The Spark

by Howell, H. G.

  Gossimer watched as Elenor’s delicate fingers slowly worked at her jacket’s buttons as she talked. The woman pulled the coat off in a graceful movement, revealing a white blouse that followed the contours of her womanly shape. Elenor brought her hands to her throat and adjusted a lovely gold brooch with a pearl inlay.

  Gossimer tried to maintain his composure by stirring the warming wine, though he found it quite difficult with the wonderful curves of Elenor’s bosom threatening to burst from her shirt. He looked over his shoulder at the other stewards in the hall. Most paid no mind, but little Gerrold’s eyes had widened, as if he was witnessing his first pair of breasts. Gossimer shook his head, embarrassed by the younger boy’s lack of dignity, despite his own desire to fawn over Elenor’s body.

  “No. Such ill-received work isn’t fer me.” Elenor said as she removed a light grey shawl.

  “Then what do you do?” Gossimer asked.

  “I serve the Lady Schernoff.” Elenor admitted. With a final movement, Elenor removed her fur chapeau, revealing a golden mane that was held back by a copper and gold clip which resembled the mechanical workings of a clock. Elenor leaned forward, reaching her hands out to catch the heat of the fire.

  “You’re a steward as well?” Gossimer’s mouth hung wide in bewilderment. He had not known the Di Delgan councilor held any stewards more than young Gerrold; with Di Delgi’s economic situation, Gossimer had been under the impression the Lady Schernoff could only afford a single steward. Gossimer looked over at Gerrold, hoping for some form of acknowledgement, but the lad seemed at just a loss as he was.

  Gossimer tested the temperature of the wine, as well as its flavouring. He needed a minute to digest what he had learned and figured such actions would give him time enough to consider all he had been told. Not wanting to keep the lady waiting any longer than needed, Gossimer reckoned the drink was ready and removed the pot from the fire and filled a glass for the very curious creature named Elenor.

  “No, not a steward.” She smiled, accepting the warm drink. “Hmm, delicious.”

  “Madam, I…” A loud slam from the upper floor interrupted their conversation. Everyone in the Steward’s Hall sat erect as heavy, angry footfalls reverberated from the upper floor and down into the grand entry hall.

  “Gossimer!” A deep voice blasted from above.

  Gossimer gave Elenor an apologetic smile as he rose from his seat. He gave Gerrold a cursory glance as he sped past the wide-eyed youth. Gossimer knew it wasn’t his place to question the doings of Lady Schernoff, but something did not add up right with regards to the lovely Elenor. Now, by the tone in which his master called with, Gossimer worried he might not have a chance to discuss the occurrence at any great length.

  “Gossimer!” the voice beckoned again, this time closer as the footfalls reached the grand stair.

  Gossimer came to the base of the marble staircase. He was greeted by the silent judgment of the priestesses of Del Morte, each of whom stood at the ends of the banister, warding off those not meant for the upper chambers. His master descended the steps two at a time in frantic flight.

  “All go well, Master?” Gossimer asked knowing full well the answer, but his duty compelled him to ask regardless.

  “No.” His master said. “The blind fools.” Lucian Margoux reached the landing where Gossimer stood in-wait. His aged skin burned with rage and a fierce wildness hid behind his hazel eyes. “Fetch my things. The sooner we are away from this thrice damned place the better.”

  “Aye ser.” Gossimer took his leave to do his master’s bidding with a hurried step.

  “Lucian, wait.” A winded voice from above called out.

  “Del Morte be damned.” Lucian cursed, recognizing the weak voice.

  The grand hall seemed to take on a tribal beat as the rapid tap-tap-tapping of Julien DiMarco’s accursed cane hit the marble floor above. It was clear the old man tried to keep pace with the Gossimer’s master. If ever there were an issue amongst the councilors, especially now in Valvius’ time of need, Gossimer did not doubt the ancient kinetic would be found at the head. In many ways, it sickened him with how much this one man had been able to convince the council to not interfere with the well being of peaceful Valvians. Knowing he had not keep his master waiting, Gossimer sped off for their belongings.

