Aether Spark

by Nicholas Petrarch

  He raised his glass in a toast.

  “To the future of your work, doctor.”

  “To the future of your work,” the party repeated, taking up their own glasses.

  “And may it always tip fortune toward Hatteras,” Sinclair added.

  Stoddard swelled with pride as he drank. Even Worthington was laying aside the differences of their past and recognizing him. What more could he have hoped for? A man of control and discipline typically, he allowed himself this moment to celebrate his turn of fortunes and drank deeply.

  “And regarding my daughter,” Worthington continued. “It’s no secret she harbors affections for you still.

  Stoddard choked on his wine.

  “I suppose it is her nature to nurture youthful affections even after so many years,” Worthington continued. “Perhaps she saw in you then what the rest of us only now have begun to see. But, do you still retain the feelings you once disclosed to me so many years ago?”

  Stoddard did his best to recover. He’d not expected that. He glanced again at Emmaline and thought he could discern a smile hidden behind her gaze, but it was impossible to be sure. Her expression remained cool and practiced.

  Whatever course he took now, he was alone choosing it.

  “I do,” Stoddard admitted.

  A curl of a smile appeared at the corner of Emmaline’s lip then. That, she could not hide.

  “Then I give you two my blessing.” Worthington raised his glass again. Lady Worthington made a noise as if to interrupt, but a severe look from her husband silenced her before she could protest. “To a prosperous future,” he toasted.

  “To a prosperous future,” everyone repeated.

  Stoddard was in such a dream, he nearly forgot to thank the others offering him their congratulations. Everything was happening so fast. His head was spinning, whether from his turn of fortune or the strength of the wine. The conversation passed like a vague recollection before him.

  And through it all, he felt Emmaline’s hand on his.

  “That was quite impressive,” she whispered in his ear, leaning in close.

  “I’m glad you thought so,” Stoddard said. It was the first time she’d been this close in years. “You’ll need to give me a moment to collect myself. This was a little much all at once.”

  Emmaline offered Stoddard his glass, and he drained it again to calm himself.

  “I’ve never seen you so enamored by the political theater before,” Emmaline said. “I thought you disdained it.”

  “Generally, I do. Today I entertained it out of necessity.”

  “Well, don’t try too hard,” she smiled. “It almost looks like you enjoy it.”

  Just then, the host appeared carrying a letter upon a silver tray. “Excuse me sir,” he said, addressing Stoddard. “This missive was delivered for you just now.”

  “He’s busy at the moment,” Emmaline said in a humorously bright voice. She held herself close on his arm. “It will have to wait.”

  “The lady has spoken,” Stoddard laughed, and the others shared in it.

  “Be careful where that road takes you,” Lord Worthington warned. “Give a little and she’ll have it all.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the host said, “but I was told it was urgent.”

  “Oh, very well.” Stoddard took the envelope with a show of reluctance and opened it.

  “Another invitation?” Sinclair ventured.

  “Honestly, what could be more important than myself at a time like this?” Emmaline smiled, batting her eyes at him as he read.

  Stoddard paid them no mind. His eyes were racing across the letter. A few of the guests passed wary glances in the silence.

  “Is everything alright?” Worthington asked.

  Stoddard looked up, his gaze not directed toward anyone. His mind was no longer drifting. It had been seized upon—pulled back down to earth with such gravity that his very foundation was cracking.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, his throat dry despite the abundance of drink. “I’m afraid I’m needed elsewhere.”

  “What?” Emmaline looked hurt as he released her from his arm and stood to go.

  “It can’t be helped. Host!” he snapped. “My coat please. Now! I’m sorry, Elector. It honestly cannot be helped.”

  “Nothing wrong, I hope?” Arden asked.

  “I can only assume,” Stoddard said, and with that he hurried down the terrace steps and made for the door.

  Chapter Eleven

  Poor Company

  Easier to keep components separate before you mix them.

  — Alchemical Proverb

  I t occurred to Chance that what Ponti considered a fine establishment might not be what anyone else would have in mind.

