Aether Spark

by Nicholas Petrarch

  Vanzeal’s gaze was cold. His lip twitched as he tried to summon words to rebut Ashworth’s, but he was at a loss.

  Chance grinned. It was satisfying to see the man shamed. He doubted Vanzeal had had many men stand up to him in such a bold way.

  Vanzeal’s hatred seethed from behind his eyes, and before anyone realized what had happened his sword flashed from its sheath with the sound of spring and gear.

  Ashworth fell backward against the wall and gasped for air as his collar turned red. Pitifully, he slumped down to the floor.

  “Gather everything from his laboratory,” Vanzeal barked as he sheathed his blade and thrust Rhett away. “Every notebook, ledger, and receipt. We take it all.”

  His men seemed as alarmed as Chance, but they were roused to action at Vanzeal’s words. They disappeared into the laboratory and soon began emerging with piles of Ashworth’s records.

  Chance hardly noticed their movements. His eyes were locked with Ashworth’s, watching him struggle for breath. Tears came to Ashworth’s wizened face as he looked to Chance and Rhett. He tried to say something, but the words wouldn’t come.

  Finally, his head bowed forward, and he was still.

  Chance couldn’t believe what was happening. He glanced at Rhett, whose expression was now one of stark terror. How would he recover from this? Chance wondered. How could he himself?

  “What of the apprentices?” one of the soldiers asked. The men were about finished with the laboratory. Vanzeal looked at Chance and Rhett as he pulled on his gloves.

  “As long as we’ve got the man’s research, they’re unnecessary. Leave them.”

  Chance focused all his anger on Vanzeal. It seethed through his wet eyes, directing every known curse toward the man. Vanzeal seemed amused when he saw it. His lips turned up in a half-smile.

  “Burn it,” he ordered.

  The soldiers emerged from the house, arms full of the evidence they’d seized. Vanzeal marched down the steps from the front door and was met at the bottom by Ringgold.

  “Sir,” Ringgold greeted.

  “Sergeant Ringgold. A fire has started in the house. Maintain your perimeter guard and see to it that it doesn’t spread to any of the neighboring buildings. I’ll have my men alert the fire brigade.”

  “What about those still inside?” Ringgold asked.

  “My men are all accounted for,” Vanzeal said with a businesslike air as he pulled on his gloves. “There is no one inside.”

  “But I thought—”

  “Sergeant,” Vanzeal snapped. “There is no one inside that building. Now, you’ve just received an order to maintain your perimeter, and nothing more. I suggest you see to that.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Ringgold stood straighter, unable to entirely hide his concern. Vanzeal peered at him sideways before signaling for his company to follow him. Ringgold’s jaw clenched as tightly as his fists as he watched the first curls of smoke issue forth from the windows.

  The flames were already climbing the walls and smoke billowed thick overhead. Chance and Rhett shuffled as best they could down the tight hallway. It was difficult with their bindings, but they managed to crawl into Ashworth’s laboratory and Chance kicked the door closed behind them.

  It wasn’t going to hold back the flames for long; the place was a tinderbox. But, perhaps, it would buy him time to loose their restraints.

  In the corner of the room lay the body of their mutt, a wound at the base of her neck where she’d been stabbed. The sight of it both infuriated and sickened Chance. If fortune favored him and they survived, he swore to himself he’d see Vanzeal pay.

  He wrestled for a while with the gag around his mouth, rubbing it against the floor until it came loose. He sucked in what clean air he could. It wouldn’t be long before the house was full of smoke.

  Crawling to the table, Chance kicked against its leg.

  “Rhett!” he shouted. Rhett looked at him despite his obvious fear. “Rhett, help me!”

  He gave the table leg another furious kick, and it came loose some. Rhett seemed to understand what Chance was trying to do. He shuffled to the other leg and began kicking. After a few seconds, the legs broke and the table fell forward.

  It crashed on the ground, spreading its contents across the floor. Chance rummaged through, looking for something sharp enough to cut his bindings.

