The Spark

by Howell, H. G.

  “Now ye lissen here.” His mother hissed. “I don’t know where this is comin’ from, but ye best be damn sure t’ smarten yer attitude fer t’night.” She looked across at his father, then back down at Marcus. “We ‘ave important guests comin’ fer dinner an’ I want no trouble.” His mother raised her head as a noble woman might and scuttled from the room.

  Marcus rubbed his cheek and chin, trying to massage away the discomfort and pain from his mother’s blows. Tears lingered in his eyes, and the defiant adrenaline began to recede.

  “What’s happened t’ her father?” Marcus asked, pulling himself off the floor.

  “I wish I knew lad,” his father replied rubbing his bald pate. “But yer instigatin’ her ain’t gonna help any.” He smiled at Marcus. “But thankee, son. It seems I’ve gone and got old. Lost the nerve t’ really have a go with her. Ye know she weren’t always this way. She used t’ be a lady proper, jus’ born the wrong side o’ life. This is hard fer her no doubt. It’s hard fer us all.”

  Marcus did not doubt the recent warm weather and the affects it held over the salt families of Malefosse added to his mother’s woes. Yet there was something deeper troubling his mother, something he could not quite place. Marcus walked over and gave his father a pat on the shoulder. With a heavy heart, he looked down at his withered father.

  “Let’s go t’ the alehouse.” Marcus suggested. “Drinks on me.”

  “Would that I could, Marcus.” His smiled. “But I best stay here an’ make sure the missus don’t do nothin’ stupid.” His old man sighed, rubbing his pale scalp again. “Perhaps ye should go t’ the bathhouse. Freshen up a tad t’ please her fer her thrice damned dinner.”

  “Aye” Marcus agreed. “But not fer her. Fer ye.” Marcus patted his father’s shoulder, before taking his leave of the small dining room.

  Marcus entered the front foyer and set to lacing his well-worn, salt-stained leather boots. Marcus stamped both his feet on the creaky floorboards to ensure the fit of the boots would be comfortable for a day of walking. Satisfied with their feel, he reached for the door handle and exited to the bustling alleys of Malefosse.

  The air was rich with the scent of grime, salt, and stagnant puddles. It wasn’t a welcoming aroma, though it was a step above the stuffy, stale air within Marcus’ home. The sky burned bright blue with the first formations of fluffy white clouds. Change was a strange idea for Marcus, but, somehow, he did not mind the favourable weather. The kiss of the sun seemed to give him strength and courage. Even the idleness of the day had allowed Marcus to discover he had a penchant of deep mechanical curiosity.

  There were many times of late when Marcus found himself sitting in Oximande’s Shop of Intriguing Ingenuity in the rich part of town, pouring over the various texts and schematics housed within. Marcus had even been so bold to inquire after an internship so he could put the various theories and designs to test. Not to his surprise, the shop owner declined, for he would not be seen with a salter under his tutelage. It was a common occurrence in Malefosse, so the rejection had not bothered Marcus so much. Marcus still visited the shop every now and then, always curious to see the latest designs or prototypes.

  Today, however, he walked aimlessly. He listened to the idle gossip of the younger salt-children and banter of the dregs that were too poor to even find a place amongst the boarding houses. He cursed the nobility that shoved past and chatted with a group of working pleasure girls. It was much the same routine Marcus had come to enjoy in the fair weather.

  Along this daily route Marcus would pass everflame street lamps wrought in the poorest iron possible. In recent days, posters and flyers had begun to find their way onto the metal poles. Despite passing them signage every morn and every eve, Marcus had never found the time, nor desire, to read the adverts. He did not doubt it was some whimsical ploy of the nobility to deprive the salters of even more of their pay.

  As he walked past one such flyer, Marcus gave it proper consideration. He was in no rush for the baths, nor for the alehouse. His day was free and open. He took the few short steps to stand next to the post. When he was sure no one was around, or looking, he lifted an encroaching corner to read the message.

