“I’ve heard things, Lieutenant,” Stoddard said with an air of gravity. “And I felt it my duty to bring them to your attention. I believe there is a plot developing that might undermine the meritocracy, and I have reason to believe the free-merchant alchemists are at the heart of it.”
“That is a serious accusation,” Vanzeal frowned. “How did you come upon such an idea?”
“I’ve had an informant working for some days now to uncover it. Forgive me for not having come to you earlier, but I had to be certain of his reliability myself. His findings are all here.” Stoddard gestured to the table. “You’re more than welcome to examine them. Though, if I may, I will summarize their contents for you.”
The lieutenant brushed his cape away so that it fell back over his shoulder. Leaning over the desk, he began reading through the report.
“Why would you take such an interest in free-merchants?” he asked. “They seem a bit below you, I would think, to warrant the attention of a gentleman of your newfound reputation.”
“Because they’re using my work to do it!” Stoddard couldn’t help the passion in his voice from getting away from him.
“You’re aware of the events surrounding Captain Harper?” he asked rhetorically. “I myself can’t explain how such a phenomenon occurred, and that is exactly the fact which the alchemists are exploiting. With no clear explanation, they’ve circulated a rumor that it was they, and not I, who revived the captain!”
“Plenty of militia pups have boasted to be better swordsmen than myself,” Vanzeal said. “But, I’ve proven they’re filled with nothing more than hot air. Surely a few alchemists can’t bring your success into question.”
“If it was them alone I wouldn’t be concerned,” Stoddard said. “But they’ve managed to confuse Harper into believing their story. He’s the one perpetuating it even as we speak. I’m certain of it.”
“Captain Harper?” Vanzeal eyed Stoddard. “I find it difficult to believe he’d mingle with Basin-dwellers.”
“The evidence is already gathered for you.”
Stoddard pulled a document from the pile and handed it to him. Vanzeal took it reluctantly.
“Whatever their method, whether narcotic or otherwise, it’s clear they’ve influenced his judgment. I don’t have to explain what risk there is in their having hold on a man of Harper’s significance. I have it on good authority that they intend to reveal this false claim publicly. The captain is going to speak to the people and tell them that alchemists saved his life!”
“I see the reason for your distress, Doctor,” Vanzeal said. “But why? What do they hope to gain from this?”
“What does every man hope to gain?” Stoddard asked. “Power! Influence! Wealth! It’s in their nature. Bred into their very craft. They know their hour is nearly spent, and they’re seeking to leech off of anything that can buy them another day. They’re desperate, Lieutenant. And desperate men do desperate things to survive.”
“Pardon my asking,” Vanzeal said, “but can you not prove it was you who saved his life?”
“That isn’t the issue here,” Stoddard snapped.
He saw the displeasure in Vanzeal’s face, being spoken to so curtly, but Stoddard’s passion carried him away.
“What matters is that they are making wild claims. When the captain speaks, he’ll infect the masses with the suspicion that those within the meritocracy are ignorant of what is going on under their very noses.
“He’ll seek to return favor to the alchemists when we know—we know—that they’re charlatans. Lead to gold? I’d like to see evidence of them once producing a single bar from that endeavor. The philosopher’s stone? Who among them bears the sign of unnatural youth? Can you name me one?”
“I see your point,” Vanzeal nodded stiffly.
“And the Aether! They’re fools if they ever thought they cou—”
Stoddard paused as if struck by a blow, and he grew quiet. Turning, he stroked his chin and sat back down in his chair.
“Are you alright, Doctor?”
“Unless it was Aether,” he whispered to himself. “Is that what you did?”
“Doctor?”
Stoddard came back to the moment. His eyes held a different glint now—and, for a brief moment, a half-smile crept across his face. But he concealed it, focusing again on the matter at hand.
“I’m greatly concerned that Captain Harper is not in his right mind,” Stoddard said as he turned back toward Vanzeal. “I fear that he’s been influenced by unsanctioned narcotics prescribed by vagrant alchemists. He’s there nearly every day, in their shops and residences as I’m sure you’ll confirm when you make your own investigation. I fear that he’s about to do something very rash. Something which could produce in the populous a state of civil unrest.”
He spoke the last words with deliberation.
“And what, exactly, is it that you would like us to do about them?” Vanzeal asked.
Stoddard grinned despite himself. Protocol be damned.
Chapter Twenty
Septigonee’s Day
And the gods—if there be any gods beside ourselves—remained silent as the works of our hands emerged. Their indifference gifted us the freedom to seek these favors of our own initiative.
— Excerpt from Mechanarcissism
D espite having slept on his laboratory couch, Chance awoke feeling particularly well-rested. He couldn’t remember dreaming, but, if he had, the dreams had put him in a remarkably good mood. He sprang from his couch and donned his shirt and vest, tripping over his chair and knocking over a few components on his desk.
It was only seven thirty, but he already heard early sounds of celebration throughout the city. Splashing water on his face, he paused to look at himself in the mirror.
“Today, your luck is changing,” he said to his reflection. Grabbing his alchemical case, he hurried out his workshop.
