Lucian slowly paced across the room, to the table. ‘Look at this, I’m sure you’ll recognise it.’
VII
Baxter followed the strange man to the desk. His Orb, still smashed and dented, lay in two separate pieces. A machine-precision cut traced down its welded seam, exposing both the gyromagnetic engine and the clockwork internals.
‘It’s rare I see clockwork manipulated in such a way,’ Lucian said. ‘At first, I thought it must have been subjected to some new engineer who helped the Brotherhood after they stole these from me.’
Baxter’s eyes drifted from the object.
‘But then,’ said Lucian, ‘the internal clockwork.’ He unscrewed the back of his watch, opened it and held them both in front him. ‘I’m greeted with a perfection I’ve seen before.’
Baxter felt the heat in his cheeks as his face glowed pink; the compliment wasn’t one he’d heard before. His father was always taking his work back, criticising the slightest detail.
‘Tell me, Baxter, have you always had a gift for it?’
Baxter looked down at the pieces, several cogs were missing, but both housings were the same, the anchor on the wheel a scale copy. The rest ruined beyond any comparisons.
‘Where’s my friend, Tabitha Parkin?’
‘The girl? I’m not sure. I did ask she be collected with you. Let me have my people handle it; hold on.’ Lucian rang a bell from his inside pocket. The same man appeared from behind the doorway at the end of the library.
‘Find Tabitha...?’ Lucian shouted.
‘Parkin,’ Baxter shouted.
‘Tabitha Parkin, and have her brought here at once, please.’
‘She’s locked up near the station which brings you in from Port Staddiscombe.’ said Baxter.
‘I’m so sorry about this, give me a second.’ Lucian walked out the room, and Baxter heard shouting.
He quickly ran to the other door and tried it, locked. He studied the room. Two doors and long windows which supposed each level, they looked as though they thinned the further up they went, but Baxter couldn’t be sure. He noticed the books near the locked door were tightly fit together, ordered in randomly, neither the author’s names nor the titles matched. A book on the continent Antarctic, pressed in next to a book on the political histories of the royal ruling family of Eurasia. Next to it, a fiction title; the Death of the Day. Baxter stood and studied them. The sequence seemed illogical but having only spent a few minutes with this man, such random placing wouldn’t occur, there was a hidden sequence.
VIII
Lucian returned, to Baxter, walking serenely with a feminine subtlety and lightness in his stride. A harrowing question over the man’s sexual intentions entered Baxter’s mind.
‘Right, sorry about that,’ Lucian said. ‘Your friend Tabitha is still in the keep. I have ordered she be brought here at once.’
‘Thank you. What do you want with me Mr...Lord...?’
Lucian’s lips tapered. ‘Seagrave, but call me Lucian. I would like to show you something, Baxter.’
‘Ok,’ Baxter replied accidently knocking his knee in to the side table. Some papers landed on the floor backside up. Baxter grabbed them, red faced.
‘This isn’t the soft hay bales and lush green meadows of the Moor,’ Lucian said, ‘in here we have many objects with sharpened edges.’
‘Especially egos.’ Baxter’s words were daring.
‘Very good.’ Lucian laughed. ‘A sparring partner at last.’
He led Baxter to a door and pushed it open, revealing an empty room. ‘Have you ever been in an elevator before, Baxter?’
His face went blank. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Of course, you haven’t. Watch.’ Lucian pointed a long bony finger at an ivory set of raised numbers. ‘Press the button.’ He did, and the doors closed.
‘Fun, isn’t it?’
Baxter’s stomach had flipped upside down ‘What is it?’ he yelled.
‘That, my dear Baxter, is the centrifugal force. It’s your body reacting to being in motion. It always does it, your mind doesn’t register it when you move within your fundamental parameters because you’re so used to feeling it.’ Lucian looked at the ceiling. ‘We’re going up, by the way.’
Baxter grabbed the handrail as the pressure pushed down upon his body. It slowly eased off, and the elevator came to a halt. The doors opened. Baxter’s retinas filled with colour and light, in front of him was a huge workshop.