  The best he could find was a large magnifier. Stomping on the glass with his heel, he shattered it and grasped one of the larger pieces. With the edge, he dug at his bindings.

  The room was getting hot. Smoke seeped through the cracks in the door and flame came through the top, licking the ceiling eagerly.

  “Rhett! Get back.”

  Rhett shuffled away from the door, pressing himself up against the broken table. His eyes were fused open, unable to look away from the horror that was clawing for them. Chance worked harder with the glass, scratching at the stubborn cords until his palm bled.

  The flames caught the curtains near the door and quickly spread to the bookshelves. Chance threw the shard of glass away and seized another with what he hoped was a better edge, but still it wouldn’t cut.

  The flames crept across the shelves around them, the compounds catching fire and making small explosions. The flames turned a rainbow of colors, releasing thicker plumes of tinted smoke.

  The realization flashed across Chance’s mind that this was how he was going to die. Of all the vices he’d been criticized of, none of them had managed to do him in. Yet these men—strangers in uniform—had condemned him to this hellish end.

  He let out a laugh in the face of his misfortune and dropped the shard of glass.

  “Rhett,” he yelled in as humorous a voice as he could muster. “Rhett, remember the potted plants? You never did get to hanging them, did you?”

  Rhett looked at him like he was crazy, but he did look at him.

  “I’m glad you didn’t waste your time with them,” Chance said. “Would have been an awfully poor use of the day.”

  It was all he could do. He couldn’t shield Rhett from the fear, but he could distract him. At least for a moment or two before the end.

  A piece of the ceiling fell, crashing nearby and sending a spray of embers into the air. Chance felt them sprinkle his back, and he rolled to put them out. This was it. He shuffled up next to Rhett as another ceiling piece fell, this time on Ashworth’s reading chair. It caught flame almost instantly.

  “Close your eyes, Rhett,” Chance said. “Don’t look at it.” He grasped Rhett’s hand, and the boy clenched his eyes closed. Chance did the same.

  The two of them listened to the room fall apart around them. The crackling and combustion of chemicals sounded otherworldly. He heard laughter, and voices.

  At least there would be company in hell.

  But suddenly, Chance felt a hand on his shoulder, and he opened his eyes in surprise. Kneeling over him was Ringgold, singed some by the flames, but shielding himself with his cape. Oddly, it hadn’t caught fire.

  Drawing his blade, Ringgold cut Chance’s bonds before moving on to Rhett.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Ringgold asked.

  “He’s in shock,” Chance said. He was in shock himself as he watched Ringgold check the boy. “How did you get here?”

  “Through the back. And that’s our way out,” Ringgold cut Rhett’s bonds. “Help me with him!” They lifted Rhett into Ringgold’s arms, and he draped his cape over the boy. “Through the kitchen,” he instructed.

  “It’s engulfed! We should go out the—”

  “The guard will seize you as you leave. There’s no one guarding the back. Now go!”

  He shoved Chance forward, and Chance dove through the flames. It was difficult with the pieces of burning wall and ceiling now littering the floor, but they stumbled through.

  In the hall, the heat was nearly unbearable. The air and smoke burned Chance’s lungs, and he tried to hold his breath through it. The flames licked at their arms and legs
as they ran until they made it to the back door.

  Before he left, Chance glanced where Ashworth’s body lay. Flames had engulfed the area, and debris from the ceiling had buried the body. Chance’s felt the pull on his heart at the sight. It was a poor burial for such a man.

  “What are you waiting for?” Ringgold shouted impatiently.

  Chance grimaced, then with a solid kick he burst the door open and the three of them spilled out into the courtyard. Ringgold set Rhett down on the ground. They patted their singed clothing, taking in full breaths of cool, fresh air.

  “You can’t linger here. Someone may still come,” Ringgold said between breaths. “Leave while you can.” He stood up and pulled his cape across the more singed portion of his uniform.

  “Hold on,” Chance said, rising to his feet. A thought had come to him. He hurried into his workshop and grabbed his carrier and what other necessities were readily visible. Ashworth’s notes were still strewn across the floor, and he scooped up as many pages as he could, stuffing them into his carrier.

