The Arkhel Conundrum (The Tears of Artamon Book 4)

by Ash, Sarah

  “S - K- Y.” Kazimir spelled out, “C-R-A-F-T-F-U-E-L. Sky craft fuel!” He let out a shout of triumph at having solved Linnaius’s riddle. “But . . . how? How can this pretty egg power a sky craft ?” He stared at the phosphorescent crystal, all his initial enthusiasm fast draining away. As far as he could recall, Linnaius had only ever relied on his powers as a wind mage to lift his own craft into the air and propel it through the skies, a fact that he, a rationalist and scholar of science had been obliged to accept, even though it defied everything he had ever learned. Can this little crystal really emit energy strong enough to set a mechanism in motion?

  “Sky craft fuel?” echoed a man’s voice. Startled, Kazimir shot off his seat and bowed as the Emperor came in, his face glowing with an expression as eager as his daughter’s had been earlier. Kazimir’s elation melted away; Eugene was obviously expecting results and he only had more questions.

  “Karila told me she helped you solve one of the Magus’s little puzzles,” Eugene said, rubbing his hands together.

  “Indeed she did and without her help, I’d still be scratching my head over it,” Kazimir was forced to admit.

  “And this is the hidden treasure.” Eugene leaned over the crystal and Kazimir noticed that, just as when Karila had come closer to it, the amber radiance it exuded glowed with greater intensity, warming the Emperor’s face. “It’s giving off quite a powerful energy,” Eugene said, retreating a step or two.

  “With respect, majesty,” Kazimir said, “it only seems to respond to you and the princess.”

  “And the reason for that would be . . . ?”

  Kazimir hesitated, not certain how the Emperor would react to his theory. “Your connection to the Drakhaouls,” he ventured.

  One imperial eyebrow shot up questioningly. “So how can this be converted to fuel? Surely it can’t be burned like a coal? Are you supposed to grind it up?”

  “I’m certain that some of its unique qualities reside in its crystalline construction,” Kazimir said, squinting at their discovery, “as with the crystals used in the Vox Aethyria. But that was a kind of sympathetic resonance. Perhaps this stone emits a similar kind of aethyric energy that could turn the cogs and pistons of a mechanical device.”

  “Such as a clock?” The Emperor raised his hand in a little gesture that said, “ Leave this to me ,” and went outside. Kazimir heard a brief conversation taking place and a few minutes later, a flunkey in the palace servants’ gray and blue livery appeared, carefully carrying a clock in a glass case.

  “And you’re certain that this clock has stopped?” Eugene asked.

  “Yes, majesty; we were awaiting the clockmaker to make some adjustments to the escapement.”

  “Excellent.” As soon as the flunkey had gone, Eugene carefully lifted out the clock (one of the modish skeleton types with all its mechanism, wheels and cogs, exposed), set it down on the desk and turned to Kazimir. “Over to you, Professor.” His excitement was infectious.

  Kazimir, flustered as always when under pressure, gazed around for a pair of thick leather gloves or chymical tongs, having no wish to touch the glowing stone with bare hands. He found tongs and a couple of leather face masks with clear isinglass panels to protect the eyes, one of which he handed to the Emperor.

  “Who knows what effect this crystal may produce,” he said nervously. “I advise your majesty to stand well back.”

  He removed the clock from its glass case and then, trying to keep his hands steady, lifted out the softly glowing crystal with the tongs. He carried it at arm’s length to the desk and placed it below the static clock mechanism. A gentle whirring issued from the delicately cast wheels as they began to rotate.

  “Fascinating,” breathed Eugene, going closer.

  “Please take care, majesty.” Kazimir heard the tremble in his voice but suspected that he was more nervous about protecting the Emperor than his own safety. “We don’t know why this reaction is taking place yet—where it may lead or how it will progress . . .” Yet in spite of his concerns, he found himself moving forward to get a clearer view.

  As the pendulum began to move, the clock started to emit a steady tick.

  “Is it my eyesight,” said the Emperor, leaning in closer, “or is that crystal emitting a regular pulse of light?”

