Aether Spark

by Nicholas Petrarch

  “About the Aether spark?”

  Chance nodded. “But they’re incomplete. His notebooks were taken by the duelists, so I’m not even sure I can reproduce it. I need to figure out who was working on this with him.”

  Then something dawned on Chance’s mind, and he felt foolish. Ashworth and Welch were close friends. He’d almost begged Chance to go to Welch before. Why not now?

  “Welch... you worked on this with him, didn’t you?”

  Welch shrugged. “I think so. I’m not sure with what part exactly. Ashworth never told me what he was working on. Only shared bits of whatever was puzzling him at the time.”

  Chance cursed silently. Welch really was one of the most useless people he’d ever met.

  He thought about who else he’d heard Ashworth speak about. He couldn’t remember anyone specifically, but Ashworth had said that those who’d helped him would be at their secret meeting. Thinking back, Chance pictured the room again and where everyone was sitting. He remembered Keller hanging around Ashworth throughout the night—even coming to Ashworth’s defense during Estrada’s outbursts.

  But Keller was dead, and Foxx was unaccounted for. For all he knew, that was as dead an end as any. However, it was another lead, and Chance knew he couldn’t be stingy with the leads he had.

  He needed to find Foxx.

  It was clear when Serge reentered the room he wasn’t content with the general decision, but he didn’t push it further. Instead, he poured himself a drink, mumbling under his breath.

  He was about to take a sip when there was an urgent knock at the back door. Everyone jumped, and Rhett, who had been quiet the whole meeting, let out one of the most disturbing sounds Chance had ever heard—like a squeak.

  The pounding continued until Liesel unbolted the door and cracked it. There stood a man Chance didn’t recognize. His breaths came in heaves, and he leaned heavy on the doorpost.

  “It’s burning,” he said. “Gravatt’s place is burning!”

  “Are they alright?” Liesel asked.

  “I’m not sure. I didn’t dare get too close, not with all the soldiers up and down the street like they were.”

  Serge slammed his glass down on the table and cursed. “Let’s go then. Maybe there’s still time to help.”

  He and Simon donned their coats and hurried out the door.

  “I’ll come with you,” Chance called after them.

  “You shouldn’t be out right now,” Liesel insisted. “What if someone recognizes you?”

  “I’d rather be out trying to help than waiting for more bad news.”

  Liesel looked conflicted, but Chance saw her waver. “Fine,” she said, though it obviously wasn’t sitting well with her. She grabbed her coat from the peg by the door. “We’ll all go.”

  “Welch, will you watch Rhett?” Chance asked.

  “Sure I will.”

  “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  Chance donned his carrier and their little entourage slipped out the door and hurried down the street toward Gravatt’s, hoping beyond hope this was the last ill news that would reach them that night.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Only Need One

  Just try to bar progress and you’ll discover, quite acutely, how unwaveringly fate rolls forth. There’s no sitting still when we feel the clock tick.

  — Excerpt from Mechanarcissism

  I s it much further?” Stoddard asked as he followed the warden down a staircase into the bowels of the prison.

  The Steep, as it was known, was carved into the cliffs below the Spire and housed the worst of society’s rejects. A single, long stairway below the capitol acted as the main entrance.

  Stoddard’s back ached from the cramped descent. “I don’t think I can take much more of these stairs,” he complained. “How much further?”

  “Not far now,” the warden said. “It’s better than the seaside entrance, mind me. Those swells are tough to make, even with a good team to row ya. Likely to end up on the rocks. I’d brave these steps any day over that. Mind them here, though. They’re a bit damp.”

  The descent was abrupt, twisting through tight tunnels of roughhewn stone. The further they ventured, the more claustrophobic Stoddard became. Hatteras was a crowded city, but this place was tomb-like and put him in a grave mood.

  The warden held a small gas lamp to light their way, and Stoddard had to keep close to watch his feet. The man reeked of decomposing earth, blended with heavily soiled cloth. Stoddard tucked his chin into his neck as he walked, answering the man’s incessant and mundane commentary with short grunts to minimize his breaths.

