“All conjecture at this point Madam Speaker.” Julien Di Marco protested.
“Del Morte be good Julien!” Gossimer was surprised to hear his own voice resound in the council chamber, disrespecting the revered kinetic. “The proof of these rumors sits in front of you. Accept it.”
“That is enough from you boy!” Del Rosa slapped the table again.
Gossimer looked to the Speaker of the Commons, who had returned to sitting upon her brass throne, silent and deep in thought.
“My dear general,” she said slowly, as if she was carefully selecting her next words. “If you do not wish for our aid in investigating kinetic involvement in your province’s plight, what is it you seek?”
Lucian Margoux rose from his seat, and looked the Speaker in the eye. “I would ask for something more. I would like to petition, again, for the assistance of the Council of Wynne in the hunting down, and prosecution of this so-called Imperial Order of Wynne.”
The chambers fell silent. Half the council seethed with the recent information, while others sat deep in thought.
“Let us have a vote.” Madame Sharpe offered. “All those in favour of Master Margoux’s petition, please raise your hand.”
As each hand rose, Gossimer’s heart sank. Di Delgi, Gryk, Pozo and Grubbenbrut voted alongside his master. The numbers were encouraging, but still not enough to win the favour of the council. Gossimer hung his head, frustrated by the outcome.
“That settles it then.” The Speaker said. “The Council will not offer the assistance sought by Master Margoux at this time. Perhaps when the interests of the other provinces, and the kinetic people, are directly affected by these issues, will they be more inspired to assist, ser.”
Gossimer looked to the general, waiting for his next move. He knew what was to come next and for that, Gossimer prepared himself for an onslaught of obscenities and hostility.
“If there is no more business to be had, I shall call this emergency session to an end.” Madam Sharpe declared.
“There is, one final issue, Madame Speaker.” Gossimer’s master stepped from his chair. The great Valvian general rounded the table and came to stand next to Gossimer. He put a hand on Gossimer’s shoulder in way of thanks, and turned to address the council.
“What is it ser?” Julien Di Marco asked.
“Due to the lack of assistance from this council,” his master began. “The Valvian Chancellor, Baltrus Muge, has given me the authority to withdraw Valvian interests from the Grand Council and all investments we have made over the past two hundred years.”
The eruption of confusion, chaos and dismay that flooded the council chambers gave Gossimer the chills. He had known this would be the outcome and yet, somehow, he felt a deep pit of regret. Gossimer had allowed himself to become a needles pawn in these events. His pride compelled him to act on behalf of his master, for his province. Yet his good-natured soul feared for the coming repercussions, especially on the common folk of Wynne.
“The history texts would have you believe Valvius brokered in the dawn of the industrial age of Wynne,” the bald professor declared from the head of the lecture hall.
Marcus Seyblanc sat on the edge of his seat, hanging onto the professor’s every word, hungry for more.
“The truth, however,” the professor continued, “has been omitted to allow the Valvian people shine in the eye of Wynne. So what is the truth ladies and gentlemen?”
Marcus looked about the silent room, studying each face of his classmates deep in thought. By the perplexed expression many wore, it was clear many, Marcus included, wondered if any amongst them knew the truth their professor spoke of.
“The truth, ladies and gentlemen,” the professor continued as he shook his head. “It was indeed the great minds of Boris VanBrume and Lewis Karule who sparked the industrial revolution of Wynne. Both were of Syntaran descent.”
A murmur erupted over the class. Pride filled Marcus’ heart, while a burning distaste for the Valvian people sat in his mouth. During the past several weeks, Marcus had been privy to such history lessons as this. Throughout the annals of Syntar’s history, any and all proud moments of achievement always seemed to become the victim of Valvian theft. Growing up as a salter, Marcus had never known just how awful the world was towards his province.
“You see,” the professor said, motioning the hall to silence. “During the Great War we knew the kinetic threat could not be defeated through conventional means of force.” Pride fueled the professor’s voice as he leaned into his lectern. “VanBrume and Karule put their minds together to devise tools to finally counter the kinetics. Through their tinkering and creating, they unleashed a slew of militaristic machines, all powered by great, giant boilers; from armoured battle carriages to the creation of airships, the creations of Boris and Lewis changed the fate of the Great War. By doing what was necessary, the future of Wynne came on the curtails of two brilliant Syntarans.”
The professor stepped away from his lectern and began pacing at the head of the lecture hall.
“After the war, manufactorums began to spring across the face of Wynne as each province moved to capitalize on the great Syntaran designs. Amongst all seven provinces, none proved the biggest industrial powerhouse than Valvius. Within a year or so, almost every piece of manufactured technology was being constructed in the valleys of our…friends.” The professor paused, letting the venom in his voice drip off of his last word.
“As a result,” he cleared his throat, “the centralized location of the Valvian industry soon forced many of the factories across the other provinces to shut down. None suffered worse than Syntar, the very province that inspired the revolution.