  The pub was a shanty, with a worn sign hanging cockeyed from two rusty chains. The windows were warped and tinted green so that only blurred shadows could be seen moving on the other side. As they pulled open the doors, a gaseous slurry of soot, smoke, and booze wafted out into the street.

  “Home is where the spirits are,” Ponti grinned as they walked in.

  The place was packed. Rough looking factory workers and rowdy company contributed to the general roar of debauchery. Along one of the far walls, as removed as could be from the ruckus, Chance and Ponti caught sight of their friends and hurried to join them.

  “Look who emerges from his workshop,” Serge, the oldest of the group, greeted Chance. He was a thick, muscular man, in his later twenties. A mason by trade, when he clapped Chance on the back it forced the air out of his lungs. “It’s been a while since we’ve seen you. Don’t you ever get out anymore?”

  “Not if there’s work to be done,” Chance replied, punching Serge’s shoulder with his good hand. It was like punching a wall. “What are you all up to?”

  “On a mend,” the lad they called Kwame said. He was a foreigner from a colony somewhere beyond Port Elliston, in eastern Pendambu. He worked with Serge as a brick layer since migrating to Hatteras a year before. They called him Kwame because they couldn’t pronounce his real name, and it was far too long to remember when inebriated.

  A full foot and a half shorter than the rest, he’d perched himself upon a few crates stacked against the wall. “Factory demands hours long and long. There is work to do and few men to do,” he explained.

  “Didn’t expect to hear you complaining,” Serge said. “Kwame’s happy to have work; don’t let him fool you. Wouldn’t have been so easy settling in if there wasn’t a shortage of hands.”

  “Don’ mean I don’ feel. Look!” Kwame pulled his shirt down by his neck and displaying a deep purple bruise across his shoulder. “Mason drop all stack of brick. Don’ warn me, and I am half buried!”

  “No one cares whether or not you made it through another workday,” Ponti said. He plopped down on one of the chairs and shoved his rucksack underneath. “Who’s covering drinks?”

  Everyone glanced around the table.

  “Kwame?” Ponti pried. “I feel like it was Kwame’s turn.”

  “The guy was nearly buried alive and you’re asking him pay for drinks?” Chance asked. “Isn’t it about time you covered them?”

  “Nah. I got them time before last.”

  “I thought I had the time before last,” Serge said.

  “That cheap whiskey is getting to your head. You need to cut back,” Ponti smiled. “I’ll get it next time. Promise.” He crossed his heart. “I swear, you cogs are trying to take advantage of a man’s—”

  Serge gave Ponti’s jaw a swift cuff with an open hand.

  “Watch your tongue,” he warned him.

  “Ehey!” Ponti staggered, rubbing his jaw and shying away from Serge. “Some cogs are bigger than others,” he muttered under his breath.

  “Well, I’ve got nowhere to be for a little while,” Chance said. “Kwame, you alright covering today?”

  “Ja-nee,” Kwame conceded. It wasn’t his custom to refuse his friends.

  “Atta boy,” Ponti laughe
d, making himself comfortable. “Now this is the place to be! Loud conversation, the greatest girls, and the finest booze you can’t get your hands on anywhere else in this pious city. Am I right darling?”

  He caught one of the server girls by her dress and pulled her against him, jostling her roughly. She forced a laugh as he took one of the bottles from her tray.

  “She knows exactly what I’m after when she sees me come through that door,” he grinned. “I don’t even have to ask anymore.”

  The girl smiled politely, but managed to slip out of Ponti’s grasp and continue with her work.

  “I think it’s safe to wager someone’s going to be pickled before the evening,” a man commented as he stepped up to the table, a cigar in his cheek and a bowler tipped assertively over his balding forehead. He wore a colorful gentleman’s coat of deep violet with silver stitching along its edges. It was a little worn, however, and its fit didn’t quite suit him.

  “Indubitably,” Ponti grinned.

