“Perhaps you don’t realize it, but we’re not the only ones out there who could make a bomb,” Chance said. “Who’s to say some nut-job out there didn’t get their hands on some explosives? Or what about your precious meritocracy? Do they merit any suspicion, or are they exempt? They’re just as capable of an attack like this, and, from where I stand, they seem to have the most the gain from it. But no, you lay hands on the lowest of us the first opportunity you get.”
“Still trying to play the martyr, I see,” Ringgold said.
“Why would I need to do that? We’ve got one of those already,” Chance said. “You’ve met him, haven’t’ you? His name was Captain Willard Harper.”
Ringgold shifted uncomfortably.
“You think we’d sabotage our own enterprise? Our one advocate on the Spire?”
“I can’t pretend to know what they’d do,” Ringgold said.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Enough!” Ringgold shouted. “Please. This isn’t why I came.”
“Then why did you come?”
“To warn you, Chance!” Ringgold pleaded. “Whoever was actually behind the bombing, the city guard suspects you. Ashworth is a key suspect, and with you as his partner that means you’re suspect too.”
“And what do you think? Am I suspect?” Chance asked.
Ringgold gave Chance a weakened glance.
“Sounds like you’ve already decided.”
“No, I haven’t. But they have.” Ringgold rubbed his brow in frustration. “You have to believe me. Why else would I have come here right now? I’m putting myself at risk trying to warn you. You have to distance yourself from Ashworth.”
“Not going to happen.”
“Hell is going to come down upon him, and he’ll bring it upon you as well.”
“We’re ready for it,” Chance said. “Perhaps you were too busy to notice, but Ashworth has been there for me all these years. He’s the reason I’ve made it as far as I have. I’m not about to abandon him. That’s not my way.”
Ringgold pulled at his hair. “Why do you always insist on being such a fool?”
“I’m not the one in costume,” Chance countered.
Ringgold face contorted with frustration, and he shouted into the sky. Turning about, he marched down the path and up the street.
Chance watched him go. His head was light and his thoughts bounced about his mind in a frenzy. Yet, even as he took pride in watching his old friend retreat, he was left unsettled by Ringgold’s words. He couldn’t help feeling that Ringgold was right about one thing.
Hell was coming.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Night Terrors
If you want something great, you must risk something great... and sacrifice something great.
— Alchemical Proverb
T hat night, Chance slept in his workshop. He usually did when things were troubling him. It was easier to think in his own space, and he suspected Rhett wouldn’t have welcomed him into their shared room anyway. The boy needed space of his own to process things.
Chance stretched out on the sofa, his legs draped over the armrest as he clutched a blanket around his middle. His other arm gripped Ashworth’s folder close to his chest. He’d tried to read through it when sleep was difficult, but he kept drifting off mid-read.
Sleep was fitful. Not a moment after drifting off he’d be set upon by horrid dreams filled with harsh voices and flames. Everywhere there was confusion as he floundered about, seeking something—but he didn’t know what.
And always in the end, was Harper’s face locked in his last frightened stare. No matter where Chance fled Harper’s face would not leave him, drawing ever closer until Chance felt he would be pulled into those terrified eyes.
Chance started from his sleep, sucking in air as if he’d not breathed before. The folder fell to the ground, its pages scattering wildly. He touched his forehead. It was wet with perspiration, and there was a nasty kink in his neck.
Sitting up, he untangled himself from the blanket and rubbed his arm to dispel its numbness. Retrieving his watch from the chair, he checked the time by the moonlight coming through the window. It took him a while for his eyes to adjust, but he could see it wasn’t much past midnight.
Will this night never end?
He slumped over and rested his head over his knees—his arms hanging so the back of his knuckles pressed against the rough wooden floor planks. He wondered if any of the others were resting.
After a few moments, he set the watch back on the chair. On occasions such as this, being an alchemist had its advantages. Rising groggily, he went to his shelves and rummaged in the poor light for a few components to mix a sleep aid.
He’d just finished and was about to drink it down when the sound of breaking glass chimed in the night. He paused, craning his head to listen. It sounded as if it had come from the house. He set his mixture down and went to the door, cracking it slightly.
The lights were still on, casting a weak glow into the courtyard. Was Ashworth still awake? He heard more noise from the house.
Pulling the blanket across his shoulders, he stepped outside. Even with the walkway blocking the breeze from the bay, the night’s chill pricked Chance’s exposed skin and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. The air came in thick and heavy. There would be another storm in a day or two. He could sense it.
He made for the house, hoping Ashworth hadn’t partaken too liberally of his flask. It was a rare thing for Ashworth to reach such a low, but there had been a time or two since Chance came under his roof when he’d seen Ashworth surrender control to the bottle.
Chance didn’t doubt losing Harper a second time might drive him to it again.
He noticed the potted herbs Rhett had been working on still strewn about the patio. He had yet to finish hanging them. And after his spook at the rally it was even less likely he’d get to them. But they couldn’t be left in the cold if they were going to be salvaged. Chance made a mental note to take care of them himself, and to go through and make sure the rest of Rhett’s chores were—
Chance dropped to the ground.
