by Ash, Sarah
“Looking through my grandfather’s designs. He was convinced he’d made a breakthrough . . . but then he suffered an apoplexy and died soon after.”
“I’m sorry,” Lorris said, sitting up. “It sounds as if you were close.”
“He was an inspiring man.” Toran swallowed to clear the tightness in his throat; he had often felt closer to his grandfather than his own father and remembering the way he had died left him bereft all over again. “I promised him I’d carry on with his work. He couldn’t speak by then . . . but he lifted his hand. I think he understood.”
“Look, Toran, if I were you, I’d do all I could to find a safe place to keep this notebook.”
“Because of Branville?”
“Now he knows that you’re rivals, I wouldn’t put it past him to set one of his cronies to spy on you.”
“But I never imagined that the Honorable Elyot Branville would have had the talent—or the interest—for entering a contest like this.”
“He may act the bully, but I heard that he came top of his year in the academy examinations. He doesn’t like to lose. You’re a threat to him in more ways than one.”
***
Dusk brought down a dismal drizzle on the garrison town. Toran stuck his hands in his pockets, glowering at the dreary sky which still bore a few faint streaks of angry red where the sun was setting in the far west.
Why is it always so damp in Paladur? The buildings are constantly streaked with rain and there’s moss growing between the cobbles.
A lamplighter was lighting the lamp posts at the corner of the street; the faint glow was reflected on the wet pavements, like a slick of oil.
“Spare a coin, mister.” The thin voice took him by surprise; looking down, he saw a ragged boy holding out a tin cup. Dark, sunken eyes stared hopefully at him from out of a dirt-smeared face. So even prosperous Paladur had its beggars. “It’s not their fault they were born to poverty,” he heard his mother’s voice saying, as she gently chided him for ignoring a poor woman begging from door to door . ‘We, the more fortunate ones, must always be generous.”
Soon we could find ourselves out on the streets too if my father’s mad venture doesn’t pay off.
He dug in his pocket and found a coin which he flipped into the cup. The boy stared at his prize and let out a wail of disapproval. “Here, mister, can’t you spare a bit more? That’s hardly the price of a pasty.”
Toran glared at him and the child took off at high speed, almost colliding at the end of the street with a man who came around the corner, head down, clutching a broad-brimmed hat to his head.
“Oi! Are you blind? Look where you’re going!” shrilled the boy indignantly, swerving.
“Ingenieur Bernay?” Toran called out, surprised to see his mentor walking back toward the Iron Works from the town, rather than coming away. “I need to talk with you. There’s this competition and the academy is going to enter, so I thought—”
“Toran?” The man stopped and peered at Toran in the gloom. Toran saw, to his surprise, that Bernay was wearing spectacles. “You mean the Emperor’s competition? This makes us rival entrants, so don’t say another word.”
“ You’re going to enter as well?”
“That was my intention.” The gathering gloom and the broad brim of Bernay’s hat made it hard for Toran to make out his expression.
“Does that mean you can’t tutor me any longer?” It hadn’t occurred to him that they might find themselves competing for the same prize.
“It could make things difficult.” Toran detected a distinctly reserved, distant note in the ingenieur’s voice. “I imagine the academy would not approve.”
“I see.” Toran’s head drooped. He had never imagined that in volunteering to be part of the team at the academy he would be placing himself in direct rivalry with Bernay. “So?”
“I believe the correct protocol is to wish each other good luck,” said Bernay gently, “and may the best design win.” With this, he nodded farewell to Toran and continued on his way toward the Iron Works. Toran, so disappointed that he could not even find the words to reply, just stood in the drizzle until the sound of Bernay’s footfall died away into the night.
Chapter 13
“I’ve narrowed down the entries for the Emperor’s competition to the two most promising: Branville’s and Arkhel’s,” announced Major Bauldry, tapping each drawing in turn with the tip of his cane as the cadets crowded around.
Toran felt a swell of pride that his work was still in contention—until he looked up and saw that Branville had fixed him with a smoldering stare .
