Aether Spark

by Nicholas Petrarch

  “Sergeant Ringgold, at your service,” Ringgold said, bowing low with a flourish. “I’ve heard a great deal about you—of your work for our Good Captain Harper. When I saw you earlier I knew I couldn’t pass up this opportunity to meet you in person.”

  “Of course,” Stoddard said, taking Ringgold’s hand. “I remember.”

  “You’re something of a legend among us mechanists,” Ringgold said. He tapped the hilt of his sword.

  Stoddard nodded, though his mind was preoccupied. Sinclair stood a ways off, conversing closely with Vanzeal. About what, Stoddard wondered with agitation.

  “I hope you don’t think me presumptuous in observing that you’re not enjoying yourself.”

  “What makes you think so?” Stoddard asked. He took his drink from the bartender and strained it through his lips, the ice numbing them.

  “Forgive me, but we duelists spend years learning how to read people. Your every movement expresses a desire to escape from this place. Except your face. You have quite the look of determination to remain. May I ask why?”

  “I am here attending Elector Sinclair.”

  “Ah,” Ringgold said, as though he understood perfectly. “Not your first invitation, I take it?”

  Stoddard didn’t acknowledge the question.

  “Well, perhaps I have overstretched my liberties. I should leave you to rejoin your—”

  “No,” Stoddard said, downing his drink. “It’s alright. I’m just a little distracted at the moment.”

  “So, how are you enjoying our party?”

  “To be honest, you’re the first person today apart from the bartender who has made any attempt at a real conversation.” He returned the glass and gestured for another. “Everyone else seems to only tolerate me.”

  “Yes, well,” Ringgold smiled, “the meritocracy is not known for their generously cheerful demeanor. Too many ulterior motives bumping up against each other. But tell me, what is yours?”

  “Mine?”

  “Your motive for being here. I don’t know if I’ve ever encountered anyone that doesn’t have some hidden objective. Some secret enterprise they hope to obtain.”

  Stoddard gave the sergeant a once over. Who was this duelist that he felt bold enough to speak so forwardly? What was his motive in initiating such a conversation? He was considerably young to be so confident in his speech.

  Suspicion welled inside Stoddard.

  “I’m not certain I should say,” he said.

  “And there you’ve learned the first rule of survival on the Spire—keep things close to the chest,” Ringgold said. “But, may I share with you a second?”

  Stoddard nodded.

  “Make friends. There’s no hope of remaining in this social arena without them. It’s all about connections. Building a network of contacts you can rely on. Making yourself indispensable. A man is only as great as the friends he keeps. Trust me when I say that most of the people here are only so because of their connections—else they’d have been swept from the Spire long ago.”

  “And you think me soon to follow them?” Stoddard took some offense at the implication. “I’m still here. Am I not?”

  “Yes, but why are you not there?” Ringgold gestured to where Sinclair conversed with Vanzeal. “You are, I must point out, an outlier. You’ve gained recognition for your work, so merit has opened up a brief window of opportunity. Unfortunately, merit isn’t what keeps a man in this sort of company. Not for long.”

  “What does?”

  “Maneuvering.”

  Stoddard eyed Ringgold carefully. He got the feeling Ringgold knew more about him than he was divulging. Again, he wondered for what purpose he’d attracted his interest.

  “Why tell me this?” Stoddard asked.

  “Because I believe every man deserves a sporting chance. Those who aren’t bred for this sort of game tend to find themselves overwhelmed, as I thought you might be just now.”

  “It’s not so overwhelming as you suppose,” Stoddard insisted. “And I’m not so devoid of friends as you suggest. I attend at the elector’s invitation. He’s graciously taken me under his wing.”

  “Ah,” Ringgold smiled. “Your ambition is admirable.”

  Stoddard felt mocked. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you’ve selected a rather difficult first contact. Or was it you who selected him?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Stoddard said with some pride, “it was Sinclair who sought me out.”

  “Then forgive me, I worry for you even more.”

  At that moment Vanzeal concluded his conversation with Sinclair and bowed low as he departed. He passed Stoddard with his companion, casting Stoddard a hard look. But he walked on without any formal acknowledgment.

