Aether Spark

by Nicholas Petrarch

  Stoddard tightened his grip around his pen. The tip cut through the paper and the ink bled through in a small patch around the point.

  “Listen here,” Skaggs continued. “I’ve spent my life trying to escape the infernal pain of my leg. But it doesn’t matter how much I drink, it’s only pissed away in the end. I wake each and every morning with this blight of a limb dragging along behind me!”

  He pulled up his trouser leg to show the wither more clearly. There was little evidence of muscle under the skin, and the curve of the bone bent outward.

  Stoddard gazed long at the man. He didn’t like people making demands on him, but Skaggs had been useful in uncovering the alchemist’s plots. They were known for their secrecy, and yet Skaggs had penetrated their shroud—in a matter of days, at that. Stoddard wasn’t ready to discard him entirely.

  Not yet.

  “That’s quite the expense,” Stoddard said, setting down his pen.

  “No, it isn’t. Not for you. High and holy mechanist. Miracle worker that you are. You benefit from this as much as I do. You’re living for the chance to cut into a man, build on him and what—just like the good captain. I see it in your eyes, turning over in your mind. You’re already thinking of what you could do with me.”

  Or to you, Stoddard brooded.

  “You presume too much,” he said.

  “I see an opportunity for you and I to profit off each other,” Skaggs insisted. “And if I’m never going to see another one like this I’d be a slagged fool to settle for anything less. Besides, if I don’t deliver, you’re not out a bit in the end. It’s service for service rendered.”

  Stoddard pressed his fingers together as he rolled the arrangement over in his mind. He despised the man; the way he spoke drove through Stoddard in a way that left him feeling as though his mind were exposed. Skaggs was certainly no ally. It wouldn’t take much, Stoddard imagined, for Skaggs to turn on him. A better prospect was all he’d need.

  It was best to keep someone like Skaggs close.

  “Done,” Stoddard said finally.

  “Done,” Skaggs repeated, and grinned an unrestrained grin. “Now, which of these poor sods is first on my list of friends to be?”

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The Aftermath

  Fortune, in both her guises, is a fickle mistress. Don’t hold either too close to the heart.

  — Alchemical Proverb

  C hance and Rhett hurried through the streets, avoiding the main roads and keeping to the shadows as best they could. The moon wasn’t high, and the night played tricks on their vision. Shapes of men rose up and faded around them with every step. It was all Chance could do to keep Rhett from crying out whenever they were spooked. It was all he could do not to cry out himself.

  They moved aimlessly through the dark, running from the dread which stalked close behind them. In time, their wits returned and Chance was able to set his mind on the one place he knew he and Rhett might be received.

  Liesel’s.

  It was the safest place he could think of. He hated the thought he might bring the dangers which followed him onto her doorstep, but he didn’t know what else to do. He needed help, and he knew she would understand.

  Fortunately, there were very few people out. The two of them hustled across the open street and slipped into the back alley which ran alongside the Pub & Brawl. Even just entering the familiar alley brought relief, and Chance breathed deeply again after what felt like hours. He glanced up and down the alley to be sure they weren’t being observed, then knocked.

  The door opened immediately and there stood Liesel, still in the same clothes.

  “Chance?” She looked surprised, and then her expression fell. “Oh, no...”

  “Sorry,” Chance began. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “Of course,” she said, collecting herself. She ushered them inside and shut the door, latching it behind them.

  She wasn’t alone. Simon and Welch were both there, sitting at the table. Welch had an odd assortment of parts and pieces laid out before him, and was tinkering with some gizmo. Simon sat with a tall glass in his hand.

  Serge was there too, standing rigidly by the wash bin.

  As Chance and Rhett entered, all three straightened up and cast each other quick looks of concern.

  “Why don’t you two have a seat?” Liesel told Chance and Rhett, fetching each a stool.

  “What happened?” Serge asked.

  “They came,” Chance said. “Just like Ashworth said they would.”

  “Who came?” Simon asked.