  His steps brought him to a small cloakroom. The first items he gathered were Lucian’s top hat and gloves. Gossimer turned the hat offer to ensure the silk scarf still lay in the bottom. Next, he reached for the wool tailcoat Lucian had worn this morning. Gossimer checked the breast pocket to ensure there was a pre-rolled cigarette and matchbook waiting for his master. Confident with the articles, Gossimer reached for his thin waist coat and simple driving chapeau. With a deep sigh, Gossimer headed back to where his master waited.

  By the time Gossimer returned to Lucian with the requested articles, so too did Julien DiMarco.

  “Is there something more you wish to add DiMarco? Something you may have forgotten in session?” Lucian regarded the kinetic with a certain disdain, the kind only a man held back by the powers to be could ever show.

  “Good ser,” Julien began, as he caught his breath. With a spotted hand the old kinetic pushed his lenses up his thin nose. “Please understand, the council means no ill-will to you or your people.”

  “Well,” Lucian faked a smile. “The council has a funny way of showing it then, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Listen to me Lucian.” Julien slammed his cane onto the hard floor, catching the attention of any onlookers. “The council is not a militaristic body. Our purpose is solely trade and industry. It is something the world forgets, and is something you must strive to remember. As stated in the mandate of the Grand Council, each province is required to protect its own peoples through their own means. We are not policemen, nor brave warriors. The council stands to better the everyday life of the people of Wynne through the industries I have stated.”

  Gossimer paid the old man no mind as he set about dressing his master for the weather without. His young, proud heart found it difficult to be near such a wretched thorn as Julien, for Gossimer’s pride compelled him to defend his people. The steward in him, however, knew striking the kinetic would spell doom for not only himself, but for Master Lucian as well.

  “I understand you are come from a proud militaristic background where action is required.” Julien continued. “However, that mindset will not suit you well here.”

  “So I have learnt.” Lucian forced a smile and continued; “I shall keep your words in mind when the next massacre of poor, innocent children and their families occurs.”

  Gossimer handed Lucian his top hat and scarf, which his master took eagerly.

  “Come Gossimer, let us depart this place of cravens.” He gave Gossimer a quick look before turning on his heels and storming towards the iron doors of the hall. By the time he reached the heavy doors, the rest of the councilors began to descend the stairs, curious of the confrontation between Julien and Lucian.

  Gossimer ignored their excited whispers as he donned his own jacket and hat. It seemed to him all the council was good for was to feed the egos of its members, as well as providing a niche, or outlet, for idle gossip. Gossimer looked at the old kinetic before him with an unapologetic glare before falling in line behind his master. Gossimer stepped through the entryway doors, which Lucian had left ajar for him.

  The world outside was angry as whipping snow and wailing wind hid the city of Gossac from view. Gossimer found Lucian standing behind one of the limestone pillars, shielding himself from the wind.

  “That man shall ruin Wynne faster than he knows dear Gossimer.” Lucian had to raise his voice to be heard over the howling wind.

  With a nimble hand, the old general reached into the pocket that Gossimer ensured held a cigarette, and brought the tightly rolled smoke to his lips. He handed the small matchbook to Gossimer, indicating for a light. The older man shook his head in frustration as Gossimer removed a match to ligh
t the tobacco. It took him three tries in the wind to finally get the damned thing to light. Lucian nodded his thanks as he took a long, deep drag, letting the small flame ignite the tobacco.

  “What are you going to do now, ser?” Gossimer asked as he lit his own cigarette.

  “I do not know lad,” Sadness lurked in the general’s frustrated tone. Lucian took another long drag of his smoke. “For the nonce, we wait.”

  Gossimer shifted his weight from left to right, and back again as he tried to keep his body heated. The wind cut through his thin coat the way a knife slides through warm butter. For several minutes master and steward stood against the marble pillar of the parliament building, trying to savour their sweet tobacco despite the day’s travesties.

  “Bring the auto ‘round front.” Lucian finally said. “I am sure the Chancellor will wish to know the council’s decision as soon as possible.”

  “I hope the damned thing will run in this weather.” Gossimer said. He took three final puffs of his cigarette before tossing it into a snowdrift. Gossimer pulled his coat tight as he stepped into the angry world. He buried his face in the lapels of his jacket to avoid the biting wind.