The weather was still cloudy from the storm which had blown through, the early morning sun catching the clouds in brilliant fashion as it rose over the bay. The dramatic light only enhanced Chance’s mood.
He felt it in his bones. Septigonee’s cursed tides were turning for sure.
Inside, he found Rhett still in his nightclothes, munching on some fruit. He couldn’t see it, but he suspected Rhett’s rat was enjoying a portion in his lap. Chance gave the boy’s hair a rough tousle and tossed himself into the empty chair.
“Hey!” Rhett protested.
“Is Ashworth here?” Chance asked.
“He left already, I think.”
“But the rally isn’t until this afternoon. Did he go to see Harper?”
“I don’t know,” Rhett shrugged. “He was gone before I came downstairs.”
“Did he leave a note?”
Rhett just shrugged again and focused on his food.
“Well,” Chance said, selecting an apple for himself. “Let’s you and I not linger too long then. He’ll probably need help setting up.”
“Gravatts said he was gonna help him with it.”
“But Gravatts is an old man. They’ll still need some help.”
“Fine,” Rhett sighed.
“What’s got you all bent out of shape?”
“Nothing.”
“You still sulking about that flying machine?”
Rhett looked further into his lap.
“Those things happen,” Chance tried to explain. “You can’t expect everything to last.”
“I only got to fly it once,” Rhett sulked.
“Hey,” Chance gave the boy a friendly nudge. “It’s Septigonee’s Day. The tides are turned, and that could mean your fortunes too. How about you and I forget about your flying machine and go have some fun today?”
“But, I thought you said we needed to help Ashworth to set up.”
“Now you’re going to fight me on it?” Chance smiled. “It’s not like it would be the first time we left our chores undone. How about we take the morning to enjoy the celebration? Then we
’ll meet up to give them a final hand. How’s that sound?”
Rhett thought it over, petting the rat under the table.
“And who knows,” Chance added, “perhaps another kid will lose his flying machine.”
Rhett smiled. “Alright,” he said.
“Did you name him yet?” Chance asked, pointing to the rat.
“Not yet.”
“Why not? You didn’t have any trouble coming up with a name for your flying machine.”
“That’s different,” Rhett insisted. “I keep trying, but I can’t figure it out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out. It’s a name.”
“But what if he’s already got one?”
“He’s a rat, Rhett. You found him on the street. I don’t think anyone’s thought to name him before now.”
Rhett looked down at the creature. It nibbled at the bottom of his shirt. “I think he has a name.”
“Why don’t you give him a new one,” Chance suggested, taking a bite of his apple. “New life, new name?”
“But he might like his old one.”
Chance grinned around the apple in his mouth. “Alright. He’s your rat. Do what you will with it. But right now, you need to get changed.”
While Rhett got ready upstairs, Chance finished his breakfast and fetched the morning-edition papers from the porch. Ashworth paid some of the newsboys a bit extra to bring them by before they took to the streets to peddle the rest. They hid them behind the bush to keep them from being swiped.
He didn’t bother glancing through the papers; he had a feeling tomorrow’s was going to be a tad more interesting.
When Rhett returned, Chance locked up the house and the two of them made their way toward the central road that wound through the city. It was long and serpentine, stretching from the very top of the Spire all the way down to the water’s edge of the Basin. It was an important feature, not only for its general usefulness, but for its history.
According to city legend, it was the very same path the girl, Septigonee, had run when she fled from her betrothed the night before her marriage. It was a story every child in Hatteras grew up with, about the very earliest years of the city.
Septigonee was a daughter of a founding family trapped in an arranged marriage to a man of high status, but lacking in honor. Her betrothed had appeared drunk one night on her doorstep and demanded to be let in. When she wouldn’t admit him, he broke the door down to get at her. In her fright, Septigonee fled her home on the Spire and ran until she came to the edge of the Basin. There at the water’s edge, as he was about to seize her, she cast herself into the dark waters and drowned in the violent surf.
It was her death that had cursed the Basin’s waters and brought ill fortune to anyone who dwelt near them—a cursed luck which turned only once every year, on the anniversary of that dreaded flight.
In honor, the city was decorated in traditional wedding decor. White drapes hung out of windows and garlands of gold and silver were strung up everywhere Chance and Rhett went. People dressed in their best wedding attire, though often with costlier garnishing and accentuated styles. They wandered in masks and flouted the highest status they could imitate—even the Basin-dwellers.
When they weren’t preening about and making a show of themselves, most citizens spent the day shopping at vendors who set up temporary stalls and carts in the streets to tempt new business. Others made new acquaintances or sought out old friends.
But the real activity of the day was that of business. Contracts were signed, risks taken, ventures planned, and partnerships formed and severed— all with the belief that the day’s good fortune would bless their enterprise in the coming year.
Chance had no such business at hand today, not for a few hours at least. So, he and Rhett took to wandering as they enjoyed the commotion of the streets, making their way into the nicer districts as they climbed the road toward the Spire.
The constables were notably lax when it came to enforcing the segregation laws, so as not to tempt any ill fortune of their own. Vagrants and vagabonds from the Basin were tolerated even so far as the Spire.