  “The guard. They burned the laboratory—with us inside. We were barely able to make it out alive.”

  “What of Ashworth?” Welch asked, concern welling up in his voice.

  Chance shook his head, and their expressions fell.

  “I’m sorry,” Chance said. “I’m probably wrong putting you all at risk right now, but I didn’t know where else to go.”

  “Don’t you be sorry. This is the best place you could have come,” Liesel assured him. “Just look at the state you’re in.”

  For the first time, Chance became aware of his condition as he looked down at his shaking hands. Patches of skin were red and blistered, and he wasn’t without a few cuts and scratches. Rhett was in a similar state.

  “We’ll have to take care of this before we do anything else,” Liesel said. “You two have a seat. Simon, fill a bowl with some water, will you?”

  Simon did as he was asked.

  Chance pulled his stool up to the table while Liesel checked Rhett. Welch remained quiet where he sat, even more absorbed in his gizmo.

  “What’s kept you all up tonight?” Chance asked.

  “It’s been an eventful night for everyone it seems,” Serge said.

  Chance was about to ask what he meant when Liesel concluded her examination.

  “Rhett, I’d say you’re one of the luckiest boys I know. Just a few bumps and scratches. I’m going to have Simon here clean you up a bit, and we’ll have you back to your chipper self in no time.”

  She led him over to a stool by Welch, and Simon brought over the bowl and a fresh rag. She handed Rhett a piece of stick candy to suck on as Simon began working, then turned her attention to Chance.

  “Now, let’s see to your arm.”

  Chance cringed as Liesel carefully removed the charred fragments of his sleeve.

  “This is becoming a common thing,” Chance said, “you patching me up like this.”

  “I’ve dealt with more than my share of injuries in my lifetime. I don’t mind.” She pressed a cold, wet rag lightly against his skin. Chance clenched his teeth. “Sorry,” she said.

  Chance opened his carrier and handed her a flask.

  “Use this,” he said. “It will help with the pain.”

  Liesel uncorked the flask and soaked the rag in the mixture before reapplying it to the burn. It stung for a moment, but the pain dulled some.

  “Do you have any idea who was behind it?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure. It was a whole company of duelists who raided the workshop, so there’s no doubt it was someone from the Spire. The lieutenant’s name was Vanzeal.”

  He didn’t mention Ringgold.

  Liesel frowned. “I don’t recognize the name. Simon? What about you?”

  He shook his head. “Never heard of him. But it wouldn’t take me long to find out who he is, if he’s anyone of consequence.”

  “I think that would be a good idea,” Liesel said. “It’s likely they’re connected.”

  “What’s connected?” Chance asked, and Liesel glanced at Serge. “What’s happened?”

  “Your laboratory wasn’t the only one attacked tonight,” Serge said. “Keller & Foxx were hit only an hour ago.”

  “Gentleman duelists,” Welch chimed in. “Just like your place.”

  “Are they alright?”

  Liesel hesitated.

  “They killed Keller,” Simon said. “Apparently he
put up a pretty good fight when they entered his shop. Blew up most of the street before they finally got him. We’re not sure what became of Foxx.”

  Chance sat stunned. He’d never pegged Keller for the fighting type. He leaned on the table and pulled at his hair. “This is insanity.”

  “No,” Welch said “It isn’t. There’s logic in it.”

  “And what is that?”

  Welch sighed and turned back to his gizmo. “I don’t know yet.”

  Chance rolled his eyes. “I don’t suppose there’s more where that came from?” he asked, pointing to Simon’s glass.

  “I’ve got something, sure.” Liesel went to the cupboard. “What would you like?”

  “Just bring them all,” Chance said.

  Surprisingly, she did, and without lecture. She produced glasses for Welch and Serge, too. Welch declined, but Chance poured himself a glass with a bit from each bottle. They all gave him a queer look.

  “What?” he said. He capped the last bottle and swirled the mixture before taking a gulp. It raked his esophagus with a fury.