It’s just between Branville and me? Not good.
“Branville has devised the most practical and elegant solution to the flying craft itself—but I fear, my boy, that your design won’t get very far without a more viable means to lift and propel it successfully through the air than with gas-filled balloons. Unless, of course, you’ve found a way to control the winds?”
Branville’s dark brows drew together in a scowl at the playful jibe, but, to Toran’s surprise, the older cadet didn’t arrogantly challenge the major’s judgment.
“Arkhel.”
Toran started, realizing that the major had moved on from Branville to give his verdict on his entry.
“Your design is far too fanciful; dragonflies may use double wings to stay aloft, but a man-made double-winged craft is almost certainly doomed to fail.” Smothered snorts of laughter greeted the major’s judgment; Toran, eyes fixed on the floor, forced himself to endure the others’ amusement at his expense. “However, your design for an engine is extremely original.” The laughter died away. “Is it based on your grandfather’s research?”
“Yes, sir.” Toran looked up and saw that the major was nodding approvingly.
“Then I propose that we combine the best elements from each design; we’ll build Arkhel’s engine, place it in Branville’s craft, and compete with the best ingenieurs of the empire!”
The other cadets applauded the major’s verdict.
“But we’ll need new drawings to work from to build our prototype. Branville and Arkhel, you’ll have to get to work straight away.”
“Together?” Toran heard himself ask, all his pleasure at being selected fast melting away . Is this just another scheme devised by Colonel Mouzillon to make Branville and me cooperate? Branville had said nothing so far but his louring expression told Toran only too well how he felt about the project.
“And the rest of the team will assemble the materials to construct a scale model. Although where we’ll go to get the metal parts made for your machine, Arkhel . . .”
“A clockmaker?” Toran suggested. And then he had an inspiration. “How about Master Cardin’s foundry?”
“They forge bloody great cannon down there, you idiot,” he heard Branville mutter scornfully, “not fiddly little pieces of metalwork.”
“I could ask Ingenieur Bernay if he knows anyone with the necessary skills.” Then I’ll have the ideal excuse to go to see him again. Toran was delighted with his plan. I know he told me we were rivals, but . . .
***
“So your design’s been selected to represent the academy for the Emperor’s competition? Well done.” Gerard Bernay smiled at Toran as they crossed the yard, Toran hurrying to keep up with the ingenieur’s brisk stride.
“My design for an engine.” Toran corrected him. “The major’s combining it with Branville’s craft.”
Bernay stopped. “Branville? Not that dark-haired bully?” Bernay’s smile had faded. “How do you feel about having to collaborate with him?”
Toran wasn’t sure he knew. “We’ll be supervised by Major Bauldry,” he said, shrugging Bernay’s concern aside. “And that’s why the major gave me permission to come to ask for your help.”
“ My help?”
“We have to make a scaled-down version of the craft to test it. And the major was wondering if you could help us forge the parts for the engine. The academy will pay for
the materials.” Toran looked anxiously at Bernay, fervently hoping that he would agree. But Bernay’s expression was hard to read.
“I told you before, Toran,” he said, “that I’m also a competitor. It really wouldn’t be ethical for me to assist the academy.”
“Surely if you’re just helping us by making the parts to our specifications, it wouldn’t be seen as unethical?”
“And if I were to secretly incorporate some of your ideas into my own work?”
“But you wouldn’t—” Toran began and then stopped.
“I wouldn’t, but there are others who wouldn’t be so scrupulous.”
Toran caught a chill glint in Bernay’s gray eyes behind the thick lenses of his new spectacles. He could not help staring, distracted by a thought that had been bothering him for some while. “Forgive me, Ingenieur,” he began awkwardly, “but I can’t help noticing that you’re wearing spectacles. Your eyes—um—you didn’t suffer an injury to your sight up on Berse Heath?”