  “Yes, I worry for you a great deal,” Ringgold said watching Vanzeal go.

  “You seem to be favored in his company.”

  “I am assigned to Vanzeal for a time, yes. Perhaps I’ve shown promise in the interim. But, my association is by assignment only, and will end. And none too soon.”

  The way he said it pricked Stoddard. He was just about to ask what he’d meant when a disturbance on the lawn interrupted them. A man had barged into the garden, trailing two servants who looked desperate in their attempts to hold him back.

  “Get your hands off me! I must have an audience with Sinclair. Let go!”

  He struck a manservant with his cane and the servants recoiled as he turned again toward the gathering.

  “Sinclair! I have words for you!”

  “Contain yourself, Woirhayes! You are not welcome here anymore.” Vanzeal had appeared again, stepping forward to block the man’s path. Even in his hysteria, Woirhayes paused before Vanzeal’s imposing presence.

  “I will not be so easily dismissed,” Woirhayes insisted. “My family has been in good standing with the city for generations. Their sweat and blood has tempered the steel of the buildings you call home!”

  “The contribution your family has made to Hatteras is not the matter in dispute,” Sinclair said, stepping forth. “What is in dispute is your contribution, Mr. Woirhayes. And, as is evidenced by your manners here today, they are only further deserving of scrutiny.”

  “I am a Lord!” Woirhayes shouted.

  “Silence!” Sinclair barked, the first time Stoddard had heard such a tone from him. “We will have no more of your protests here. You disturb my guests.”

  “I’ll not be silenced, not until the slight done to my family’s honor is righted, or I die of shame.”

  “You very well could,” Vanzeal growled.

  “You... damn you to Septigonee’s Well, Sinclair. Elector you may be, but a colder more unpleasant man I’ve never had the dishonor of knowing. You hold men’s lives cheap, and it will one day be a price to be reckoned.”

  “Enough!” Arden stepped forward. “You will not dishonor my father!”

  “Stay, Arden!” Sinclair commanded.

  Arden halted, his fists clenched as he strained against his will, but he obeyed his father and stepped down.

  “Gentlemen, remove this man from the grounds. See to it that he is not permitted to enter again.”

  “Do not touch me.” Woirhayes struggled, swinging his cane at the men who approached him. It took two to distract him as a third seized the cane from behind.

  “I will not be dismissed! Sinclair! Sinclair!” he shouted.

  But, Sinclair had already turned his back and was enjoying his tea as though the whole affair had never occurred.

  “Sinclair! I challenge you! For my honor’s sake, I challenge you!”

  The men who carried Woirhayes stopped, hesitating as they turned back to see Sinclair’s response. Sinclair stood quite unfazed, taking a few sips of his tea.

  “Did you hear me?” Woirhayes shouted again, though he need not have with the silence which had fallen on the garden. “You will right the wrongs you have done to my family’s name or else settle this in blood!”

  “I heard you,”
Sinclair said. He set his cup down in its saucer and handed it off to one of the servants. Turning around, he locked eyes with Woirhayes. “Are you certain this is the course you wish to take?”

  “What choice have you left me? Mine and my posterity’s wellbeing are forfeit by an ill spoken word from your lips. I’ll see your tongue removed before I let this indignation go unanswered.”

  “Think carefully before you commit yourself to such a course,” Sinclair warned.

  “I’ve chosen my course! Now, how do you answer?”

  Sinclair eyed the man with distaste. Stoddard’s eyes darted between the two men. The hate which rose from Woirhayes collided violently with the cold in Sinclair’s demeanor. Never had Stoddard witnessed such a contest of wills as in that moment.

  “I accept.”

  “I offer my services as your stand-in.” Vanzeal spoke the words without missing a beat, and he stepped forward between Sinclair and Woirhayes.

  “This,” Sinclair grinned, “I also accept.” He turned his back to the whole affair and took up his tea again.

  “Of all the cowards,” Woirhayes fumed. “Will you not face me yourself?”