‘It is no secret,” the professor declared, “the streets of our glorious city, Malefosse, has long been over crowded with the destitute families of the salt kin and manufacturing folk. It was not always as such, but, once the manufactorums started closing, the salter’s life was threatened by those who were coming from the factory world. Violence broke out in the streets of Malefosse as the two cultures merged into one. Thankfully, the salters and factory peoples learned to live cohesively after a tragic event that cost both sides many loses.”
The professor took a moment and poured himself a glass of water from a flagon that sat upon his lectern.
Anger, and disgust filled Marcus’ gut knowing the fate of his family was an indirect result of the capitalizing ventures of the southern province of Valvius. Perhaps the most upsetting thought was how revered the province was in the eyes of the citizenry. In his heart Marcus had come to realize the Valvian’s needed to be stopped. Their boastful pride, capitalizing, and arrogance was in dire need of culling.
“Sadly,” the professor said, finishing his water. “This is just one such transgression by Valvius against our proud nation and we have really only truly begun to scratch the surface. For most here, we shall continue these histories on the morrow.” He reached past the flagon of water and brought forth a piece of parchment. “For the others, your lessons with me have come to an end.”
Another murmur cascaded the lecture hall, this time more nervous than curious. With parchment in hand, the professor motioned for the hall to silence.
“It would seem,” he continued, “the authorities higher than myself have seen promise in a handful of you. They have given me the names of individuals who are ready to advance to the next stage of training and…educating. Immediately.” The professor cleared his throat and adjusted his wire frame spectacles to read the list.
“Before I name the pupils who shall be leaving us, I would ask that each will join me at the front of the class so all can lay their eyes on such outstanding Syntarans.”
Clearing his throat again, he read the names; “Erik Torres. Sarah Veebahn.”
Marcus listened anxiously as each name was read off.
The Order won’t take ye. Yer a salter, not some noble bastard, his mother’s words echoed in his mind as the professor neared the end of the parchment. In hi
s heart, Marcus feared his mother was right. Despair grew to impatience as the young man wished for the torture to end so he could prepare for tomorrow’s lesson.
“And the final one of you to move into the advanced program,” the professor paused as he looked at the students, who all sat eagerly on the edge of their seats. “Marcus Seyblanc.”
Marcus sat stunned, proud and amazed. In all of his wildest dreams he never expected to hear his name read from that list, regardless of how much he desired it. Almost in a daze he rose from his seat and descended to the awaiting students that would be moving forward with him. He looked back at the others who were to stay behind, noting the disappointment on each of their faces.
“Congratulations lad,” his professor said, patting Marcus’ shoulder.
“Ser, is this right?” Marcus asked, being mindful to use the proper speech he had spent many tireless nights perfecting. “I mean, as honoured as I am, how can this be? I am a salter.”
“This is what is wrong with our times.” The professor declared as he turned Marcus to face the class. “We have lived in the shadow of Valvius for so long, that we have learnt to judge a man by his station and not his worth. It is a plague that all of Syntar, nay, the whole of Wynne suffers; however, it is a plague the Order looks to replace.” The professor turned to Marcus, smiling from beneathe a wide mustachio. “Marcus here is, no, was, a salter when he came to us. Now he has been accepted into the advanced training and education after only a month.”
The professor continued to smile.
“We believe a man should be judged on his skills and mettle rather than that of his heritage.” The man’s voice grew in steady volume as a deep-rooted pride and passion fueled his words. “He is a strong man, and strong men have strong seed; a strong man just as Boris and Lewis of yesteryear. Here is a man who will do what is necessary.
‘Marcus, and those who stand here with him, have all proven in such short time that they do not fear the necessities of our calling. The Imperial Order is proud to have members such as you in our ranks.”
In his heart of hearts a pride began to churn within Marcus, fueling his mind with images of grandiose and worth. He stepped in line with the dozen students who would be moving forward with him.
“Ladies and gentlemen, do not be discouraged because you do not stand with those before you.” The professor said to the remaining students. “The Order knows your greatness, and you will move forward in your own time.”
Turning to the assembled few he said, “Let us take a moment, before we depart for the day, and congratulate these remarkable students who shall be leaving us.”
The applause started forced and slow as the disappointment prevented any true joy to be had for the former classmates. Marcus stood proud in his black uniform, feeling almost a hero as the applause steadily grew into a wild ovation. This was a rare moment of pride for Marcus, cementing his decision to leave his salter past for the progressive ideologies of the future.
After class was dismissed, Marcus returned to his dormitory. At one time, the room had been used as an overnight stay-chamber back when the Imperial isle had been a main airship port. The whole facility, in fact, had once been a bustling harbour for heaven sailing ships and their passengers. With time, however, things change and the advent of cortex technology altered the need of many airports. With the vessels no longer needing stopovers to take on more coal for their boilers, dozens of the harbours were shut down. The Order had made its home on an abandoned isle port that sat just west of the Valvian borders within Fascile Bay. To hear it said, the place was like a ghost isle with its airdocks towering over a graveyard of no longer used steam powered airships. Where those ships went, Marcus knew not, but the work the Order had put into refurbishing the decrepit docks was simply stunning.
