, Baxter, many intellects who have ever lived were plagued. They each had demons. I’m certain without those, the genius isn’t realised. It’s almost a cruel irony, the artist’s demons are his angels. They will help through our dreams, but in a rare wake of success, they bring us our demise.’
Dark Age Page 28