Lucian remained silent.
‘This is a workshop?’ the amazed Baxter asked. ‘It’s huge!’
‘Yes.’ Lucian opened one of the many drawers. ‘This is where we build all of the vessels for the Seagrave air fleet, and the engines power our steam locomotives. We also sell a lot of our engines to the other territories. In fact,’ Lucian pointed to a large stack of shiny metal engines big enough to power a hundred locomotives, ‘those are on their way to The Mother.’
Baxter couldn’t believe his eyes. A group of workers moved and walked about on various stairways linking one conveyor belt to the other. It was like something out of his dreams.
Lucian faced Baxter with a wide-eyed look of certainty. ‘Work for me, Baxter. If you can design for me what you made with the modifications of my drone big enough to power a locomotive, which, my friend, would be truly ground-breaking.’
‘I’ve never made anything bigger than what I can carry.’
‘What do you think those are for?’ Lucian pointed at the group of workers hammering away at glowing metal. ‘You conceive it and they build it; the perfect partnership.’
Baxter walked past him and looked out toward the end of the workshop. ‘This room has its own horizon?’
‘I know. It’s truly marvellous.’
Baxter looked at his host. ‘You had me brought before you in ropes and chains.’
‘Not my doing. Those orders to get you fell on dumb ears. Don’t worry, they shall be punished for their mistreating of you.’
‘Why should I trust you?’
‘You shouldn’t, Baxter. I can offer you a chance for greatness. To redeem your father’s name.’
‘His name?’
‘Yes.’
They each stood in silence as Lucian watched Baxter process his words.
‘I am not after greatness, I am trying to find my father,’ Baxter shouted as a locomotive gas engine clunked above them, suspended on many chains.
‘Yes! Baxter, remember, I am trying to find him too, but look I have the next best thing, I have you, Baxter Nightingale!’
The grip Baxter’s face muscles had on his own skull softened.
‘I shall help you find him,’ Lucian said, ‘I could use his help. Your father was a genius, Baxter, he and I shared many things over the years and projects we worked on together. I’ve missed his judgement, his critical eye for detail.’
A penny suddenly dropped inside Baxter, ‘You’re the man from the book, the gas engineer.’
Lucian poked out his chest. Cronus spotted his masters gesture and cawed from the somewhere above them.
‘I wrote several.’ He said.
‘A deal then.’ said Baxter.
‘continue…’
‘I shall help you build the engine you desire in exchange that you help me find my father.’
‘Yes,’ said Lucian, ‘However could’ve I refuse. And don’t forget your friend, what was her name again?’
‘Tabitha.’
‘We have a deal then? Shall I draw up contracts?’
‘Not yet.’ Said Baxter, ‘Before I start work on anything, I need to know everything, tell me what happened to my father.’
CHAPTER 16
‘I beg you pardon my concealment, sir,’ Alfred said, muffled behind the grated iron mask. ‘You see, I’m disfigured, a mining accident.’
An older gentleman behind the shop counter folded his newspaper, giving his customer a beady eye. ‘What you after, masked gent?’ The old man’s voice sounded as though his throat was en
cased in rust. ‘A little grease for the arm, is it?’
Alfred lifted the arm, it cracked; several of the spokes had started to corrode. ‘Yes. I am also after five coils, two magnetic blocks, five large springs and I was wondering if you know of a welder in the district?’
Mesmerised by the mechanics of the arm, the shopkeeper stood. ‘Copper or brass?’
‘Both,’ Alfred confirmed, tapping his human hand to his chest to locate his wallet.
‘Where did you get something like this made?’ The shopkeeper rubbed his chin.
‘I built it.’ Alfred looked back at the shop’s exit.
‘Did you now?’ The man removed a pair of spectacles and put them on his nose. ‘May I?’
‘I’m in quite the hurry–’
‘I’ve seen plenty augmented hands in my time, but never an entire arm. Mind you, never any miners having them neither.’ The old man studied Alfred’s clothing. ‘Moorlander, is it now?’
‘Yes.’