Coming around the corner of the house were two soldiers. Even in the dark, their signature red capes were plainly visible. Duelists. They moved guardedly, and Chance was able to scurry back into the shadows of the retaining wall before they spotted him.
“Check the greenhouse,” he heard one say.
The soldier entered the walkway and crept to Chance’s workshop, stumbling over a few of the discarded plants.
Ashworth had been right. They’d come for him first.
Chance held his breath, then risked leaping over the wall. Neither seemed to notice, and he crawled back behind the bushes that grew along the house.
The second soldier stood guard at the back door, but his focus was on something through the window. Chance heard voices coming from inside and cursed under his breath. They’d already gotten to Ashworth.
He couldn’t just sit idly by. He had to do something. Rising to his feet, Chance removed his blanket and held it before him like a snare. He could hear the other soldier rummaging through his workshop.
And I just cleaned it up!
Chance crept toward the soldier, his bare toes gripping the cold cobblestone, until he was just behind him.
“Hey,” Chance whispered.
The soldier spun around so quickly that Chance was nearly caught off guard himself. His hand had already gone for his sword, but Chance threw the blanket over him and seized him in a bear-hug before he could draw the blade fully.
Chance struggled against the man’s strength, but the soldier was too much for him. The blade came free, and Chance ducked back as it swung wildly over his head. The soldier ripped the blanket off just as Chance grabbed a spade from the ground. He swung as hard as he could, and the spade connected across the soldier’s head.
The man fell to the ground in a graceless heap.
Chance crouched low, listening
if anyone had heard the scuffle. The voices inside and the sound of rummaging from his workshop could still be heard. No one seemed to have noticed the scuffle. He pulled the soldier over to the side of the house and rested him up against the wall.
“Why don’t you just wait here a moment?” Chance said. He took the man’s sword and tossed it into one of the bushes. “You won’t need that.”
Chance crept up underneath one of the windows. He could make out perhaps a half-dozen voices inside. Rising up slowly, he risked a peek.
There, kneeling in the middle of the kitchen were Rhett and Ashworth. Their hands were bound and their mouths gagged with cloth. Around them stood a half-dozen red-caped soldiers. Chance noticed the decoration of their uniform was different than the man he’d grappled with.
Ducking back down, he took a moment to think over the situation. Ambushing a single soldier was one thing, but how was he going to take on five?
Somewhere in the distance, an explosion echoed through the city. It made the window shake, and Chance craned his head in the direction it had come.
What is going on? Chance wondered. Would this miserable day never end?
He crouched down against the wall again. He needed a plan. Something to thin them out and give Ashworth and Rhett a chance to get away. He thumped an open palm against his head.
“Think, Chance,” he told himself. “Think.”
He remembered the rain gutter alongside the house. It led close enough to one of the upstairs windows. With any luck, he could weasel his way in, and from there...
The feeling caught Chance in the gut before he registered just what was wrong, and he felt his shoulders sink on their own accord. He sighed in unconscious acknowledgment; the workshop had grown quiet.
He was turning around to look when the pommel of a sword caught him across the side of his head and everything went dark.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Flames in the Night
What chaos I have caused. What lives I’ve laid aside in my pursuit. Each name and face has become its own eternal haunt.
— Excerpt from Mechanarcissism
C hance came to his senses slowly, his head throbbing where he’d been struck. He tried to lift himself from the floor, but his arms were tied behind his back and his legs bound. Blinking, he looked around him. He was in the kitchen, surrounded by soldiers.
Ashworth was next to him. He gave Chance a look of concern, but Chance shook his head. He would be alright. Rhett sat quietly, staring wide-eyed at... nothing. His gaze was fixed on a point beyond all that was happening around him.
Chance risked a glance at the soldiers. They appeared to be waiting on something. One of the men stood where the table had been, reading from what Chance recognized as one of Ashworth’s many notebooks. He had a severe look as he surveyed its pages. From the stripes on the exposed sleeve of his uniform Chance discerned he was a man of rank.
One of the soldiers whispered something to leader, and he nodded before closing the book. His eyes fell on the three of them. At his signal, another soldier pulled the gag from Ashworth’s mouth.
“You’re the one they call Ashworth?” he asked.
“That is my name,” Ashworth replied. “And who are you that we have the pleasure of hosting you and your friends this evening?”
“I’ll be asking the questions.”
“Yes, but it would make answering them much easier if I knew who was asking them.” Ashworth met the man’s glare with calm reserve.
“Lieutenant Vanzeal,” he said finally.
“I wish I could offer you a seat, Vanzeal, but you’ve overturned most of the furniture already.”
“You’ve been making enemies, Ashworth,” Vanzeal said, ignoring Ashworth’s grim humor. “And not the kind you should like to attract, I swear to you.”
“Why don’t you just tell us what you’re here for, and dispense with your theatrics?”
Vanzeal sneered. “You think this a performance?”
He gestured to one of his guard, and Ashworth was delivered a rough kick from behind. Ashworth fell face-first on the floor, unable to catch himself.
