“Chance,” Margarete said, turning toward him. Her eyes were pleading. You don’t have to, they told him.
Yes, I do, Chance’s answered.
He wanted to say more. Wanted to tell her how much he wanted to listen. How much he wanted her help. But he couldn’t bring himself to. Instead, he turned and led Rhett through the doorway.
He’d tell her later.
Chapter Forty-Six
Barred from the Exchange
Sometimes, all you need is a little pressure to get the right reaction.
— Alchemical Proverb
L ike Rhett had said, the Exchange was in a commotion. A heavy wind had picked up, blowing in from the bay. The air was thick, and, despite the billowing clouds which were rolling in, a crowd filled the street outside the gates. It was growing by the minute as more disgruntled citizens came running to confirm the rumors.
Chance and Rhett did their best to make their way through the thickening crowd, which wasn’t so difficult for Rhett given his size. He was good at weaving through legs, but Chance struggled.
As he pushed his way forward, he caught sight of a dirigible struggling to rise up out of the yard laden with crates and boxes. The wind whipped at its balloon, and men from the ground worked desperately with their leads to keep it stable.
Chance pushed harder.
“What do you think?” Rhett asked when Chance finally popped out beside him near the front of the crowd.
“I think, I’ve had enough of this,” Chance said, watching the dirigible cruise away toward the shipyard. He approached the gate where men contended with one another.
“I told you, there’s nothing to distribute today,” the quartermaster shouted. “Go home! We’ll inform you when we open up again. Until then, be on your way!”
“And just how long will that be?” someone shouted. “I’ve got a business to run!”
“And a family to feed!” another complained.
“What are we supposed to do if you won’t sell to us?
“You can’t deny us our goods!”
“All goods are first property of the city,” the quartermaster said. “They’re being redistributed as the city deems necessary. You can thank the colonies and that bloody blockade. When things have settled overseas we’ll return to business as usual. Until then, make do with what you have.”
“You barely give us enough to make a living on as it is. How do you expect us to feed ourselves on less than nothing?”
“I told you, we’ll inform you when we open again. The city will ration goods fairly between the districts.”
“And what about the meritocracy?” Chance asked. The quartermaster looked at him, his eyebrow rising.
“What about them?” he asked.
“Are you rationing their goods? Because, by the looks of it, there aren’t any dirigibles hauling off goods from the Spire. That seem fair?”
The quartermaster glared at him. “We’re redistributing as we see fit.”
“As who sees fit?” Chance demanded.
“Never you mind.”
Chance had had enough. He felt the pressure rising as every injustice, every inconvenience, swelled inside him. It was as though a valve had finally burst. He struck the gate with a clenched fist, shaking it furiously. “You can’t do this! You can’t just turn us away.”
“That’s enough!” the quartermaster yelled. “Stand back from the gate!”
“Open the gate!” Chance shouted. He shook the iron gate with all his might. “Open the gate!”
“I’m warning you! Stand back!” The quartermaster signaled to the guard to intervene, but Chance wasn’t deterred. He shook the gate again, flailing his weight as he tugged and pushed against the bars. They clattered loudly over the commotion of the crowd behind him.
A searing pain gripped Chance’s side as his stomach seized. He doubled over, clutching the bars for support as his strength left him.
Not now, he thought.
“This is your last chance,” the quartermaster yelled.
The guards raised their clubs high... but they didn’t fall. Something stopped them.
The gates shook again, the sound resonating. Chance looked to his side and saw men and women pressing up against the bars, pushing and pulling together. They were pressed up against him so tightly he feared he might be crushed.
The hinges strained with the added weight, and the sound of bending metal caused the guards to step back in surprise. The quartermaster watched in disbelief as the whole gate began to fold inward. Then, with a sudden lurch, the hinges snapped and the gate came down with a crash.
Chance fell forward as the mob clambered over him to get through. He clutched his side as he tried to move out of the way, but the pain was too great.
For the second time, he was being trampled.
He tucked into a ball, trying his best to protect himself from the stampeding feet, when he felt strong arms on him. Looking up, he saw Kwame and Rhett holding back the crowd while Simon dragged him to a safe spot beyond the gates.
When they were clear of the mob, Kwame knelt beside him and rested a hand on his shoulder.
“You good now?” he asked.
“I think so.” Chance appraised himself. Apart from a few bruises and his wrists hurting where he’d struck the gate he was still intact.
“That was a close call,” Simon said, and he smiled at Chance. “You may have just been responsible for tipping a mob past their breaking point. You proud of yourself?”
“Actually, I am,” Chance said, accepting Simon’s hand and rising to his feet.
“What have I told you about picking fights?”
“Sometimes the fight picks you,” Chance half-smiled against the pain in his stomach. It still felt tight, but he found he could manage as long as he stayed slightly bent.
“Lucky we see you fall,” Kwame said. “Or you be looking from heaven.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Look at them all,” Simon frowned, gesturing to the people pushing through the gate.
The four of them watched from the side as the mob stormed the Exchange and flooded the yard. The guards weren’t putting up much of a fight; they were little more than hired thugs. It was one thing to look intimidating from the other side of a locked gate, but in the face of the mob they buckled—unprepared for such an onslaught.