The shopkeeper removed his glasses and smiled. ‘You did well to escape them mines, even at the cost of your arm! Mind if I get me magnifier? It’s these coils you ‘ave ‘ere, not sure which grease would suit.’
‘Whale oil.’ Alfred snapped.
‘Goodness sir, this isn’t Huckleberry Jacks. You’re got the wrong district there.’ He laughed. ‘You won’t find any such stuff down here.’
Alfred jerked his head back at the door, gesturing to leave.
‘Wait!’ the man shouted, ‘wait right there. Give it here, come on.’ The man grabbed his arm and whirled it closer to the counter’s spotlight for a closer look.
He scrutinised over the arm’s instruments, showing an interest Alfred hadn’t seen since Nicholas’ first inspection.
‘Well I never,’ he said, examining the inner coils. ‘This certainly is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. How long did it take you to construct?’
Alfred pulled in a deep breath. ‘About eighteen,’ he said, ‘months, in total.’
‘Whoa, very quick. You never built it alone?’
‘Nicholas, my brother, he helped me at times when I needed him.’ A memory appeared, sending Nicholas out for days at a time to collect jewels and extra rivets. He’d come back with the wrong parts, and without question, he’d run back out to find the right ones. He never asked for anything in return, his brother – he just got on with it.
‘Quite the team you must have made, you and your brother. Blimey, I had my bro in here for a month, after I got a bad case of the spell. I come back and finds nails mixed with screws, no manner of sizes and a set of my favourite hammers, missing! Damn bugger still hasn’t found ‘em. Even out back, the git goes and dips the same teaspoon he just stirred his tea with, dips the bloody thing back in the sugar – I told my wife, never again, no more family helpers.’
‘Yes. Nicholas isn’t a mechanic, we had to take a few bits apart and start over, but–’
‘He was there for you, wasn’t he,’ smiled the man.
‘Yes, he...’ Alfred paused his words as his posture loosened. ‘He always was there, always there, for me.’
The man smiled at his customer’s glazed-over eyes, reached to the till and pulled out a box bursting at the seams with business cards. He pulled out a stack and shuffled through them.
‘Here’s Alan Coombe’s card.’ The shopkeeper handed it over. ‘He’s a local, not cheap, but if you think I’m impressed by your arm wait ‘til he sees it. He should be able to take care of any repairs you might have.’
‘Thank you.’ Alfred’s eyes darted from the card to the shopkeeper. ‘I also need some ball bearings.’
The shopkeeper rather impressively, for his age, made a mental list of the requests and went about his shop, scaling ladders and looking in drawers. The first to land on the desk was a used pot of grease, which rolled as it landed. Alfred caught it at the edge.
‘Nice catch sir. Blimey, that arm does react well. Help yourself to as much as you need,’ said the shopkeeper. ‘It’s the fat variety, not from your expensive sea dwellers.’
‘How much?’
‘Free of charge.’
Alfred undid the lid and scooped three fingers full of the white jellied paste. He applied it to his arm’s gears and spokes. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
The shopkeeper shrugged and carried on. Reaching for a larger container, he collected all the remaining items. ‘Take more if you need it, I’ve got tons of the stuff out back, never been able to flog it. It seems Lowers aren’t working on projects like they used to.’
As the man went about his work, he whistled a tune. Alfred listened intently to it and recognised it, but couldn’t place it. He searched his mind to trace the song, and then it came to him. ‘What shall we do with a drunken sailor?’ Alfred mumbled, under his breath.
The old man got down from his ladder and grabbed a cup from a hook running along one of the other shelves. ‘Coffee, sir?’ he asked waving the cup.
Alfred touched the underside of his mask and hesitated to remove it.
‘Don’t worry, sir. I know when a man wishes to conceal his identity. You’re safe here.’
Alfred removed his mask, careful to step backwards out of the counter’s spotlight.
‘See?’ the man pointed. ‘Nowt to worry about. Coffee?’
‘I, yes, sure, delightful, thank you.’