“I swear to you that it is not.”
Ashworth rose up again with difficulty. His lip was bleeding, but he held back any evidence he was in pain as he looked into Vanzeal’s eyes. “You still haven’t answered my question,” he said calmly.
Vanzeal frown deepened. He didn’t appear to admire Ashworth’s resolution. “We have some questions to put to you,” he said.
“Does it usually take a break-in for your guard to get answers to a few questions?”
“Consider yourself under investigation.”
“I’m honored.”
Vanzeal nodded to another soldier, who stepped up and read from an official-looking document.
“Charles Ashworth, you are suspected of being in connection with recent events surrounding the late Captain Willard K. Harper and are subsequently charged with, but not limited to, the following: interfering in matters of the meritocracy, tampering with government property...”
Ashworth chuckled at that. “He was considered property?”
“...inciting subversion against the meritocracy among the citizens of Hatteras, and lastly, the death of the now late Captain Willard K. Harper.”
At the last one, Ashworth’s expression fell.
“I did not kill Willard Harper. Where is your evidence?”
“It is not my responsibility to educate you,” Vanzeal said, stepping forward. “Only to make an example of you. To be completely transparent, I really have no interest in these charges. What I’m more interested in is just how you came to be tied up in all of this in the first place. If you were able to educate me, we might dispense with the less pleasant aspects of my employ and be on our way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Names,” Vanzeal said sharply. “I want the names of every associate you’ve had in connection with the development of this ‘Aether spark.’“
He held up the notebook and pointed at the page where he’d been reading, as though it contained exactly what he was referencing, though Chance was fairly certain there was no mention of the spark in that particular notebook. Ashworth would never have been so careless with his secrets.
Which means someone squealed, Chance realized.
“Why?” Ashworth asked. “So you can hunt them down? Accuse them of crimes they haven’t committed? Even had I any help, as a man of honor I wouldn’t turn them over to you. As a man of honor yourself, how could you ask such a thing of me?”
“Honor?” Vanzeal chuckled. “Oh no, my poor old man. I hadn’t taken you for an idealist. How refreshing a find in such a dismal part of this city. But, surprises aside, you’re looking at this the wrong way. You see, I have no interest in honor. That, perhaps, is why I’m the one here in your home and not some other. I suggest you dispose of any preconception that I am restrained by any of the rules you hope to hide behind. One way or another, you’ll tell us what we need to know.”
“Your threats mean nothing to me.”
“Who did you work with?” Vanzeal asked, more severely.
“I worked alone.”
“We both know that’s a lie.”
“It’s the truth.”
“Is it?” Vanzeal frowned. “And what of these two? Your apprentices. They know nothing of your work?”
Chance glanced at Ashworth.
“Nothing,” Ashworth said resolutely.
“You’re sure about that?” Vanzeal grinned. He signaled again and a soldier seized Rhett’s arm, dragging him across the floor and away from Ashworth. Chance struggled against his bonds, but another soldier shoved him back.
“What are you doing?” Ashworth asked.
“Making threats,” Vanzeal said. “I thought we’d already come to that understanding. Or was I unclear?”
Rhett was lifted to his feet and positioned next to Vanzeal. It was haunting how unresponsive the boy was to what was happening around hi
m. His eyes remained locked in their distant stare.
“This is your apprentice, is it?” Vanzeal asked. “Seems like a nice boy. Innocent. Not yet fully aware of how cruel the world can be.”
“He’s wise enough to recognize your kind,” Ashworth said.
“Is that so? I’m glad to hear it.” He knelt down to Rhett’s level, forcing Rhett to look at him. “Is that true? Do you know what kind of man I am?”
Rhett stayed silent, his jaw rigid and eyes fixed on a spot on the wall.
“How did you get this?” Vanzeal asked, touching the bandage on the side of Rhett’s neck. The boy flinched.
“He doesn’t know anything,” Ashworth insisted.
Vanzeal flashed Ashworth a look as he seized the boy by the neck and pressed his thumb down on the bandage. Rhett let out a whimper.
“I said he doesn’t know anything!”
“Then who does?” Vanzeal demanded.
“No one knows; it was my secret!”
“You expect me to believe that?” Vanzeal jerked Rhett’s neck forcefully, and Rhett cried out in pain. “Who did you work with?”
Chance writhed against his bindings and strained to shout through his gag. White-hot rage rose up inside him, and he felt every desire to tear Vanzeal to pieces for what he was doing.
“Enough!”
The whole room froze. Ashworth was standing. He may have been old, but in that moment Chance had never seen him more imposing. He was the embodiment of resolve as he stared down Vanzeal. Vanzeal’s grip loosened under that stare.
“You call yourself a gentleman?” Ashworth asked. “A man of merit? It takes more than brute strength to demonstrate power. You are transparent, Vanzeal. Hollow, straight through. Anyone can play the villain, and you have taken that path of least resistance. If that be the case, then I am proud to be resistance in your path. You’re nothing more than a common thug hiding behind the favors of more cowardly men than you.”
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