  “The elector has accepted me as his stand-in,” Vanzeal said. “According to the gentleman’s rules of engagement, your dispute is now with me. Seek for yourself a suitable stand-in or else we commence with the duel. Unless, of course, you’re not actually bound by the gentleman’s rules?”

  Woirhayes’ face flushed as Vanzeal spoke. It was his one avenue to escape, to avoid the contest to come. Vanzeal was a dangerous man, and Stoddard did not envy Woirhayes’ position.

  Woirhayes looked at the other duelists standing nearby, his eyes searching for a sympathetic face—but none were to be found.

  “It seems you find yourself disadvantaged, Woirhayes. Does no one here wish to fight for your honor as you do?” Vanzeal laughed, and his men laughed with him. Few others seemed to feel the humor in the moment, however. “Come man, be bold and take fate into your own hands.”

  “Very well,” Woirhayes said. He twisted his cane and drew out a simple, straight-edged saber.

  “Attend me,” Vanzeal commanded. A soldier from his company approached as Vanzeal unclasped his cape and handed it off. Ringgold and a few of the others requested that the servants usher the ladies from the garden, and the audience waned to a few men only.

  Emmaline protested as one of the servants offered to direct her to the parlor room. “Why should I be sent away?” she said. “Surely this unpleasantness can be handled in private. They should be the ones to go.”

  “We don’t get a say in what happens,” Stoddard said. “It would be best if you went with the others.”

  “Then come with me,” she pleaded.

  “I cannot. I’m attending to Sinclair. He would be insulted if I abandoned him now.”

  “Then I’ll attend you,” she winked.

  “No,” Stoddard insisted. “This is no place for a woman, and now is not the time to argue. I’m trying to secure us a future, and a place among the meritocracy. To do so, we must attend to Sinclair’s desires.”

  Emmaline frowned. He saw the color rising in her cheeks, but he had no time to explain himself. She’d have to understand and trust his judgment.

  “I’ll come find you when all is over,” he promised.

  “Don’t bother,” Emmaline snapped, and she huffed off, following the procession of guests.

  Stoddard watched her as she went, frustrated by her shortsightedness. She would see in time how crucial this moment was, how delicately their future hung in the balance. He couldn’t afford a moment’s neglect.

  Woirhayes and Vanzeal were readying themselves, clearing a space in which their confrontation would commence. The men in attendance circled around, conversing in whispered tones. As Stoddard stepped forward to join the group he overheard the general prediction of the duel.

  Woirhayes was not a popular choice.

  Vanzeal drew his sword, the steel blade gleaming in the sun. Stoddard noticed that its design was different from Ringgold’s. Where Ringgold’s had been a simple straight edge, Vanzeal’s weapon was curved and had three locked hinges in the blade itself. Its hilt wrapped around the base with a series of twisting gears and springs, like a clamp. He saluted Sinclair with it before stepping the traditional distance from his foe.

  “You’re dancing in a world you don’t belong,” Vanzeal said.

  “My family has been a part of this city for more than three generations,” Woirhayes said. “I’ve more of a right to be here than some military hopeful like you.”

  “We’ll see.”

  One of the gentlemen present stepped forward to moderate the duel.

  “A challenge has been issued,” he said in an official tone. “Let all who stand by as witnesses seal the outcome of this confrontation with their testimonies, and let none dispute it. Gentlemen, stand ready!”

  Twisting a dial in the hilt of his saber, Vanzeal lowered his blade and squared off with Woirhayes. His face communicated a hard confidence, and his eyes glimmered with a hint of pleasure.

  Woirhayes shuffled and turned himself sideways, his sword point extended toward Sinclair’s chest.

  “To the death!” the moderator shouted, and the duel commenced.

  There was an uneasy moment as the two men stood unmoved. For a second, Stoddard wondered if they’d missed their cue to begin, but the look in their eyes communicated otherwise. Stoddard glanced toward Sinclair who watched expressionless as Woirhayes shifted back and forth on his feet, finding his footing.

  “A pity,” Ringgold whispered, stepping up beside Stoddard.