  The going was slow as Gossimer had to rely on memory to get to the carriage house, for he could not see any further than a yard in any direction. In most places the snow came to his ankles, but in others, where the wind blew most, Gossimer found himself knee deep in snow drifts. By the time he came upon the building that housed the autos of the councilors, his shoes were well soaked and his toes frozen.

  Fumbling around the side of the building, Gossimer found the service entrance. He reached for the handle, turned its iron knob and gave a push. The door refused to open.

  “Del Morte be damned,” Gossimer cursed, trying once again to open the door. He knew the hinges were more than likely frozen, but there was a part of him that could not accept that reality.

  He tried to open the entrance again, and again. Each time he threw his weight against the door, only to be met with a solid, immovable force.

  “Just open damn you!” He slammed a closed fist upon the wooden object as his desire for protection from the elements overcame his sensibilities; he unleashed a bestial fury, kicking and shoving until the ice finally relented. The hinges creaked and groaned as they swung inwards, offering the steward a reprieve from the world outside.

  Gossimer stood in the open doorway, huffing as he allowed his vision to adjust to the dark interior. Tucking his hands into his armpits for added warmth, he took the first step into the building. The familiar smell of axle grease and coal greeted him like an old friend. In the gloom he could make out the shapes of three autos, all of varying shapes and makes.

  His wet shoes scraped upon the stone floor as he passed the smallest carriage in the shed. By the day’s modern standard, it was of an antique design from a more simple age. Or so the history texts would have you believe. This auto belonged to Lady Schernoff, and, as with everything the Di Delgan governement could afford, she had been afflicted with this antiquated design. Gossimer still found it hard to believe that any steampowered autos were still in existence, for the coal for their boilers had become something of a rarity.

  As he passed the old, dated model, he came upon the Pozian representitive’s carriage. It was a curious affair, but at least it was cortex powered. What made this auto so unique was the fiery, and unmistakable, colouring of the outer wood panels. The Pozian’s were well known for their love of bold colours, and it seemed to Gossimer that that love transcended into obscure items, such as autos.

  Gossimer continued around the far side of the mid-sized vehicle and was greeted by the massive design of the Valvian auto. He paused for a moment to admire the eloquence of Lucian’s top-of-the-line vehicle. Gossimer’s chest filled with pride as he compared it to the other two makes in the shed. It was every bit ostentatious, but not quite so bold and fierce as the Pozian’s. It, too, housed a cortex engine.

  “Time to get to it I s’pose.” Gossimer said. He walked around to the side of the body of the auto, which ran a daunting fifteen feet long and eight feet wide. Gossimer placed his hand on the cool ebony surface, letting his fingers slide along its sleek hull as he walked to the fore of the vehicle. Pausing by the cabin door, Gossimer stood on his tiptoes to peer inside. The interior was spacious and luxurious. Two sofas sat nearest the front while a cherry wood bar, with all manner of drink, stood centric in the cabin. In the rear a simple sleeping space had been created for those longer treks. Gossimer admired how every piece of carpentry, furniture and décor was embellished with the finest detailing and nuances.

  As he approached the driver section of the auto, he felt an unwavering gaze fall on him as the gloom around him turned to a soft blue glow. Gossimer shuddered as the azure light followed him to the front of the vehicle. He bent over, trying to ignore the relentless scrutiny that watched him, and turned an iron crank, powering the cortex-engine with each rotation. The steward raised his head to look at the source of the light. Meeting Gossimer’s stare were two small burning blue orbs light that sat in the head section of a massive, metallic construct called Nine.

  The golem itself was a wonderful bit of technological creation, and was named after its manufacture number, 00.0.9. Its outer body was built with varying sizes of steel and gold plates. Its innards were a conglomeration of gears, cogs, pistons, coils and pulleys. At the core of the creature sits a small cortex, which powered its bodily movement and functions. Hiding beneath a bronze faceplate that resembled the stern visage of a warrior, sits a secondary cortex, whose power gave Nine its sentience and vision. It was the glow of this energy source that illuminated the garage; it was the light from this secondary cortex that followed Gossimer’s every movement.