  When he returned, Ringgold had managed to get Rhett to stand, though he was still coughing violently.

  “Are you good?” Ringgold asked Chance.

  “We’ll be alright.”

  “Then go, Chance.” Ringgold put his hand on his shoulder. His eyes were pained. “I’m sorry for all of this.”

  Chance stared at his friend with a mix of emotions. Ringgold had saved them, but he’d also been one of the men responsible for what had happened tonight—for Ashworth’s death. He found it difficult to meet Ringgold’s gaze. So many thoughts and questions ran through his mind, yet, despite how desperately he wanted to voice them, he couldn’t find the words.

  “You don’t need to say anything,” Ringgold assured him.

  Chance nodded reluctantly and led Rhett away from the house. He heard the sound of bells as the fire brigade approached. Clambering over the retaining wall, Chance looked one last time at the place he’d called home all these years. It was eerie, set in the dancing red flames.

  And there, silhouetted against it all, stood Ringgold in his uniform.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The Informant

  Don’t be overzealous in your scheming. Fate schemes far better.

  — Alchemical Proverb

  S toddard sat at his desk, fidgeting with his pen. It hovered impatiently over a fresh page intended for a missive to Elector Sinclair. He’d been milling over what to say for half an hour, but his mind wouldn’t apply itself to this particular task. Not while he awaited news about the raids.

  They were underway that very moment. He imagined the great minds which had been tucked away forgotten in the underbelly of the city, now rediscovered and collected.

  Tomorrow, he would have quite the team at his disposal.

  He’d already dismissed Donovan. There was no need to include him in the more sensitive details of tonight’s activities. He would fill him in as necessary, but no more. The less he knew the better.

  As much as Stoddard resisted admitting it, there was a certain thrill to the past few days—a powerful sense of influence he’d not anticipated. Where before he’d been a quiet and studious man, he had been thrust into an entirely new world in which swift action and bold decisiveness were rewarded.

  What was more incredible was that he felt himself a major piece already. He’d established himself as naturally as Sinclair’s own son. Perhaps more so.

  A faint knock sounded at the door, and Stoddard straightened.

  “Come in,” he called. The door opened and in hobbled one of the most unpleasant looking men Stoddard had ever had the misfortune to meet. He was bent forward, draped in a tawdry coat. He walked with a pitiful limp caused by a visibly withered leg.

  “Oh,” Stoddard frowned. “It’s you, Mr. Skaggs.”

  “Just Skaggs, if you don’t mind,” the man said as he closed the door behind him and approached the desk. “Not a real fan of all your formalities, you might expect. Seem a bit hollow, don’t you think?”

  “Very well. Have a seat. Would you care for some tea?”

  “No, I wouldn’t,” Skaggs said. “How about you and I ignore the kindly gestures as well? The less time you keep me the sooner you can stop pinching that nose of yours, and I can get back to my miserable self.”

  “Very well,” Stoddard consented. “Business then.”

  “Where’s my payment?”

  Stoddard retrieved a small wallet from his desk and slid it across the table. Skaggs snatched it up and leafed through its contents, fingering the edges of the notes in quick succession.

  “Oh, now that’s a sight I’ve been missing something terrible,” he sang. “Shame about that poor fellow and the flask bomb though. Don’t expect his share would end up in my cut, would it?”

  “I’m only paying you what we agreed on,” Stoddard said. “Nothing more.”

  “Ehh, I suppose a man like yourself needs something to stuff his pillows with. What poor sod did you get to perform the grisly deed?”

  “One only slightly more desperate than yourself.”

  “And what’d you tell him to get him to do it, I wonder? Tell me, because it’s been tickling me all day...” Skaggs leaned in close over the table, and Stoddard recoiled at his proximity. “Did you even tell him about the other explosives?”

  Stoddard’s expression remained unchanged.

  “Thought not.” Skaggs leaned back and let out a raspy chuckle. “I had you figured. I knew I did. Right from the first moment we met I says to myself, ‘there’s a man to watch out for.’ Just like me, you’re not above getting your hands dirty.”