  “What is?”

  “To duel, one must be able to read the fight from beginning to end even before blades are drawn. It’s the nature of our weapons,” he said, patting the curious hilt of his own rapier. “The timing of the advantage.”

  “Does Woirhayes not have a chance?”

  “Vanzeal is an expert duelist, but more than that his intuition is honed to precision. The mechanisms of our blades are designed so that the wielder can set the timing of his advantage. A truly skilled duelist will time his advantage so carefully that the mechanism springs at exactly the opportune moment. Spring it too soon, and the mechanism may not penetrate your opponent’s defenses. Spring too late, however, and the opponent might gain the advantage before you.”

  He sighed. “Here, I’m afraid the duel is already decided.”

  Stoddard looked at Ringgold, then to Vanzeal and Woirhayes. Vanzeal had yet to move. He stared at Woirhayes with cold eyes. Woirhayes was sweating, but he kept his eyes locked with Vanzeal’s.

  And then Stoddard saw it. Had he not been trying to read the moment, as Ringgold had suggested, he might have missed it altogether.

  The corner of Vanzeal’s lip curled up in a sneer.

  It happened quickly. Vanzeal blinked, and Woirhayes saw his opportunity. Lunging forward, he struck with all his might—the point of his blade driving for Vanzeal’s heart.

  But the point never found its mark. The sound of springs and hinges coincided perfectly with Vanzeal’s counter step, and Woirhayes’ blade pierced empty air.

  Woirhayes stood stunned, Vanzeal’s saber buried a few inches into his back. He let out a desperate groan before falling forward, lifeless.

  Vanzeal drew out his blade and wiped it on a cloth. “It is done,” he announced.

  “See here, all of you,” Sinclair said, gesturing to the body. “A reasonable man would have seen the opportunity to remake himself, and not given in to unbridled passions of the moment. Remove him. And let’s be done with these grisly affairs for the afternoon, shall we? Someone fetch the women.”

  Two servants scooped up Woirhayes’ body, moving him out of sight while another went to announce the duel concluded. Stoddard watched as they carried the body away and cleaned the blood, fighting a queasiness in his stomach.

  “Are you alright?” Ringgold asked.

  “I’ll be fine,” S
toddard insisted. “I just need a moment.”

  “I take it this is your first time witnessing a duel?”

  Stoddard nodded and dabbed his brow.

  “It’s natural to be unnerved. There’s nothing beautiful about such a death.”

  “Coming from a duelist, that surprises me. I imagine you’ve dispatched a man or more yourself?”

  “I’ve seen enough die to know it’s not something men should grow accustomed to. And yet... we do.” He frowned on the company before him. “One final word of advice if you’ll permit me, Doctor?”

  “Yes?” Stoddard asked.

  “The day you stop feeling for another man’s life, get yourself out of politics.”

  Stoddard was about to respond when Sinclair summoned him, and he was taken up with the rest of the group in a quest to find some fresh air.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Working with Scrap

  How often we fail to acknowledge the role our failures played in life. What might we have obtained had our course continued undisturbed? And what might we have missed?

  — Excerpt from Mechanarcissism

  W ake up!” Rhett shouted into Chance’s ear, shaking his shoulder. “Chance, wake up!”

  Chance groaned and rolled over, his elbow bumping into the leg of his desk so hard that it sent chills up his arm. He cradled it against him to calm the pain as a few of the containers on the desk rolled off the edge. Rhett managed to catch the glass vials before they shattered.

  “What do you want, Rhett?” Chance asked groggily. He realized he was laying on the floor. The light through the window seared his eyes, and he kept his head down to shield them. “What time is it?”

  “Noon. You looked like you were...”

  “Like I was what?” Chance asked, sitting up and grasping his head. It ached violently, and glancing at the empty bottles beside him he remembered why.

  “You looked like you had a bad night,” Rhett finished.

  “How about a bad life?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Chance said. He used the desk to pull himself to his feet. They were in one of Margarete’s empty rooms, a loft at the top of the stairs, crammed with all his laboratory equipment, a chair, and a single bed.