  “As I was saying, I’ve been there a few times, what with my father being the boiler-man and all. I says to any man, Pendambu is the most beautiful of all the colonies I ever set eyes on. And, I don’t mind going nose-to-nose with any man who argues with me about that. Trees as tall as buildings, they have, with thick palms you could wrap a man in. Their buildings ain’t but a hut compared to the one’s we’ve built here in Hatteras, o’ course. I never seen anywhere builds like we do.”

  He thumped his chest heartily, and Stoddard turned to avoid breathing in the cloud of soil which was knocked loose from the man’s shirt.

  “And the food,” he continued. “Stews and rice that can cook a man’s innards before he realized what he’s eating. The lads and I made sport of it whenever in port. Spoon for spoon, just like a drinking game.

  “Shame though, I never did set my foot on land myself. Always had to stay on the ship. Was for the better, I suppose. Nothing but filthy barbarians the lot of them. I wonder to myself sometimes, why is it that the very worst of people get the best of things? I wonder it often, I do.”

  Stoddard doubted the man had ever considered what the land looked like before Hatteras had been built up. Likely it looked much like Pendambu sounded, a beautiful coastal point with its cove a safe harbor leading up into the luscious gardens of the terraced cliffs.

  Industry marred the land, and this Stoddard accepted as a worthy consequence. It may not have been as appeasing to the uneducated eye, but Stoddard appreciated the beauty of what man had created—the satisfying mark of progress.

  Perhaps that was the price of enlightened man; there was no innocence in paradise.

  “Bah. Just Septigonee’s luck, I figure,” the warden dismissed. “Who am I to think after more than I’ve been given?” He spat at the ground and hit the wall, the thick mucus turning Stoddard’s already weak stomach.

  “Ah, Vanzeal!” Stoddard said with great relief as he and the warden turned a corner at the bottom of the steps and came face-to-face with the lieutenant.

  He stood in a space only slightly larger than the stairway, where perhaps a half-dozen men could have gathered uncomfortably around the small table. He was accompanied by another duelist of his company, and Stoddard and the warden greeted them in turn.

  “I was worried I wouldn’t get the opportunity to speak to you tonight,” Stoddard said.

  “I was instructed to remain until you arrived,” Vanzeal said. He didn’t seem keen about his post, but he’d remained nonetheless. Stoddard decided it best to be brief and to the point.

  “Where are the prisoners being held?” he asked.

  “They’ll all be just there. Behind those doors.” The warden gestured down the corridor to a few of the nearby cells.

  “I’d like to speak to the man, Ashworth, if I can.”

  “Ashworth?” the warden asked, glancing over his ledger. “No record of anyone here by that name. Unless he goes by another?”

  Stoddard frowned, looking unsure. “There’s a mistake then. Ashworth should be here. Vanzeal?”

  “I’m afraid he’s right,” Vanzeal said matter-of-factly. “Ashworth isn’t here.”

  “Then, where is he?”

  “Dead,” Vanzeal sneered. “The fool resisted arrest and ended up burning down his whole laboratory, with him and his apprentices still inside. A tragedy, of course, but what’s done is d
one.”

  Stoddard was beside himself.

  “And how, then, am I supposed to question him about his work?” he asked. “He was the entire reason your services were called upon! Sinclair assured me you were the man for the job, and you... you’ve completely botched the one task assigned to you. I’ve never heard of such... incompetence!”

  “Excuse me?” Vanzeal said. His voice had gone from moderate disinterest to cold intensity. He straightened, his eyes growing brighter as he squared off with Stoddard.

  “The fact is,” Stoddard continued, bordering hysteria. “Without putting too fine a point on it, you’ve single handedly destroyed the very thing I sent you to secure! And quite possibly crippled the work Sinclair employed you to safeguard.”

  “We seized all of his records and journals,” Vanzeal said. “Any information you were looking for will be among them.”