  “Yes—and there seems to be a correlation between the frequency of the pulsation and the ticking of the clock.” Kazimir scribbled down his observations, determined to maintain a scientific approach to this unorthodox experiment. As they watched, the pulsations increased in frequency and the whirring of the escapement started to speed up. The minute hand on the clock began to move around the dial, gaining momentum until it was whizzing so fast, dragging the hour hand behind it, that something snapped. With a metallic twang, the hands flew off, causing Kazimir to jump out of the way as they embedded themselves, like tiny darts, in the wood of the cabinet behind him. The cogs, with a grinding sound, slowly wound down as the pulse of light emitted by the crystal ceased.

  “Extraordinary,” the Emperor said in the ensuing silence, raising his mask. And then he grinned conspiratorially at Kazimir. “If we can harness this power and put it to good use, imagine the possibilities.”

  Kazimir was less optimistic. “It’s too early to risk, majesty.”

  “But the Arkhel connection?” continued the Emperor. “You know the Magus well enough, Professor. When he calls this the Arkhel Conundrum, it doesn’t just refer to the cipher he’s devised to protect his research.”

  Kazimir nodded. Just like Kaspar Linnaius to leave a convoluted trail of clues to baffle him. His thoughts were spinning as fast as the little cogs in the clock mechanism a few seconds ago.

  “Did Linnaius intend us to use this crystalline distillation of firedust as the basis for a sky craft fuel?” The Emperor was musing aloud. “Or did he intend us to power the engine with one of these crystals?”

  “But that would mean asking the competitors to redesign their engines,” Kazimir said. “From Colonel Lindgren’s report, it seems that all the entrants have created machines that work with liquid fuel.”

  “Then that must be what Kaspar intended.” Eugene punched his fist into his palm, startling Kazimir. “Can you reverse the process?”

  “What? Convert this crystal into liquid fuel?” Put on the spot, Kazimir floundered.

  “The Magus knew how rare true firedust is.” Eugene began to pace, expounding on his theory. “So he created this highly concentrated crystalline form, anticipating that you would know how to transmute it.”

  “But he left no instructions.”

  “Because he knew you have the intelligence and the chymical knowledge to complete the task.” Eugene stopped in front of Kazimir and placed his hand on his shoulder. “He had faith in you. As do I.”

  Kazimir, dazzled by the intense gaze, knew he was being flattered but, as always, found it difficult to resist Eugene’s persuasive charm. “If,” he said slowly, thinking aloud, “if I were to create such a fuel, we would need to test it before releasing it to the contestants.”

  “How about using it to power the pleasure craft here at Swanholm?”

  “The swan boats?” Kazimir realized that the Emperor was referring to the painted craft he had commissioned to ferry courtiers and guests around the ornamental lakes and canals in the palace gardens. “So if I were to install a little engine in one and power it with the fuel . . .”

  “Bring your best students here from Tielborg,” Eugene said. “And experiment to your heart’s content! Just give Count Gustave a list of names.”

  As the Emperor left with a smile and a wave of the hand, Kazimir found himself nodding his assent, even though he was assailed by doubts and questions.

  “Swans?” he muttered, reaching for his notebook and a pencil. “Will I be remembered by posterity as the man who invented the mechanical swan and gave pleasure to all those who sailed in it?”

  Chapter 27

  The constant hammering coming from the men
at work rebuilding the East Wing had given Astasia a headache. As she dabbed lavender water on her throbbing temples, she began to wish that she had stayed behind in the relative calm of the Winter Palace in Mirom, in spite of the constant draughts and the damp chill rising from the River Nieva.

  Pulling down a linen blind to protect her eyes from the clear sunlight streaming in, she wondered if she should try to lie down and sleep until the headache had gone. She opened the double doors into the bedchamber—but the insistent sound of hammering pursued her inside, even penetrating the wood of the soft-gray-painted paneled walls.

  I can’t ask them to stop just because my head hurts . . . and the project is already far behind schedule thanks to the harsh winter we’ve just endured.

  She pulled the brocade bell rope to summon her maid and slipped off her shoes, pushing aside the heavy bed curtains and lying down, closing her eyes.

  “What’s all this? Back in bed already, majesty?” Nadezhda’s voice, tart with surprise, made her open one eye. “I only helped you get dressed an hour or so ago.”