  The world is changing. Wynne stands on the cusp of a greatness she has never known. We need brave, strong, dependable citizens of our glorious province for training and service to lead the dawn of this new, golden age. The pay is modest, but the benefits of seeing our world rise from the ashes of poverty and class is far more than any could ask. Any man or woman is welcome, as long as you are willing to do what is neccessary. Come to 6966 Culper Row in the East District of Malefosse if you wish to know more.

  “Marcus you ol’ scoundrel!” A familiar voice rang out over the din of the street urchins. Marcus turned as his closest friend approached.

  Gionni Visconi was of an age with Marcus, both born during one of the worst winter storms to have hit Malefosse. They had met as junior salters before Marcus was sent to the salt mines and Gionni to the manufactorum district. One could not find a pair of friends any more night and day, and perhaps that is what helped the two boys bond so well. Where Marcus was gaunt and grim, Gionni was muscled and always smiling. Marcus was known for his grungy brown hair, while Gionni wooed the women with his refined blonde locks.

  Marcus’ friend had always been well dressed, but today he wore a dashing, simple, black waistcoat with an embroidered gold gear upon his breast. Gionni’s boots shone sleek and proud as they caught the morning light. Even the black breeches he wore seemed to enjoy the sun. The pair clasped wrists and smiled at each other.

  “Where did ye get that kind o’ get up?” Marcus laughed. “Ye look like yer off t’ war or somethin’.”

  “You mean this?” Now it was Gionni who laughed. “It’s standard fare for the Order.” He turned in a slow circle to show off the entire ensemble.

  “The Order?” Marcus raised an eyebrow.

  “Aye, they’re the ones behind these posters,” Gionni indicated to the advert Marcus had been reading. “I tell you Marcus, joinin’ with them was the best thing I could have done.”

  “Really?” Marcus asked. “Why?”

  “I’m not s’posed to say out in the streets, but let me say this,” Gionni lowered his voice, leaning in close so Marcus could hear. “The pay alone is worth it. I make more now as an initiate than I ever did in the manufactorum, or as a salter.”

  “They pay that much fer entry?” Marcus’s mind raced with visions of a wage that would match, or even beat, his father’s.

  “Aye, and they school you too!” Gionni said.

  “I thought ye were speakin’ queer, but thought ye were merely into your cups.” Marcus said, though he was dumbfounded by how wonderful this Order seemed. “How do ye join?”

  “Well, you can do what the posters tell you to do and visit their office,” Gionni said. “But they will tell you to come back on a day when they run their recruitment tests.”

  “What d’ye mean?” Marcus asked.

  “Marcus,” Gionni shook his head, smiling. “If they let everyone join whenever they walked in, there’d be no one left in the streets. So, they tell you to come back on a specific day when they will test any who show up – this way those who are really interested will be signed up.”

  Marcus looked at his old friend amazed.

  “I want in.” Marcus said as he looked into his Gionni’s eyes. “I want t’ join.”

  “Thought you would say that,” Gionni winked and put his arm over Marcus’s shoulder and lead the way towards the most reputable alehouse in the whole east district of Malefosse, The Callous Maidenhead.

  The rest of the morning Marcus and Gionni shared many drinks as they talked about their comings and goings, the weather and troubles of the world. Gionni regaled Marcus with tales of this Imperial Order of Wynne, detailing such things as the Order’s philosophies, worldly ambitions, as well as rooms full of beautiful women ready and willing for the right man. He showcased an intricately
wrought repeating pistol, fashioned out of eerie wood and coppers. It was a beautiful and modest weapon that was standard fare for initiates.

  “The Order needs strong men with strong seed.” Gionni had said before departing the Maidenhead. “Men who will do what is necessary.” Marcus’s friend left with a flourishing bow, declaring he would be a man tested in the field upon his return.

  Marcus paid for his drinks and left the poorly lit alehouse behind. Much of the journey, from The Callous Maidenhead to the public bathhouse, passed in obscurity as Marcus contemplated his options. The warm weather had stirred his heart into a longing for something more than the life of a salter. He wanted to work and tinker with inventions as wild and daring as those in Oximande’s shop. Then there was his family. He may not care much for his mother, yet the image of his aging father sitting defeated at the dining room table compelled him to stay.