  “I don’t think you’ve grasped the gravity of the situation,” Stoddard’s voice rose in his throat. “My work—my life’s work—hung on the edge of a knife these past twenty-four hours, and you very well may have destroyed it all. When Sinclair hears about this—”

  “Let me stop you there before you go on,” Vanzeal said, stepping forward so quickly and so close that Stoddard stumbled back against the wall. “Let us get something perfectly clear. I don’t work for you, Doctor. I work for Elector Sinclair—and he knows how I work. I’ve been in his favor for years, and no probationary gentleman-hopeful like yourself has a prayer of disrupting that. If I were you, I’d look to your own affairs. They’ll be the ones in question after tonight, not mine.

  “Now, I have something to say to you on a personal note,” Vanzeal continued. “I don’t care in the least what your opinion of me or my men is. You are inconsequential, and after this meeting I won’t consider you again. However, I’ll give you some friendly advice—you’ve been noticed, and like a schoolboy in his father’s cellar you’ve drunk in that moment deeply. Be careful you don’t let it go to your head. This game can be far more costly than I think you realize.”

  Vanzeal donned his gloves and saluted the warden.

  “I’ll have my men deliver the evidence we seized to your office,” he said to Stoddard, not looking at him. “After that, I consider my duties fulfilled.” He ruffled his cape, and, with a gesture to his second, stormed out.

  The warden looked concerned, but did not dare say anything.

  Stoddard was pained. He was furious with Vanzeal, and suddenly quite terrified of the prospect of facing Sinclair. After tonight, what did he have to offer? He’d gambled and come up with a poor hand.

  Yet, it was still possible there were others who knew something about Ashworth’s work with the Aether—partners, associates and the like. There was only one way to find out.

  “Are you alright, sir?” the warden asked. “You don’t look so well.”

  Stoddard had turned white, and not from the cold or smell, but he snapped out of his thoughts. “Was anyone else imprisoned from Vanzeal’s raids?” he asked.

  “A few, yes. And we still have the lot they seized off the streets after the bombing yesterday afternoon.”

  “Let me see them.”

  “Certainly.” The warden beckoned Stoddard to follow, leading him to one of the barred iron doors. There was nothing more than a slit in it the width of a man’s eyes. “Mind you keep your distance. They’re a sorry lot, but we don’t want to risk them trying anything rash while you’re in there.”

  He untied a string of keys from his belt, unlocked the door, and pulled the heavy bolt back with a resonating clang.

  “Away from the door!” he barked through the slit, then swung it open.

  Stoddard entered the room behind the warden, its occupants pulling away as they did. Surveying their faces, he had the impression this lot wasn’t the type who was going to try anything. These were common citizens, not criminals. Their every characteristic testified of the fact.

  “I’m looking for information regarding Captain Harper,” he said. “Does anyone have any information regarding what happened yesterday? Or of events concerning him these past few weeks?”

  “Speak up if you do,” the warden said. “This might be your one chance to gain some favor back with a gentleman before judgment.”

  There was silence in the group. Stoddard half-expected as much. Vanzeal’s abilities proved less than satisfactory once again.

  “What of the man Ashworth? He was a free-merchant from the Basin District. Anyone know anything of him?”

  Again, there was silence, but one of the men glanced up when Stoddard mentioned the name. Stoddard narrowed his eyes at the man.

  “You have something to say?”

  The man nodded his head. “Yes. I knew him.”

  “Quiet!” another from the group hissed. The warden stepped forward and swung his club at the man, beating him back until he was clinging to the wall.

  “How?” Stoddard asked the first, ignoring the interruption.

  “He was an alchemist, like myself. We were competitors, but in different parts of the district.”

  Stoddard approached the man and knelt down in front of him. “And you have information on him? What he produced? What he was working on?”

  “I think so,” the man said. “I’m not sure what you want to know, but I know enough about him that I can guess at why you’re interested.”

  “And why is that?”

  “The Aether spark,” he said in a low voice.