  “I have a terrible headache.” Astasia closed the eye again. “I need you to tell Gustave to cancel my engagements today.”

  “Weren’t you going to receive Countess Lovisa for lunch? She’ll be so disappointed. How about I mix you an infusion of some willow bark? That should help.”

  Astasia pulled a face. “Willow bark tastes disgusting.”

  “I’ll put in some elderflower cordial to sweeten it.”

  “Somehow that only makes it taste worse.”

  “If your headache is very bad,” Nadezhda said, drawing the heavy cream and blue curtains to darken the room, “you won’t want to see the letter that arrived for you today. All the way from Serindher.”

  Astasia opened both eyes. “From Serindher? You mean from my brother?”

  “But you’re feeling too poorly to read it. Not to worry; it’s taken many weeks to get here, so I’m sure Prince Andrei’s news can wait a little longer.”

  Astasia sat up. “Stop being such a tease, Nadezhda, and bring me Andrei’s letter.” Her head still throbbed but her excitement at the prospect of news from her exiled brother after so many months was strong enough to make her ignore the pain.

  ***

  “Doctor Maulevrier?”

  Startled, Guy Maulevrier looked up from the lecture notes he was preparing.

  The newcomer was tall and bearded with long hair of a walnut brown. Pale eyes glittered in a face weathered by sun and wind to a deep coppery tan.

  “I heard you were looking for volunteer pilots for the Emperor’s flying contraption competition.”

  “And what makes you think you’re suitable to apply?” Maulevrier heard the disdainful drawl in the newcomer’s pronunciation of the word “contraption”.

  “I’ve had some experience in the field.”

  “Flying?” Maulevrier could not quite disguise his skepticism. “Even though the science is in its infancy?”

  “In Tielen, yes. But I’ve just come back from the other side of the world. I’ve seen and experienced things there you would not believe, not in your wildest dreams, Doctor Maulevrier.”

  “The other side of the world?” Maulevrier was beginning to wonder if the man was toying with him for his own amusement. “Yet you speak our language like a native.”

  “Not surprising, really. I am a Tielen. Although we’re all Rossiyans now, aren’t we, in the new empire?” There was an edge to the stranger’s use of the word “we” but when Maulevrier eyed him keenly, he merely smiled, showing white teeth in his sun-browned face. “I’ve been out in the colonies,” he continued. “In the Spice Islands. Got marooned there for quite a while.”

  That would explain the tan and the nautical beard. “So you were in the spice trade?”

  “Something of the sort.” The stranger smiled again without a trace of warmth. “Helping the locals after the tidal wave hit the islands.”

  “Your family must be very relieved to see you safely home after so long away.”

  A brief, careless shake of the head. “My family are all dead.”

  Maulevrier had been testing to what kind of reaction he could provoke. But the stranger was expert at revealing no more than he wished to disclose about himself—which seemed to be next to nothing. Maulevrier’s suspicions were in no way allayed.

  “This is a singularly dangerous assignment,” he said. “I can’t pretend otherwise. If the machine crashes, there’s no guarantee that you’ll survive. On the other hand, we’ll pay you generously. And, if our flyer wins, then there’ll be guaranteed employment—should you choose to accept it, of course. We’ll need the winning pilot to train others.”

  “Sounds good to me. When do I start?”

  For a fleeting moment, Maulevrier wondered whether he was being rather rash in agreeing to take this man on without papers or any kind of personal recommendation.

  “I’ll need you to sign a contract.”

  “Didn’t you hear me? I’ve no relations. No one to come demanding compensation if I crash. But if you prefer to have everything officially signed and sealed . . .”

  As the stranger took up the pen, scanned the terms of employment in a mere blink and signed his name with a flourish, Maulevrier took back the contract to read his name.

  “Karl Lorens?”The name sounded Tielen enough—although it was not beyond the bounds of possibility that his team’s new pilot had taken the name from a fellow Tielen sailor on his voyage home from the Spice Islands. He made a mental note to have a few questions asked at the port as he leaned across the bench to offer his hand to Lorens.