Where once a towering precipice of several airdocks stood, now a mighty fortress tower of rough-hewn rock rose to scratch the sky. Crenellated windows littered the tower like ants. From the dormitory complex, which sat well over a hundred yards from the tower, it was easy to forget how wide the fortress truly was. Some students declared it was as wide as it was tall. Marcus was like to believe them, for, from his bedroom window, he could gage how large the base truly was based solely on the patrolling guards.
Peaking over the top crenellations, one could espy high reaching arms of copper, wire, and all manner of scientific looking equipment. When Marcus first noticed the strange accoutrement at the top of the tower from his dormitory window, he inquired as to its purpose. His professor had told him they were rotaries and oscillating fans, which helped in analyzing and gauging wind patterns. Far below in a control room, conductors and resistors, cogs and gears, even devices the professor knew not what function they served, all led to the prediction of weather in all of Wynne.
Some nights, when Marcus could not find the will to sleep, he thought he could see a blue beam of light pulsate from the contraption into the clouds above. Often, being so late at night, he simply ignored what he saw and left it to a matter of late night, sleep deprived hallucinations.
Upon return to his room, Marcus sat at his workbench, which was located next to his modest window. He let his eyes wander up the length of the distant tower, resting them upon the peaking fragments of the weather device. Marcus considered asking his professor if there had been snowfall in Malefosse. Even after his short time in the Order, and cold departure from his home, Marcus still worried for his family’s well being.
At the thought of his parents, Marcus gathered a piece of parchment, a peacock quill and an inkpot. It was an arcaic form of communication, however, due to the nature of the Order, the risk involved with telegraphs prevented the admittance of such devices on the isle. So the young Seyblanc found himself writing to his parents, the first time since he arrived.
Dearest parents,
I am in high hopes this letter finds you well. Let me begin by apologizing for not writing sooner, but I have been busy at study. The Order is as grand as Gionni made it seem. I am fed well, groomed and I have been learnt to the same extent as nobility. Since being here, I have been educated in speech, history, letters and even martial training.
I have worked hard to prove a salter can do anything and it seems my work has paid off. Just today, I found out I have shown exceptional merit and potential in doing what is necessary. I am being graduated to the advanced class on the morrow, only after a month! I would have made it sooner or later through conventional learning, but someone somewhere has noticed my dedication. I do not know what to expect in the advanced teachings, but be proud for me.
I will write again soon,
-Marcus
Smiling at his own achievements, Marcus reached for a small pot of fine ground sand. With a steady hand he sprinkled it over his writing, letting the loose ink absorb into the granules. After blowing the excess off, he placed an envelope with a month’s worth of pay alongside his letter. With a sigh the youngest member of the Seyblanc family took a final, long look at the tower beyond and rose from his workbench. With two small steps, Marcus crossed the breadth of his room and lay on the small cot given to him on his first day.
He lay there, staring at the ceiling, playing over the day’s events in his mind, much as if it were a moving photo album. Each lesson learned echoed in Marcus’ mind, as though he were sitting in the lecture hall again. Images of Boris and Lewis drifted before him as they did what was necessary in turning the tide of the Great War. The landscapes of Wynne flew through his mind as if he were reading direct from the scholar Benjamin Riley’s much lauded Compendium of Wynne and its Peoples; Marcus felt his lips mouthing over the valleys, gullies, plains and historic sites of Wynne, more so those of Valvius, as he worked on committing the lay of the land to memory.
He did not know when he had drifted to sleep, but he woke with a start. The dormitory was dark, save for the moonlight that fell into the room. Yawning, he sat up on the cot, stretching as he did so. It was then he realized there were two men standing in t
he room, watching him.
“You Marcus Seyblanc?” the taller of the men asked as he brought an everflame lantern to a low light.
Marcus blinked several times as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light. Still blinking he looked up at the man whom spoke. He was mid-aged and wore a fashionable mustachio that cascaded down either side of his face and his hair shone sleek and black in the dim light while a single, gold-framed lens sat on his left eye.
“Aye,” Marcus said after a minute of gathering himself.
“Good. Yer t’ come with us.” The shorter, but stockier, of the two men proclaimed. “tis time ye get taught proper ‘bout the Order.”
“I don’t understand.” Marcus admitted.
“Fear not lad.” The monocle wearing man said. "You will be learning more about the Order as promised – just not from here.”
“I still don’t understand.” Marcus said.
“They nev’r do at first,” the portly man said as he set to gathering some of Marcus’ things. “But by the end they always do.”
“Just know, lad,” The taller man said. “You have been selected to advance into our ranks proper. We cannot afford loose lips to discuss with lesser men what we are about.”
Marcus let the two men gather the things he would need before getting himself prepared for the departure. He realized he forgot to grab the letter for his parents as the two men in black uniforms led Marcus from the small room. He meant to say something, but the two men walked at a brisk pace.
No word passed between the men as they traversed the silent corridors of the former airship hotel. The shadows from the low-lit everflame lantern sent cascading shadows up the high arched windows of the halls. The angled corners and sharp filigrees of the masonry seemed to come alive as the little light source walked past. It was eerie and disconcerting, but Marcus worried more about where he was headed than about the dancing shadows.
The Spark Page 14