“An injury? No, no . . .” Bernay said, a little too hastily, Toran reckoned. “Eyestrain, headaches, caused by too much close work in poor light, that’s all.” He put a hand on Toran’s shoulder. “Make sure you don’t make the same mistake when you’re studying.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Toran, gazing up into the ingenieur’s face. Suddenly he was very aware of the warm, firm pressure of Bernay’s hand on his shoulder . He’s talking to me like an equal, a fellow ingenieur. The realization sent heat flooding through him and he looked swiftly away, conscious that he was blushing like a girl. In the same instant, Bernay withdrew his hand. “I think it best that I don’t help you out this time,” he said, his remote, professional self again. “I’m sorry, Toran. However,” and he fished inside his greatcoat pocket and brought out a little card, handing it to Toran, “this clockmaker is a genius. Tell him I sent you.”
Toran read, “Gieffroy Ferrant, Horlogier: Clocks and Watches Mended.”
“I’d much rather it was you,” he said accusingly, not caring what Bernay thought. But the ingenieur merely laughed and walked off, one hand raised in a nonchalant farewell wave.
***
Toran walked slowly back along the canal path, desultorily kicking at a stray pebble.
Why did Bernay send me away again? There’s so much I want to learn from him. Why do we have to be rivals in this competition?
A rather too forceful kick propelled the pebble into the murky water where the splash disturbed a moorhen in the rushes, sending it squawking across the canal in a disgruntled flurry of ruffled black feathers.
Or is it because of what happened up on the heath? Yes, I was reckless. But if I hadn’t, that child could have been killed.
Yet the memories that lingered so vividly were not of his furious dash across the tussocky heath, or of flinging the child to the ground just as the cannon ball whistled so close overhead. What haunted his dreams was the reassuring sound of Bernay’s voice, the firm pressure of his hand on his shoulder, that inexplicable sensation—just as a few minutes ago—that his presence made everything all right.
A heavily-laden barge was sailing toward him, the bargee leading his plodding horse. Toran stood back to let them pass, nodding a greeting to the bargee.
Bernay’s come to my rescue twice now. Toran was suddenly overwhelmed by the realization that he must seem nothing more than a liability to the ingenieur: a callow, over-privileged youth, too impulsive to be of any real use. God, what a brainless idiot I must look to him. He felt his face flaming again, and even though there was no one but the bargee in sight on the weed-overgrown tow-path, he wanted to crawl into the bushes and hide.
But I really want him to help us. How can I make him change his mind? What would Grandpa Denys have said to me? “Have you no backbone, boy? Go for it! Have faith in yourself.” The old soldier’s gruff tones rumbled through his memory—and next moment, he found he had turned right around and was heading back toward the Iron Works, his pace increasing with every step.
***
Gerard Bernay was so absorbed in his calculations that it was a moment before he became aware that someone had entered the office.
“Yes?” he said absently.
“I don’t want a clockmaker; I want you .”
The pencil dropped from Gerard’s fingers; he spun around on the draughtsman’s stool to see Toran standing there, red-faced and breathless. Had he run all the way back?
Gerard’s first reaction was one of irritation at being interrupted. But then the irritation inexplicably evaporated.
“Damn, but you’re persistent.”
“So you’ll do it?” Toran said between gasps.
“I have no idea why you should trust me this much. What happens if I steal your ideas? Or sabotage your model?”
“But you won’t. You’re not that kind of man.”
Gerard let out a slow, resigned sigh. “Very well; I’ll help you—but you’ll do the work, under my supervision. Otherwise you’ll learn nothing and I’ll have wasted my time.” In spite of his misgivings, he was touched by the way Toran had blurted out such a vehement declaration . I suppose I must see something of my younger self in him . . .
“But that—that’s wonderful!” Toran was gazing at him, hazel eyes brimming with emotion. Gerard looked away, dazzled.
“And you’ll work hard. Precision molding on a small scale takes a great deal of concentration and skill.” I mustn’t get carried away by his enthusiasm; someone has to keep a cool head or we’ll risk making errors.
“I told you before; I’m not afraid of hard work.” Toran drew himself up to his full height. “When can we start?”