The guards and the quartermaster fled toward a second dirigible still docked in the yard, hoping to get off the ground before they were overrun. They were just climbing up the platform when the mob caught up to them, seizing them with many hands and dragging them down to the ground.
The crew tried frantically to cut the lines, but the mob overwhelmed them too and the dirigible remained grounded.
The whole scene was chaos as more people arrived. The warehouse doors were thrown wide open and pillaged of any remaining wares.
Chance hobbled toward the center of the yard.
“Where are you going?” Simon asked him.
“Taking advantage of the moment,” he said.
The three of them followed as he approached the dirigible. People were busy unloading crates, heaving them over the edge and letting them fall. They split open, spilling their contents before an eager crowd. They foraged through it like dogs, bickering with one another as they grabbed whatever they could carry.
Chance felt his spirits fall. He’d thought such a moment would have given him reason to feel satisfaction, watching the meritocracy lose one to the people. But this scene didn’t attest a victory—it was just a squabble, and a pathetic one at that.
Just like the factory revolts.
Chance wandered to where the quartermaster was held. The man lay on the ground with his guards, fresh bruises surfacing on their faces. He’d been bound up with a rope and left to wait things out on the sidelines.
“Chance!” Kwame called to him from one of the broken crates. “Look at this!” He held up a set of gentleman’s clothes. They were adorned in fine velvet and golden
threads. “I never have clothes like this. Me and you all be gentlemen!”
“Get rid of that and go find something useful,” Simon instructed.
“Want me to go check for your components?” Rhett asked.
“Sure,” Chance said, only half-listening. The boy ran off toward the back warehouse, and Chance watched him go. He couldn’t shake the subdued feeling.
Why wasn’t he celebrating?
“You’re in for it now,” the quartermaster sneered. “Oh, you’re all in for it.”
“You’ve had it in for us long before now,” Chance said dismissively. “About time fortunes turned.”
“A lot of good it will do you, I’m sure.” The man wiped his bloody lip on his shoulder and stared at Chance. He gave him a queer look as realization crept over his face. “Wait a second...” he said. “I know you! You’re that two-bit alchemist, the one who worked for Ashworth!”
“What of it?”
“Never took you for the thieving type,” he said. “Can’t make your way in the world, so you take it out on us who can? Is that it?”
“You’ve stolen from us for years,” Chance said. “Just returning favors.”
“Tell me, what’s your plan from here?” the quartermaster asked. He snickered at the look on Chance’s face. “I thought so. Nothing more than a band of pillaging slag. Curse you and all your lot.” He spat at Chance’s feet. “Just you wait until the soldiers get here. You’re all in for it then.”
“You ever seen what desperate men will do if you push them too far?” Chance snapped. He wanted to lash out at the man, but Simon grabbed him before he could.
“Wait,” Simon said, his grip firm. “He’s right. We shouldn’t stay here long. Pretty soon this place will be overrun with soldiers. It’s best if we aren’t here when they arrive.”
“Time to take and go,” Kwame said. “Each man after his own head?”
“No,” Chance snapped.
“What?”
Chance glared at the scene before him, the sickness pitting deeper and deeper in his aching stomach. Serge’s words came to his mind; the people really were lost—trying to survive from day to day. He’d been right. Chance saw it clearly before him. Their opportunities passed them by, and would continue to, as long as they kept looking after themselves.
Something had to give. Chance had little to give anymore, but he had nothing else to lose. That accounted for something in his book.
“Is that all you want?” he asked, turning to his friends. “A handful of things? Back to the same life you’ve been handed to wait out the next abuse they decide to send our way? Is that honestly enough for you?”
Chance looked from face to face. Each had trouble looking back at him. Apparently, his words struck a chord.
“Well it’s not enough for me,” Chance continued. “Not anymore. I’m tired. I’m tired of all of this. Of living within the bounds that they’ve set for us. I’d rather take my life into my own hands than leave it to be decided by this cursed city.”
He turned on Simon.
“Isn’t this what you’ve been looking for? A moment like this? Isn’t this what your little Resistance has been praying for all this time?”
“Perhaps,” Simon consented, his voice holding onto worry. “But, I can’t see this going any differently than it did with the factory workers. We’ll bar ourselves behind these walls and maybe—just maybe—we could mount a resistance for a while. But, they’ll mass a force strong enough to punch a hole through us before nightfall.
“We may be together right now, if you can call this mob ‘together,’ but against a trained military we won’t have a prayer. These aren’t soldiers.” Simon gestured to the people around them. “They’re just common folk. These walls will become our tomb.”
“Then we don’t stay.”
“Right,” Simon said. “That’s what I’ve been saying.”
“I mean we don’t fight here,” Chance clarified. “We won’t wait for them to come deal with us. We’ll go to them, right up to the Spire so that they’ll have to listen to us.”
“A fight isn’t going to end well wherever we are.”
“Then what is it you are organizing for?” Chance asked. “What is the point of your Resistance if not this, right here? Or are you just a bunch of cowards whose dreams are greater than your resolve?”