  “That’s the spirit I like to see.” The man patted Ponti’s back. “That’s why you’re always welcome through those doors. And who are these new friends you’ve brought me?”

  “These unfortunate sods are Serge and Chance. Our foreign looking friend there is Kwame.”

  “A pleasure to make each of your acquaintances,” he said, shaking each of their hands in turn. Chance was startled at how soft the man’s hands were.

  “But Ponti,” he said, “I must disagree with you on one finer point. Unfortunate is not a word we use to describe anyone who comes through my doors. Gentleman, the name is Blake Bracken. But call me Blake, your eager and willing host on any occasion you find yourselves in need. Please, make yourselves at home. I trust you’re thirsty. Cherie! A round for my new and esteemed patrons.”

  “On a house?” Kwame asked.

  “Haha! That’d be nice, wouldn’t it?” Blake smiled as he pulled up a chair between Ponti and Chance. He laughed, and Chance found himself laughing along with him. He liked Blake.

  “I’m a generous man, but not that generous. Now, if you’re looking for good conversation, a place to spend your coin, or perhaps just a bit o’ friendly companionship, I am more than willing to provide. My establishment is at your disposal, day and night.”

  “Best man in the city!” Ponti cried and a cheer went up among the nearby patrons. Blake shrugged with a show of humble pride.

  Cherie appeared with a round of flagons filled with a thick, porter beer. Serge declined it, but the others helped themselves.

  “So what occasion brings you all together today?” Blake asked.

  “Just here for a refresher and to exchange the latest news,” Serge said.

  “Ah, and what is the news you’ve brought to exchange? Anything interesting?”

  “You got idiots on a Spire,” Kwame said, drawing a laugh out of the group. Being from a colony, he didn’t possess the same inhibitions that some of the locals did when it came to speaking about the meritocracy. His tongue was as loose as a child’s. Chance liked him all the more for that reason alone.

  “I meant what’s new?” Blake clarified, triggering another round of laughter.

  “Did you hear Maybell is coming back to the city?” Serge mentioned.

  “Really? I haven’t seen her in months. I thought she’d moved inland permanently,” Chance said.

  “And who is Maybell?” Blake asked. “Not one of my girls, was she?”

  “A girl from our part of the Basin. We grew up with her.”

  “Funny, I thought I’d made acquaintance with most of the girls near the edge.”

  “Is that one girl Ponti chase?” Kwame asked.

  “No, she’s the one that Ponti got!” Ponti boasted. Serge gave him a glare and Ponti shrugged. “What? Aw, you guys need to lighten up a bit. I bet even she’s having a good laugh over the whole thing right now.”

  Serge’s face was stern and he gave Chance a look as though he’d reached his limit for the day. He leaned forward and angled himself away from Ponti.

  Chance couldn’t blame him. Ponti was fun most days, but conversations tended to steer south whenever he was around. He was a fool through and through, but sometimes a fool was exactly what Chance needed in a drinking buddy.

  “Do you have anything stiffer?” Chance asked.

  “That depends,” Blake grinned. “What are you looking for?”

  “I’ll have what he has.” Chance gestured to Ponti and drew out the few coins he had left in his coat pocket.

  “Aye, you’d like that wouldn’t you?” Ponti grinned, “but this is a euphoria reserved for the truly desperate.”

  “Is that...?” Chance asked, perking up.

  “You bet your sweet bob it is!” Ponti laughed loudly. “Blake here keeps a bottle set aside just for me.”

  “I don’t have the foggiest notion what you’re talking about,” Blake said, quite stern. “Don’t you know there’s a ban on the stuff?! To imply that I, a respectable and honest businessman, would dabble in unlawful drink offends me to no end!”

  He gave a showy huff and leaned in closer.

  “However, if you’re of the same temperament as our mutual friend,” Blake whispered, “I might be able to produce a bottle or two for the right price.”