  “You sure that’s a good idea?” Simon asked.

  “I never mix reason with my drinks,” Chance said, shuddering as he shook off the drink’s unpleasantness. “And as Ashworth once said, this isn’t meant for celebration.”

  “I suppose this means the business with the Aether is through,” Liesel said, pouring herself a glass.

  Chance grimaced. A knot tightened in his stomach, and it wasn’t just the alcohol. It was the familiar feeling of being beat. He was sick of that feeling. Hiding in a bar, drinking to help ward off the pain of another failure. It was cowardly.

  When had he become such a coward?

  A vivid image of his academic board came to his mind—standing there as they read his expulsion. He’d said nothing as it happened. He’d given no defense for himself. Just walked out when they’d dismissed him.

  Why hadn’t he said something? Yelled at them? Cursed them to Septigonee’s Well for how quickly they’d turned him out on the street?

  And now, the same thing was happening again. He was being turned out and left to salvage the scraps of his life. And just as before, he was expected to fail.

  But he hadn’t. He was still fighting. He’d been knocked down, but he wasn’t about to roll over. He gulped down another mouthful of his mixture, his eyes watering as he shook it off. He had nothing to lose.

  “No, it isn’t,” he said resolutely.

  Everyone looked up at him. Even Rhett, who’d been staring blankly at his stick candy as it grew sticky in his hand.

  “They’ve done this before,” Chance explained. “They’ve tried to take my life from me. Destroyed my prospects. Stripped me of any friend I had and left me to fend for myself in the gutters. I won’t let them do it again. They may have taken my home... they may have taken my work... but Ashworth’s work is still here.”

  He held up the wooden folder Ashworth had given him.

  “Ashworth’s work on the Aether spark was his life, and as long as it’s alive then Ashworth isn’t gone. They may have killed him, but I won’t let them pick his bones for their profit. This is Ashworth’s work, and I’m going to see it through.”

  “Well, if this wasn’t a war before, it certainly is now,” Serge said, looking animated.

  “Not now,” Simon warned.

  “You heard him,” Serge said. “This is a cause worth fighting for.”

  “Against whom? We don’t even know who did this.”

  “Yes, we do,” Serge insisted. “The meritocracy—”

  “Yes, but who in the meritocracy?”

  “All of them! They’re all guilty!” Serge bellowed.

  Simon rolled his eyes.

  “I’m not one to back down from a fight if it shows its face,” Liesel said, “but I’m also not for picking one with someone I don’t know anything about. Half of a fight is sizing up your opponent before you get into the ring. I agree with Simon, now is not the time.”

  “The fight has begun already. Whether you want it or not, it’s come,” Serge protested. “And they’re the ones who started it.”

  “We’re just a few Basin-dwellers,” Simon shrugged. “There’s not a lot we can do.”

  “Maybe not us here alone, no,” Serge admitted. “But, what if we had twenty more? Fifty? A hundred? What if every Basin-dweller finally stood up and said they’d had enough?”

  “It’ll never happen,” Simon frowned. “It’s basic survival instinct. Everyone’s looking out for themselves and their own.”

  “But, tonight is just the kind of thing we could use to spur people from their apathy. Help them recognize that it’s not just about a shop or two burning. This is about every injustice we’ve been forced to endure from the meritocracy.”

  “It’s not enough,” Simon said. “Someday it might be, if we’re desperate enough, but it’s not enough right now.”

  “We can’t just sit it out!” Serge ranted. “Not forever.”

  “But right now, we have to,” Liesel said.

  “Why? Why can’t we fight back?”

  “Because they’d obliterate us,” Simon said. His voice shook. “They’d seize us the moment we stuck our heads out, and we’d spend the rest of our lives wasting away in the Steep before they gave us a second thought. Well intentioned as you are, Serge, we can’t win this one. I’ve been on their side of the line before and seen it play out countless times. They’re hoping we’ll rise up to fight. They’re goading us so that they can destroy us.”