“I want to believe it’s possible more than anyone,” Simon defended. “Believe me. But the people are not unified. This is a mob. They’ll loot and they’ll pillage, but when trouble shows its head they’ll run with whatever they can get their hands on—and that’ll be enough for them. They’re not soldiers; they’re just a band of desperate men.”
Chance grinned. “Exactly.”
Simon looked confused.
“We don’t need soldiers,” Chance explained. “Look at these guards. They folded the moment things got tough, and why is that? Because they don’t believe in this. They aren’t invested in any of this, any more than the few meager scraps they’re paid for this job. But these people, we’re in the thick of it. All of us.
“We’ve all woken up to the same lot and felt frustrated by the ridiculousness of the Spire’s regulations. There’s not a single one of us that hasn’t been taxed near the breaking point, and if we could tap into that feeling—tip it past the breaking point—think what could happen. You’d have a city full of men and women better than soldiers!”
The three of them stood quietly. Simon shuffled in place and Chance saw the battle raging visibly in his mind. Kwame looked as though he were holding back tears. He threw the clothes on the ground and stepped forward, taking Chance’s hand in his.
“My people be fighting across the sea for long and long. Is time a fight is here to Hatteras,” Kwame said. “I fight!”
Simon looked hard upon the two of them, shifting on his good leg as he thought it through. Finally, with a deep breath, he stepped forward. “You’re mad,” he said. “You realize that?”
“I think I’m figuring that out,” Chance smirked. “Yeah.”
“There’s a good chance none of them will go along with whatever you have in mind.”
“But there’s always a chance,” Chance winked.
Simon couldn’t help but smile at that.
“Alright then. I’m with you.” He took Chance’s hand.
They were only a few, drunk on the moment and up against dizzying odds, but it was a good feeling not being alone.
Chance drank the feeling in deep.
“We’ll need to get their attention somehow,” Simon said. “How do you reckon we’re going to do that? Look at them,” he gestured.
The people were still tearing into the warehouses, ransacking anything that wasn’t nailed down or locked up—and even then, sometimes. How did one speak to a mob? Chance didn’t have the slightest idea.
A symbol. Serge’s voice entered into Chance’s mind clearly. They need a symbol burned into their minds. One they can’t ignore. One they won’t forget.
Chance saw it then—his opportunity.
“I have an idea,” he said.
“Great! You want to tell us what it is?” Simon asked.
Chance didn’t, just in case Simon tried to talk him out of it.
Running to the platform where the dirigible was docked, he pulled three of the lanterns off their hooks before racing up the stairs. At the top, he knelt down and lit the burners until they were going strong, then threw one as hard as he could on the airship’s deck.
The oil spilled out of the lantern as the casing cracked, sending a coating of liquid flame across the wooden planks. He grabbed the second, and repeated the process.
“What you doing?” Kwame cried, seeing the flames as he came aboard the ship. They’d followed Chance up the platform and all three looked with horror as the second fire started.
“Are you insane?” Simon said. “You’ll ignite the balloon!”
Chance paused to acknowledge them. “Exactly,” he said, then threw the t
hird and final lantern down.
The ship was burned steadily, the wind whipping the flames and spreading them across the dry wooden planks. A few men who’d been foraging below deck popped up in alarm and raced off the ship at the sight of the fire. Kwame and Simon did as well, stopping on the platform with obvious reservations as they pleaded with Chance.
“Well don’t just stand there,” Simon urged. “Come on!”
Chance admired his handiwork, watching the flames creep further along the deck. They couldn’t wait for him any longer, and they hurried down the stairs. He watched them as they backed away to a safe distance.
“Chance, get on from there!” Kwame called.
“You’re acting crazy!”
The people had noticed the flames and a cry of alarm spread throughout the yard. They grabbed the last of what they could from the piles below and backed away, their eyes on the burning ship.
As Chance gazed down on them, he saw Rhett with his arms full of components. His big eyes were turned toward Chance, his expression full of concern.
This was it. This was the moment Serge had been looking for. Chance was going to be their catalyst.
It was now or never. He gripped the rigging tightly and stepped up onto the prow. The dirigible shook in the wind, but Chance held on tight. All eyes were on him, the crazy kid clinging to a burning ship, waiting to see what would happen next.
He had the stage.
“Look at you,” he shouted. “Look at what you’ve become. Gutter snipes. Bilge rats. Bickering amongst yourselves for the scraps left behind by the meritocracy. Is that what you are? Is that really what you are?”
There was a general muttering and glancing about in the mob. For a moment Chance saw each one of them in his mind’s eye. Every one of their faces was discernible before him as they gazed up at him.
“I see more than that,” he continued. “I’ve been in your homes. I’ve seen how you’ve suffered. I’ve suffered with you. Thousands of injustices that the meritocracy sees fit to send our way. And why? Because we let them!
“They’ve taken my home. They murdered my friend. I watched them come into his home in the middle of the night and slit his throat right before my eyes. Where was justice in that moment? Who stood up to them in our defense? I know I’m not the only one who has been left to suffer injustices like these.
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