“Just don’t bring Elyot Branville down here, understand?”
Toran laughed. “Don’t worry; I won’t let him anywhere near your inner sanctum.”
“Then it’s agreed.” Gerard held out his hand. “Now show me those plans.”
***
The great pistons and wheels in the Engine Hall slowly shuddered to a halt; the men secured them for the night and extinguished any lights or fires still burning in the works and went home, leaving only the night watchman on duty.
Gerard came back to his office from his nightly tour of the silent works to see a faint light still burning. Is Toran still here? He should have gone back to the academy over an hour ago.
“Toran?” he called as he opened the door. There was no reply. By the guttering wick in the oil lamp, he saw that Toran had fallen asleep over his drawings, his head resting on his arm, still gripping his pencil as if he was so immersed in his designs that he was determined to battle on to get the corrections done.
Gerard leant forward and gently pried the pencil from his fingers; Toran let out a soft, halting little sigh but did not wake. He must be exhausted. Gerard could not restrain a wistful smile. Was I like this too when I was eighteen? He’s certainly dedicated. No, more than that—obsessed. The little diagrams beneath Toran’s arm, onto which a loose lock of bronze hair had strayed, were meticulously drawn, displaying a draftsman’s skill well beyond his years. Obsessed . . . and gifted. He felt a sudden dark shiver of pain around his heart . And it’s hard to develop that gift when others around you, jealous of your talent, set out to belittle and crush you.
His hand stole out and tucked the straying lock of hair back in place. “Time to wake up, Toran,” he said, lips close to the young man’s ear. For a moment, all self control melted away and he was unable to stop himself from gently kissing the nape of his neck, just below the hairline where the odd bronze tendril had escaped the academy barber’s rough shears.
Toran stirred and sat up, blinking, eyes unfocused.
Guilty, ashamed, Gerard stepped back, his heart thudding so loud he was sure Toran must be able to hear it. “You fell asleep,” he said.
“I? Oh, hell.” Toran leapt up. “What time is it?”
Gerard pointed to the works clock on the wall.
“Past eight!” Toran grabbed his jacket and began pulling
it on, doing the gilt buttons up in the wrong order in his haste. “I’ll be gated—and I haven’t got an exeat.”
“But Major Bauldry gave you a special permission, didn’t he?” Gerard, turned away to hide his confusion which was as great as Toran’s, although for entirely different reasons. “Don’t worry; this project is all for the glory of the academy. I’m sure the good major will speak up in your defense if you tell him where you’ve been and—”
But Toran had already fled, the door banging shut behind him.
How could I? Gerard sank down on the chair, furious with himself for giving way to temptation.
***
“So where are the parts for this famous engine of yours?” Branville gazed up from the work bench on which he and his team were busily constructing the frame of the prototype.
Toran heard the sneering hostility in his voice but merely said, “They’ll be ready soon.”
But Branville was not so easily appeased. He put down the brush which he had been using to glue sailcloth to one of the wing frames. “Soon?” He placed himself in front of Toran, blocking his way. “This is only the prototype. If your engine doesn’t work, you’re going to have to make modifications before we build the competition entry.”
Toran sighed. Why do we have to collaborate? He’ll find fault with everything I do. I can almost smell the hatred on his breath. “I’m going back to collect them tomorrow. It takes time to craft them to scale. And Ingenieur Bernay—”
“Ingenieur Bernay again, eh?” repeated Branville. “You seem to like spending your time with this Bernay fellow, Arkhel. Just what’s the attraction? Is it his . . . equipment? Perhaps he possesses a tool superior to any tool to be found here at the academy.”
Morsan let out a snort of laughter.
“He happens to have the expertise to help us. Us,” Toran repeated, glaring at Branville, then at Morsan. He didn’t like the way Branville was twisting his words, making lewd insinuations about his mentor.
“What are you calling this craft?” Major Bauldry picked up the frame, weighing it in his hands, examining it with a critical eye. “It must have a name.”