  “But they can’t pretend that what happened to Keller—what was done to Ashworth—was legal!”

  “They’ll say it was an accident,” Liesel shrugged.

  “We know it wasn’t,” Serge insisted. “The bombing at the rally. The raids. They’re connected. The duelist’s involvement proves that.”

  “But we have no idea who exactly is behind all of it.” Simon said. “Whoever it is, they’ve kept out of the spotlight.”

  “Hold on,” Chance said. A thought flashed across his mind. “Maybe they haven’t.”

  “What?”

  “Maybe they’ve been in the spotlight this whole time. We just didn’t realize who we were looking at.”

  Chance rushed out of the room and returned bearing one of the newspapers from the bar. Flipping it open to one of the latest accounts of Captain Harper, he jabbed a finger at one of the names.

  “Right there.”

  Liesel craned her head to get a better look. “Stoddard?”

  “His name comes up in every article they publish about the captain,” Chance explained. “I bet you anything he’s tied up in all of this mess.”

  “He’s a scientist, not a gentleman of the meritocracy,” Simon said, stepping forward to read over Liesel’s shoulder. “He wouldn’t be able to order the duelists around like we saw tonight.”

  “I didn’t say I know how he’s involved,” Chance said. “And honestly, I don’t really care. He’s the best lead we have to finding out what’s going on.”

  “But you can’t be sure.”

  “Did they have proof Ashworth was guilty?” Chance asked. “What about Keller? If they can hunt their leads down based on a few assumptions and loose connections, then I will chase this one.”

  “He’s right,” Serge said.

  “So, what are you going to do?” Liesel asked. “You don’t know anything about him. You don’t even know where he is.”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “Even if you do, you can’t just show up at his door. The people involved are going to be just as intent on finding you as they were Ashworth. They know you were his partner.”

  “Perhaps Margarete could do some uncovering for me,” Chance proposed. “She knows her way around the meritocracy better than anyone. It wouldn’t take her long to find out about him.”

  “You’d put her in harm’s way?” Liesel asked.

  “I’m not going to force her,” Chance said. “I’m not forcing an
yone to join me on this. This was Ashworth’s unfinished work, and now,” Chance swallowed hard, “it’s passed on to me. Not anyone else. Margarete loved Ashworth as much as I did. She can make the decision for herself.”

  There was a moment’s pause as the small group considered Chance.

  “I still have a few connections in the navy from my militia days,” Simon offered. “Perhaps I can figure out who’s been directing the duelists. They’re not exactly military breed anymore, but maybe someone knows something.”

  “Alright, see what you can find out,” Chance said. He was getting excited. It wasn’t much, but having a start was something.

  “And that’s it?” Serge said. “We’re just going to snoop? What about action?” He slammed his fist on the table.

  “Serge,” Chance said. “I know how much you want this to be about your little movement, but this is about our friends and what happened here tonight. It’s not some bandwagon movement to hitch yours to.”

  “But what about—” Serge protested.

  “He’s right,” Liesel affirmed, cutting Serge off. “It’s not everyone’s fight. Not yet. We need information. We can’t go running off half-cocked.”

  Serge looked like he was going to say something more, but Simon took him by the shoulder and drew him out into the hallway. They conversed privately, Serge gesturing wildly while Simon talked what Chance could only assume was reason.

  While they spoke, Chance took another vial from his carrier and applied a thick salve to his arm. Liesel helped him wrap it in a fresh bandage.

  He didn’t like the idea of using others, especially asking Margarete to spy on the meritocracy. It was clear that anyone who might be suspected of knowing anything concerning the Aether spark was in very real danger, but he didn’t know what else he could do.

  He understood what Serge felt; Chance didn’t like waiting around for something to happen either. But, like Simon had said, until they had a clearer idea of what they were up against they couldn’t do much.

  Chance picked up Ashworth’s folder and flipped it open.

  “Is that it?” Welch asked. “The recipe for the Aether spark?”

  “No,” Chance sighed. “Just some notes Ashworth gave me.”