The old man poured two cups. The aroma filled the room. Alfred closed his eyes and breathed it in. ‘Columbian?’ He asked.
‘No, this is Kenyan.’ The old man cleared his throat, raised his cup and shouted, ‘Together, man...’
‘What will we do with a drunken sailor? What will we do with a drunken sailor? Early in the morning!
The two men sang the song, verse following verse, Alfred closed his eyes and saw the clouds again hung together in a sky filled with a thousand shades of blue and a horizon he wanted to chase forever. Both men clashed their coffee cups together and each took a deep swig, then slammed both cups down on the shopkeeper’s desk.
‘Well sir, it’s a shame it wasn’t rum, but another drop of the poison and it would’ve ruined me. Could never drink the stuff on land, hey sir, it corrupts you,’ said the old man, laughing. ‘If I’d have known you for a plonk, I’d have offered you some of the higher-grade greases!’
‘Quite all right, kind sir. Which ship did you sail?’ Alfred asked, wiping coffee drops away from his chin.
‘The Augustus! Quartermaster, fifteen long hard years. You?’
‘Ship’s engineer, Arc Royal.’
‘Wow,’ sparked the shopkeeper, standing back from Alfred and nearly losing his footing in awe. ‘The royal flagship? I’m guessing by your tongue, Chief Engineering Officer?’
Alfred blushed. ‘Yes, but please, no formalities. I find them rather crass when held among veterans.’
‘Me too,’ nodded the shopkeeper, sticking out his chest and lifting his chin. Alfred thought he heard heels knocking together. ‘Can’t abide the old timers referring to themselves as Mid-shipman this and Commodore that. Anyway, where were we?’ The shopkeeper scaled back up his ladder as though it were rigging. ‘We’re out of coils, you might want to try Odds and Sods three streets over, only hurry, they close at seven.’
Alfred removed his watch. ‘Thanks again.’
‘I should have known you for a blue coat plonk, what with all them manners you’ve come in here with.’ The old man looked down at Alfred’s arm. ‘Did the grease help?’
‘It should be fine, takes a while to seep into the knots and crannies.’
‘Did you do it to yourself, on the Royal?’
Alfred hesitated. ‘No, this happened a little later.’
‘In a different life then, was it?’
‘Yes. Something along those lines.’
‘Civvy street,’ said the shopkeeper, as he stared past Alfred out to the darkened streets behind his shop’s glass door. ‘It’s not like it, is it? Not like being up there. Up there you never had to watch
your back, you were too busy watching after your mucker.’
The old man appeared to recollect private memories, they looked hard for him to bear. Alfred hesitated to touch his hand, then quickly abandoned such a notion.
‘By the Holy Mother,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘Do I miss it, God I do.’
They shared a silence for a moment which felt longer than it was.
‘So,’ the man said, ‘how did you do it?’
‘From a Railway accident, out in the moor,’ Alfred said.
‘I see, Seagrave for you, right?’ proclaimed the man in an accusatory tone. ‘All the best parts get used in the city, so all his posh friends are taken care of, but out there, in the wild Moor, they’d have you travelling on corroded tracks and drinking out of rusted taps.’
Alfred fired his clockwork arm to the side; it reeled through its gears like a hot knife through butter. ‘Thanks again for the parts and the grease. How much do I owe you?’
The man waved both his hands, crisscrossing them over. ‘Oh God, don’t worry about it sir. I’ve been trying to get rid of those bits for an age. Come again and perhaps next time we can share some stories from the fleet and the golden age of airships.’
II
Knocking back his coat, Alfred anchored his mechanical hand to his hip and left the shop. Above him, zeppelins of all shapes and sizes drifted toward a derelict rail line. He’d tried to ignore the track since entering the city. The supporting pillars with their angled curves looked outdated, speckled among the newly erected buildings. The style seemed to have broken away from the rounded corners of his time. Rivets had been replaced by long eastern steel girders extending the entire building length. With them was masonry, cut in large blocks, supported by the outer frame of steel like an ancient giant from the moor had scaled the walls and went gallivanting around, turning all the buildings inside out.
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