  Stoddard’s whole body came alive again with the words. So, there were others who knew.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Gravatts,” the man said.

  “And what do you know about this Aether spark?”

  “A bit, I think. I wasn’t part of its development, but I allowed Ashworth to rent space in my laboratory from time to time. And I helped him get through customs when he needed something he couldn’t purchase.”

  “How did you do that?”

  “I’ve special connections within the city.”

  “And why would a businessman like yourself assist a competitor? What did you gain from it?”

  “It didn’t put me out any,” Gravatts explained. “It was a simple investment, and, had things worked out, I’d have had a share in the payout. I’d have been stupid not to do it.”

  “Is that all you know then?” Stoddard asked. “His shopping list?”

  “No,” Gravatts hurried. “I was there at his secret meetings—when he organized the rally.”

  “Can you identify who else was at those meetings?”

  “Sure I can. There was Keffer, Yoon, Keller, Foxx. All alchemists from th—”

  “All names we’re already aware of,” Stoddard lied. He needed to appear a step ahead. Keep the man desperate.

  Gravatts swallowed hard. “Sager was there.” He gestured to the man who’d been beat. “And Liesel and Welch. They aren’t alchemists, but they were close to Ashworth. She owns a pub. And his apprentices, Chance and Rhett. They were there, too. They’d know more, I’m sure of it.”

  Stoddard sighed. Those leads had already been snuffed out. Vanzeal had seen to that. They were nothing more than charred remains under a heap of rubble.

  “None of this is useful or new information,” Stoddard said. “Unless you know about the Aether itself I’m afraid I’m losing interest in you.”

  “Well, I...” Gravatts stuttered as he tried to think of something valuable to share.

  “Of course,” Stoddard frowned. He turned to the man who’d been beaten. “I don’t suppose you have anything you’d like to share, do you?”

  Sager stayed quiet, though he cast a look at Gravatts which could pierce flesh. Stoddard rose again and returned to the hallway, with Gravatts’ pleadings following him out.

  The warden bolted the door behind them.

  “Warden, I wonder if you’d be willing to see what other information you can get from that man. It’s possible he does know something that could be use
ful.”

  “Certainly,” the warden said. “We’re keeping them another week or so. I’ll give him special attention.”

  “You’re planning to release them already?”

  “Of course. No need to hold the lot of them. Got orders to clear out as many prisoners as we can now that Selaria is getting bolder. There’s been rumors of war, and if that happens then we’ll have more bodies than we can hold. Besides, it’s pretty clear this lot is innocent. We only need one, after all.”

  “One?”

  The warden took a few steps further down the corridor and pulled a slit back on one of the doors. Stoddard hesitated, but at the urging of the warden he peered in.

  Curled up in a corner of a solitary room sat a tiny man. He was bent low over his knees, his arms resting on the floor dejectedly. His eyes were red and his cheeks glistened as he let out the occasional sniffle.

  “We only need one to keep the peace,” the warden explained. “We’ll have the papers print his confession when we release the others, and then he’ll be forgotten.”

  “Who is he?” Stoddard asked.

  “Who cares?” the warden shrugged. “The sorriest of the lot they dragged in. Pitiful, isn’t he?”

  Stoddard watched as the tiny man wiped his nose on his shoulder, then rested his head on it before closing his eyes.

  “Yes,” Stoddard agreed. He stepped away from the door. Something sat unsettled in his stomach.

  The warden eyed him. “You sure you’re alright?”

  “I need to go.”

  “I’ll see you out,” the warden offered.

  “No,” Stoddard said, perhaps a little too vehemently. “I mean... I know my way back. I just need some space to think. Thank you, Warden.”

  He seized one of the extra lamps from the table and began the cramped climb back to the surface. The atmosphere of the place was getting to him, the walls were too close for comfort. And that man in isolation...

  Stoddard picked up his pace until he was almost sprinting for the surface.

  Chapter Thirty

  Sifting Through the Wreckage