  “Welcome to the Tielborg University team, Karl. I’ll take you to meet the students and show you our craft, the Svala; we’re rather proud of her.”

  ***

  “How are you feeling, my dear?” Eugene sat beside Astasia and took her hand in his. Astasia was still clutching Andrei’s letter which she had read and re-read several times, in spite of her headache. How would Eugene react to the news? He seemed in a good mood, exuding such an energetic aura, that she was reluctant to dampen his spirits.

  “Andrei has written to warn us,” she said, waving the paper. “He says that Oskar Alvborg has gone missing.”

  “Oh, that?” Eugene said airily. “Baron Sylvius received word late last year that Alvborg had disappeared.”

  “You knew? Why didn’t you tell me!” Astasia grimaced; her outburst had only made her temples throb more painfully. She pressed the handkerchief soaked in ice water to her forehead.

  “I didn’t want to alarm you unnecessarily. Besides, it was suspected that he had suffered an accident and fallen overboard.”

  “Do you mean an accident?” Astasia gave her husband a stern look. “Or an ‘accident’?”

  “I can’t pretend that the option hasn’t tempted me more than once.” Eugene got up and began to pace the bedchamber. “And Sylvius would see it was carried out in the blink of an eye.” He stopped, gazing at her. “But since I discovered that Oskar is my brother—”

  “Your illegitimate brother,” she said softly.

  “That was no fault of his.”

  “And it was no fault of yours, dear Eugene,” Astasia said, seeing how conflicted he still felt, “that the truth about his birth was concealed from you both. Your father chose not to acknowledge him.”

  “There’s no way I can ever make it up to him.”

  “He doesn’t deserve your sympathy,” she said. “He abducted Kari. I can never forgive him for that.”

  “Yet you forgave Andrei after he abducted little Rostevan.”

  Astasia shuddered. The memory was still raw in her memory. “He was under the control of a Drakhaoul.”

  “As was I. And Lord Gavril. And Oskar. And now we’re all free.”

  “Free?” She glanced up at him, even though it hurt her pounding head to do so. “Are you truly free, Eugene? Or has that daemon left some trace?”

  He stopped pacing abruptly and sat
beside her again, cupping her face in his hands, gently forcing her to look at him. “You know me better than anyone, Tasia,” he said, his voice quiet yet intense. “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If any sign of Belberith’s influence began to show?”

  She stared searchingly into his eyes. There was not even the faintest emerald glint of daemonic possession—although the keen intensity of his stare was difficult to endure for long, especially with a headache.

  “It’s you,” she said, relieved. “I can’t sense anyone else.” But then the hammering started up again and she winced involuntarily.

  “My poor girl,” he said, relaxing his grip, the probing stare softening to a look of remorse. “I forgot you weren’t feeling well. Shall I have Nadezhda fetch Doctor Amandel?”

  “No need to bother the good doctor . . .” She lay back, feebly waving one hand. “A little quiet would help.”

  “Shall I order the workmen to take an early break for lunch? I’ve placed them on a rather tight deadline to complete the work before the competition.”

  “The competition?” She saw the gleam of excitement in his eyes and felt guilty for hampering his plans; whenever he mentioned them, she caught a glimpse of the Eugene who had won her heart, the ambitious, idealistic prince with the determination to make his dreams of empire come true.

  “And you must take a ride with me in Kazimir’s steam-powered swan craft on the canal when you’re feeling better. It’s a marvel.”

  “So it works?” The thought of sailing in such a strange contraption made Astasia feel a tad nervous.

  “After a few failed attempts,” Eugene said breezily. “Now that our good professor has perfected his calculations, I can’t wait to see what the flying craft will do on Dievona’s Night.”

  Chapter 28

  Azhkendir

  The last snows of the bitter Azhkendi winter had thawed at last and there was a sweet tang of whitethorn blossom on the fresh breeze. The Nagarian coach trundled across the moors toward Azhgorod. Kiukiu sat inside with Larisa on her lap and Sosia for company, all three well wrapped in furs, whilst Gavril, Semyon and Vasili, Dunai’s younger brother, rode alongside. State business brought them to the capital; the first meeting of the boyars’ council necessitated the High Steward of Azhkendir’s presence.