  “The only thing we have in common, Mr. Skaggs, is where our interests intersect at the point of your employ.”

  “What? It make you uncomfortable to admit it?” Skaggs grinned. “Oh, there’s no denying it, Doctor. There are no clean hands here.”

  “You’re taking liberties with your tongue,” Stoddard growled. “I suggest you remember what your place is, and don’t overestimate our relationship. There are hundreds of your kind willing to do what you do.”

  “Perhaps,” Skaggs shrugged. “But can they deliver? It’s hard to know just looking at a man, isn’t it? First impressions aren’t always what they seem, especially when the right pressure’s applied? Am I right?

  “Most are too sold on the idea of self-preservation, you see, and likely to prove a liability come a problem. But not me,” he said shaking his head. “Me, I can’t sink no lower than this, so what have I got to hold onto? I’ve a reputation, don’t I? I deliver on it, don’t I? And my reputation, as filthy as it is to men like you, is still a reputation. So, don’t go try and get all high and mighty with me, Doctor. You hired me, so here I am.”

  Stoddard clenched his jaw. Taking a letter from the desk, he tossed it to Skaggs. “Your next assignment then.”

  “Oh? There’s another?” Skaggs’s eyebrows arched as he picked up the envelope. “I thought you’d be looking for the first opportunity to sweep me under that rug of yours.”

  “Believe me, I am,” Stoddard said. “But, I have another task I’d like you to perform—one that will require a larger investment of time, and your increased discretion.”

  “The doctor loosens the leash? Now, that’s an interesting turn of events,” Skaggs mused. He slipped the wallet into his dusty coat and sat himself down on Stoddard’s desk, lifting his withered leg up on the corner to rest it as he read.

  Stoddard’s temple pulsed as he glared at the leg, but he said nothing.

  “It’s a list of names,” Skaggs said. “What do you have in mind for me then?”

  “I need you to come into the trust of any free-merchant alchemists you come in contact with. Those are the names I’ve managed to collect so far, but I want you on the street pulling any information you can about any significant work being done.”

  “Alchemists again is it? Why might a mechanist like yourself have such an interest in them, I wonder?” Skaggs
asked.

  “That’s for me to understand, and for you not to concern yourself with.”

  Skaggs scratched his chest as he thought the offer over. “It might take a while to ingratiate myself into the likes of their company. Lot of conversations. Lot of time. And time’s a precious commodity, Doctor. Difficult to trade. Difficult to place a real value on. Now I’ve got some, but how to know what to exchange it for...”

  “Price is the least of my concerns,” Stoddard said. “You’ll have enough for your drunken frolics for months to come.”

  “Won’t that be nice?” Skaggs grinned condescendingly. “So kind of you.”

  “Provide me useful information and I’ll double what you’ve got in your pocket now.”

  “Do you know what the problem with money is?” Skaggs asked, rising from his perch and circling the table. “Once you’ve got some, it loses its novelty. I’ve already enough here to enjoy my little life of foibles for some time. Well, as much as I can enjoy them as I am.”

  He patted his bum leg.

  “You’re asking a hefty chunk of my time. Not to mention more risk. People aren’t too keen when you go snooping around into their secrets. Why wouldn’t I just cut my losses and enjoy myself as I am?”

  “Is there something you’re trying to get at, Mr. Skaggs?” Stoddard asked, tapping his pen. “Or do you just enjoy wasting my time?”

  Skaggs stroked the patchy stubble of his cheek. “I want a leg. A new one. And not just some piece of scrap you throw together. I want what that old captain had—all the bells and whistles and what have you.”

  “You’re in no position to negotiate with me!” Stoddard shouted.

  “Oh, but I am!” Skaggs barked back, rising up to match Stoddard’s boldness. “I’m a man who’s seen the little game you’ve been playing—how low you’re willing to stoop to get what you want. I’ve seen the blood on your hands. That don’t give me some position to negotiate?”