  The cortex-engine of the auto whirred to life just as Gossimer’s arm grew weary of the constant rotating. A glow, similar to Nine’s eyes, issued from the seams of the hood and vents of the cortex-manifold. Gossimer removed the crank and tucked it under his arm. He looked from the engine, up to the silent, glowing construct. The electric hum of the engine filled the silent garage like a roaring waterfall. Devilish shadows filled the room as the light of the active cortexes chased the gloom away.

  Gossimer strode around to the side of the vehicle and clambered up a small stepladder and sat down beside Nine, whose stare never deviated from Gossimer. Gossimer put the engine crank on the floor. He cupped his hands and brought them to his mouth, blowing warm breath into them, trying to chase the cold away. Gossimer leaned forward and examined the multidude of switches that littered the front dash.

  “Nine, give me a hand here.” Gossimer looked at the construct, waiting for it to reply.

  “What is it you require Ser Gossimer?” its soft, electric voice asked.

  “I just need some light down here so I can get you fired up.” He blew another puff of air into his cupped hands.

  “Of course.” The dashboard slowly became visible as Nine lowered its head, allowing the light from its eyes to fall upon the various switches.

  “Thanks.” Gossimer looked at the switches closely before making his choice. He quickly flicked the option that would power the construct’s main cortex.

  Gossimer sat back as the primary source for Nine’s abilities whirred to life. It was a strange thought, knowing the machine was often left with its secondary, sentient creating power source active while the source for the machines fine motor skills would be shut down. He understood the need for security, but what good was an enforcer if it lacked the ability to pursue any deviant? Resigning himself to letting well enough alone, he reached into his pocket and retrieved a small tin canister and a thin square of rolling paper. Gossimer opened the lid and took a deep breath of the rich, vanilla, Valvian tobacco that lay within. Gossimer withdrew a healthy pinch and tenderly laid it in the center of the paper. He bit his lip as he concentrated on tightly rolling the cigarette, doing his best to ensure none of the precious leaf fell away. He quickly brought it to his m
outh, licking the overhang of paper before folding it over to seal the cigarette. Placing it in his mouth, Gossimer returned the canister to his pocket and swapped it out for his box of matches.

  “Master Lucian wishes to return to the manse, quick like.” He said, striking the match against the dash. Gossimer took a deep drag of the freshly lit smoke as he gutted the flame with his thumb.

  “Understood.” Nine said, raising its head to a forward position.

  Gossimer rose from the seat and descended the stepladder to the stone floor below. He let his feet take him to the bay door. Searching the outer most section of the steel door, Gossimer searched for the release crank. Upon finding it, Gossimer offered a silent hope that the door had not frozen shut.

  “Oh, and Nine,” Gossimer hollered before releasing the locking mechanism, “be mindful. It seems the conditions and weather are less then favourable.”

  “Understood Ser Gossimer.” It replied.

  With a quick motion, Gossimer released the lock and waited for the door to rise. The steel shuddered and screeched as the pulleys and gears fought against winter’s grip. His smoke burned low as he watched in eager anticipation, slowly backing towards the auto.

  “Ser Gossimer,” Nine’s electric voice beckoned over the din of grinding gears and buckling steel. “I suggest you rejoin the one called Nine. The integrity of the door threatens your being.”

  Gossimer looked up at the construct, whose gaze never left the bay doors. Cracks of light peaked through slits as the steel banding began to come apart. Tossing his smoke aside, Gossimer scurried up the side ladder of the auto and plopped next to the construct.

  “Ser Gossimer, keep your head down.” Nine said.

  Before Gossimer could ask why, the vehicle stirred and began to roll forward.

  “Nine?” Gossimer asked as he realized what the construct intended to do. “Nine!”

  “Head down.” The construct said.

  A heavy metallic hand pushed Gossimer’s head below the dash just as the auto slammed through the steel door. The air filled with a terrible screeching as steel scraped against the body of Lucian’s prized vehicle. The auto bounced out of the garage and into the biting cold of the blizzard outside.