Chance and Rhett were just crossing the channel that bordered the Spire when a familiar voice caught their attention.
“Well, didn’t you just go all out?”
A woman behind a great feathered mask approached, waving a fan and leaning suggestively toward them with an elusive smile. “You look so... festive, I almost didn’t recognize you.”
“I didn’t recognize you either,” Chance said. “Until you smiled.”
The woman laughed. Pulling back the mask, Margarete shook out her curls and gave Chance a wink.
“Wow,” Rhett gasped.
As was her talent, Margarete stood out, even among all the pomp around her. She was wearing one of the whitest dresses Chance had ever seen. It was cut like a wedding dress and embellished with golds and silvers, like the decorations around the city. Chance bet she needed help getting in and out of that one.
“Thank you,” she beamed. “And how are you today, Rhett?”
“Fine, thanks.”
“Where are you two off to?”
“Just wandering,” Chance said. “Thought we’d explore the Spire a bit. Rhett doesn’t get to see it all that often.”
“I saw it yesterday!” he said excitedly. “From the dinghy!”
“That’s not the same as actually being there,” Chance pointed out.
“Sounds like fun,” Margarete said. “But, you can’t just wander the Spire dressed like that.”
“What’s wrong with the way we’re dressed?” Chance asked. He liked to think he looked respectable, for an alchemist. Sure, his clothes were a bit worn and faded, and he didn’t have the fanciest vest, but a vest he did have.
“I know what you two need,” she grinned. “Cravats!”
Rhett perked up. “I’d like a cravat!”
“You don’t even know what a cravat is,” Chance laughed. “We don’t need anything. We’re fine as we are.”
“You’re going to turn down a face like that?” Margarete teased, taking Rhett in her arms and mimicking his look of dejection. “What a dull boy you are, Chance. What harm would it do? It’s a festival!”
“What would he even do with one?” Chance asked, a little more abrasively than he intended. Margarete pursed her lips.
“Enjoy it?” she suggested. “Just because you’ve got no sense of style doesn’t mean Rhett should have to suffer. But, if you won’t get him a decent cravat, then I will.” She walked to a nearby vendor and exchanged a little money for a cream-colored cravat from his wares and offered it to Rhett.
She winked at Chance while Rhett handled the new fabric.
“It’s so soft,” he said, rubbing the fabric against his cheek.
“You don’t even know how to tie it,” Chance said.
“Why don’t you show him?” Margarete nudged.
Chance frowned and folded his arms. “It’s his cravat. He should figure it out himself.”
“Of course,” Margarete smirked. “Here, Rhett. Let me help you.”
She wrapped the fabric around his neck and tied it with a loose twist, as was the current fashion of young gentlemen. She tucked the rest into his vest.
“There you are. Our little gentleman alchemist.”
Rhett practically glowed with joy.
“He looks ridiculous,” Chance muttered under his breath, but Rhett wasn’t listening.
“Perhaps. But then, isn’t that the point?” Margarete stepped past Chance, running a hand along his cheek. “Do me a favor, will you? Try and let yourself have some fun today. For me?”
Chance nodded stiffly.
“Alright then. I’ll leave you two to it. Rhett, don’t let this sourpuss get to you, okay?”
Rhett nodded, and then kept nodding as he enjoyed the rub of the fabric against his neck.
As Chance watched, he couldn’t help but smile. Margarete was right. He was letting little things both
er him. He couldn’t help how he felt about the meritocracy and their ridiculous fashions, but he could ignore them for a day.
And if he was to enjoy himself, Chance knew exactly where to go. A little further along, he led Rhett away from the main road and into one of the side streets.
“Where are we going now?” Rhett asked.
“Just taking advantage of an opportunity,” Chance said. “Keep quiet and follow my lead. Let’s put that cravat to good use.”
They meandered through the neighboring streets where the pomp was somewhat less grand. Here there were fewer vendors. Men and women knelt around games of cards, dice, cockfights, and any other street-worthy game which could coax a wager out of a crowd.
Here the hopefuls gathered, convinced that today of all days their luck could change.
Chance strolled among them, listening to the wagers and surveying faces. Some were betting low, only pocket change, and these he passed by. But a few were playing higher stakes. He watched two games’ final pots rise into the hundreds.
At these he lingered, studying the players, his hopes tickled.
A younger gentleman made a wager well beyond the current pot, and the dealer accepted it gladly. Chance could see where this hand would go. The young man was in far over his head. Chance wasn’t too concerned for him, however. He was likely some gentleman’s son from the Spire, out for an afternoon of amusement squandering a small portion of his family’s fortune.
Their type was always welcome in the street games. Encouraged, even.
For most of the participants, the game was the key. It was a matter of skill. They believed that if they played through the day they had a fair chance to come out on top, walking away with a small profit. But that was just playing the odds—the same odds that kept most on the bottom.
That wasn’t how Chance played. It wasn’t about the game or the odds. It was about a person’s pride—their willingness to bet, and bet high. One sudden burst of luck.
The lad lost his hand, cursing lightly as the winner gathered the pot to himself and assigned a man who was standing nearby to go with the young man to retrieve the rest of what he owed.
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