  Marcus’ focus remained torn as he entered the steam, moisture-ridden canals of the communal bathing house. He had not taken much notice to the ladies in the corner, nor the scornful eyes of the elderly salt-kin. The splashing children weren’t a bother. Marcus went through the motions of bathing, making sure to get as much salt from his hair.

  When he was sufficiently washed and grime free, he continued to the city’s market where he watched and waited amongst the crowd. The talk had been dull and lackluster, so he didn’t stay long. He soon found himself standing at the front door to his family’s modest shack they called home. Taking a sigh, Marcus entered the abode where he spent the rest of the day preparing for his mother’s important guests.

  Later, after dinner had been served, and the company departed, the Seyblanc family sat at the table in sullen silence. Marcus discovered the person who hung on the bell had come calling again. His father had words with the man, but neither Marcus’s mother, nor father would share in the details.

  All Marcus knew was the visitor brought ill-news, for if his father had seemed defeated during the confrontation with his mother, than he surely seemed good and done now. As terrible as the thought was, Marcus was glad to see his mother sat as hunched and defeated as his old man. Seeing his parents in such away bothered Marcus, more than the terrible changes in his mother. He had been undecided all day about his desires to join the Imperial Order Gionni was a member of. Now, however, he knew what he had to do.

  There was a knot of hesitance in the bowels of Marcus’s stomach. He knew the money would be great for saving their household, but his parents seldom took drastic change well. They, like many salters of Malefosse, lived a life of contentment and fought change with as much vigor as possible.

  “I ran into Gionni t’day.” Marcus said breaking the silence.

  “An’ how is the young lad doin’?” His mother asked.

  “Good. He’s learnt now.” Marcus smiled as this news peaked genuine interest from not only his mother, but his father as well.

  “Now, where does a bloody Visconi go an’ get ‘imself learnt?” His mother huffed.

  It was no secret, in the world of the salters, that the matron of the Seyblanc family and the matron of the Visconi family held a bitter rivalry. Marcus and Gionni’s friendship forced the two to come to terms with whatever feud they held, but the lingering resent was ever present.

  “How does she get her boy taught on her wages?” His mother cursed.

  “It has nothin’ t’do with Mrs. Visconi’s money mum,” Marcus began. “Nothin’ at all.”

  “Then where does a rat like ‘im get learnt?” his father asked as he rubbed the bald of his head. “It has t’come from Mrs. Visconi’s pocket. Gionni don’t make that much.”

  “Yer right father, he don’t make that much at the Manufactorum.” Marcus smiled. “But ‘is new boss pays ‘im that kind o’wage, with the schoolin’ fer free.”

  “Now what proprietor in their right mind goes an’ hires salters fer that kind o’money?”

  “I don’t know,” Marcus half admitted. In truth, despite how much Gionni and he spoke of the Imperial Order, Marcus didn’t learn all that much. Gionni focused more on the perks and benefits of joining and less on the tasks that were required. “But I know its through this Imperial Order o’ Wynne.”

  “Aren’t they th’ ones puttin’ them posters strewn ‘bout the walls an’ lamps all ov’r the city?” His father asked, leaning into the table.

  “Aye father, the very same.” Marcus said. “I was readin’ one o’ them when Gionni found me. They even gave ‘im this sharp outfit to wear. He’s only an initiate in their ranks, but I got t’ thinkin’ maybe I would join.”

  “Ye would join?” Disbelief dripped from his mother’s voice. “M’dear Marcus, Gionni knows people. Surely he was permitted by some folk turnin’ their eye th’ other way. No company or ‘Order’ would hire a salter.”

  “But they would mum.” Marcus protested. “Gionni tells it they don’t care ‘bout one’s station.”

  His father sank back into his chair, deep in thought, while his mother stepped away from the table to stand by the bay window. Marcus watched both nervously for several minutes, licking his lips anxiously. He knew he had to wait for the right moment to lay his reasoning for them, but as much as he desired to, the memory of the morning’s events began to hold him back.

  The doubt his mother showed was to be expected; however, wanting to avoid any confrontation Marcus knew he would have to relent to his mother.

  “Yer most likely right mum.” Marcus feigned a sigh, letting his chin rest on his chest.