  Chance fingered the coins in his hand, wrestling with himself as he counted what remained. He knew he shouldn’t; they needed what they had to pay Liesel back, and to replace Ashworth’s hartshorn. And he knew what happened when he indulged. It was a slippery slope. One he hadn’t visited for a while.

  But, he reasoned, a break would also do him good. They’d already managed to scrounge together most of the supplies they needed for the next batch of deliveries. He’d have the money replaced in a week or so. Maybe sooner if he worked hard enough.

  He slipped the coins into Blake’s open hand.

  “Right,” Blake grinned. “Cherie! Special service to this gangly chap. Eh, what was the name again?”

  “Chance.”

  Blake clapped Chance on the back and jostled him in a friendly manner.

  “I hope to see you again, Chance. Gentlemen,” he said, addressing the group, “I’m afraid I must leave you to your foibles. Do make yourselves familiar and frequent our quaint little home again.”

  He stepped away and immediately took another man’s arm as he came through the door. “Quinn! By Septigonee’s fortunes, you’ve gotten plump.”

  Cherie delivered Chance a dark tinted bottle without a label.

  “You shouldn’t drink that,” Serge scolded.

  “Oh, leave a man his vices,” Ponti sighed. “What’s the point of life if a man can’t enjoy its libations on occasion? The meritocracy enjoys fresh air and sunshine, leave us to simulate their joy.”

  “Counterfeit pleasures to dilute the spirit,” Serge frowned.

  “At least they’re pleasures,” Chance shrugged.

  “But don’t you see how they’re used against us? They dull our minds. Weaken our resolve. It’s a means by which the meritocracy holds us at the bottom while they enjoy true freedom on the top.”

  “Hmm,” Chance mused. “I always thought it was the constables doing the holding. I didn’t realize it was our half-penny drinks that were arresting us when we started walking too proud.”

  “You know what I’m getting at,” Serge said.

  “Yes, he’s out to spoil our fun,” Ponti said. “For Septigonee’s sake, come off it a moment and leave us to wallow in something other than the filth of our streets. Please? Just this once? For your lowly friends?”

  He gave Serge the most pitiful eyes he could.

  “Fine,” Serge threw his hands up into the air. “But mark my words, if things are ever going to change it’s going to take sharper minds and resolute hearts, not inebriated fools slow to reason.”

  “Dully noted,” Ponti grinned, and took an extra-long drought from his bottle.

  Chance couldn’t argue with either side. He knew Serge was right. He’d sat and
listened to Serge spout on about his ideas about change many times. In many ways, he had a mind much like the meritocracy—progress driven and given to a dash of entitlement. It was unfortunate his idea of progress was in such stark contrast to theirs or else he might have been able to hoist himself up in society by his passion alone.

  As it was, he worked at the brickyard by day and the factories each night, stoking the fires that kept the furnaces burning. It was difficult work, which suited Serge’s temperament. He was never one to shy away from difficulty. If anything, it attracted him. He gave all of himself at every moment. Chance admired him for that.

  Ponti, on the other hand, was everything Serge wasn’t—except well off. They were both Basin-dwellers after all.

  “There you are!” called another man who’d just come through the door.

  Chance recognized Simon, one of Serge’s closer friends. He hobbled over as quickly as he could, which was slower given he walked with a cane. He pulled himself a chair from another table and joined the little group, taking a moment to catch his breath. Kwame passed him his own drink and Simon took a sip.

  “Thanks,” he said, sliding it back. “Throat was about as rough as gravel.”

  “What’s got you worked up?” Serge asked.

  Simon pulled a folded newspaper from inside his coat. Slapping it down on the table, he jabbed a finger at the front-page story. “Read it! Go on!”

  The three of them leaned forward together to get a better look at the article he pointed to. The headline read loud and clear:

  WAR HERO GIVEN NEW LIFE

  They skimmed through it, but Chance had only gone a paragraph in before looking up.

  “Harper?”

  Simon nodded. “You know of him?”

  “Just a little,” Chance said. “Ashworth was telling me about him last night, and about how he died.”