  She stopped pacing to look at her son. “Pardon?”

  “Yer most likely right, as always.” Marcus let disappointment weave into his voice. “Gionni must be connected, an’ his mother most likely went t’ great lengths t’ get him joined up. I’m sorry fer me foolishness.”

  He heard the quick footfalls of his mother approach as he forced the first of many false tears from his eyes. Even in this rare moment of tenderness, the touch of his mother’s bony hand sent discomfort down his spine.

  “Tis alright Marcus, we all dream.” Her red-stained lips kissed his brow. “Dreams are nice, but the world is cruel fer us salters.”

  Marcus clenched his jaw in repulsion as his mother continued to touch him.

  “T’day has been tryin’ an’ stressful.” She stepped away from Marcus, excusing herself from the room. Even in the face of calamity and heartache, his mother still played the role of a lady proper. She shuffled her way to the stairwell. At the base of the stair, she turned and looked back to Marcus and his father. “I retreat t’ bed now, hopin’ the morrow brings a better day.”

  Marcus’ father sat at the table in silence before he too rose with the mention of bed.

  Once he was alone, Marcus removed himself from the well-worn table and headed to the bay window. Sitting on its ledge he looked out over the darkening street. The everflame lamps were flicking to life. Marcus’ mind raced over the decision he had secretly come to. He hoped against hope this Order would accept him into their ranks and offer him the chance of proving his worth for the future of Syntar.

  The air was hot, heavy and still as he sat astride his mechanical palfrey. The cobbles underneath radiated with heat as the hot sun above beat down on the parched earth. Crickets were the only creatures to be heard in a field where doves and larks, sparrows and jays were once known to orchestrate. The grasses that once were green now hung gold and brittle as they sprouted from cracked dirt.

  Dalar Rhume looked out over the withering valley. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a gloved hand, Dalar turned his gaze to the northwest, where the plains met the forest’s edge. Beyond the treetops he could make out the speckled shingles of the rooftops of his hometown, Le Clos Noire. With a final, longing gaze at the small sight of home, Dalar continued on his southward journey.

  He knew he should have taken the Chief Scholar’s offer for an auto; however, Dalar preferred the cortex-powered steeds. To him, the modern golem driven devices seemed nothing short of unnatural.<
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  “Fundamentally they are the same,” Dalar explained to his wife as he saddled the mechanical beast. “But their differences are great. With the steed, I am in control of the construct, whereas the auto leaves me at the whim of the construct.”

  Three days prior to his trek, Dalar received an encoded telegram from the Chief Scholar of Valvius. The message within beckoned Dalar to Brixon in all haste, for a matter of national security needed his great mind. Dalar struggled for two days with the message, almost fearing it a ruse, but decided it best to heed the call as it was quite unlike Edwin to make such hasty requests.

  Dalar reached behind into his saddlebag and retrieved his water skin. Raising the nozzle to his mouth, he took a few deep gulps, trying in vain to quench his thirst.

  Far on the southern horizon, Dalar made out the towering spyres of Brixon, the capital of Valvius. He was still the better part of a days ride north of the populous city, but her towering monuments to time stood as spears against the sky. Their visage always inspired Dalar’s heart, despite his distaste for the big city. He watched their peaking silhouettes for several minutes before turning his attention elsewhere.

  For the rest of the morning, and the better part of the afternoon, Dalar let his thoughts wander into days long past and friends who had come and gone. He had been born the son to a wealthy, and well respected, business magistrate. Being fourth in the line of heirs, Dalar accepted at a very young age he would never acquire the reins of his father’s business holdings. With this in mind, he took up reading and the pursuit of knowledge in his spare time. As a child, this proved to give him an edge during his lessons when the Rhume’s private tutor would come calling.

  When Dalar reached seven years, he was declared gifted in the realm of literature. His father came under great pressure to submit Dalar to the greater teachings of the Council of Scholars; but, being a man who measured a man’s worth by the amount of money to his name and not the matter between ones ears, he refused to see his son admitted to the brotherhood’s teachings. It wasn’t until Dalar had grown into a man of his own did he then administer himself to the lessons of the scholarhood,