Aether Spark

by Nicholas Petrarch

  When working with fire, it’s best to have some insurance.

  — Alchemical Proverb

  C hance wandered through the burned-out building that had once been Foxx and Keller’s Volatile Commodities. What had been a busy laboratory now resembled nothing more than the charred remains of a cooled furnace. He walked solemnly among the ruins, grave under the weight of the awful, lingering silence.

  Everywhere lay evidence of the skirmish. Walls lay torn open from what Chance could only conclude was Keller’s last stand. Portions of the building still stood, however, despite the damage. Its heavy beams supported the skeletal frame of the rooms, through which Chance could see a starless sky.

  Once the fires had cooled, the city had conducted what they deemed a ‘thorough investigation’ and pronounced the structure condemned. Oddly, no squatters had taken up residence in the abandoned space yet. Perhaps the tragedy was still too near, the proximity to death more uncomfortable than the streets.

  Whatever the reason, Chance found much of the place undisturbed. He hoped there might be some clue left behind—a page or two of research, perhaps, spared from the ravenous inferno. Anything that might give him some direction.

  Climbing a set of metal stairs, he stepped carefully between collapse and debris, kicking loose pieces aside. He would stop and stoop over a pile of rubble to pick out the blackened cover of a ledger or notebook. Too often the pages were burnt and nondescript, and he tossed them aside and continued on.

  As much as he hated to admit it, his search was turning up scrap.

  Clearing a spot for himself, Chance sat on an overturned door and rested his head on a crumbling wall. He hadn’t slept well all week. He’d grown used to being an outcast growing up, but he’d never been a fugitive. Always he feared eyes upon him. Every moment he anticipated soldiers in red capes leaping from the shadows, flashing their clockwork blades and dragging him away to the Steep.

  And, whenever his mind turned to them, he thought of Ringgold.

  He hadn’t heard anything more from or of him—whether he was alright or if he’d been found out for helping them escape the fire. Chance hoped Ringgold was okay, but then he wished every curse he could muster to come down on his old friend’s head as images of the red flames danced before his mind.

  Just as quickly, he’d hate himself for thinking that way.

  One thing he’d decided on, however: he had no desire to see Ringgold ever again.

  Perhaps he was being ungrateful. Ringgold had risked his life rescuing them from the fire. But, he’d also been part of the group who lit the fire in the first place. Whatever debt would have been owed his old friend was negated, in Chance’s mind.

  As he sat there on the door, bouncing back and forth between his feelings, his gaze caught the corner of a charred bookshelf. The wood was withered and frail, but behind one of the shelves he saw the exposed corner of something metal. Chance crawled over and flipped the bookshelf over with a strained grunt. Sure enough, a small lockbox was attached to the underside of one of the shelves.

  The lock itself didn’t look too thick. Tearing a pipe from one of the walls, Chance swung at the lock with all of his might. His strike missed, carving out a chunk of wood in the bookshelf. He tried again, this time delivering a blow to the box itself, but to little effect.

  After a few minutes of swinging, he struck the lock squarely, cracking it open with a distinct metallic ping. Tossing the pipe aside, Chance knelt and opened the box. Inside, he found some loose leaves of paper, a notebook, a brass tube of rich red lipstick, and a ring.

  Strange, he thought as he sorted through it. He set the rest aside and examined the notebook. It was bound in thick leather with a locked brass band across the front—similar to Chance’s alchemical notebook.

  He wanted to try and open it then and there, even thinking of trying his luck with the pipe again. He decided against it, however, considering the state of the lockbox. Instead, he would ask Liesel, or perhaps Welch, if they had a way to open it without causing damage when he visited them next.

  He was just tucking the notebook away in his carrier when he was interrupted by a voice behind him.

  “What are you doing here?” a man not much bigger than Chance asked. He stood in the doorway, surprise in his eyes. From his apparel, Chance decided he was just another vulture there to pick the bones of the dead.

  “Just having a look around,” Chance said, closing his carrier and turning toward the man.

  “This is Foxx and Keller’s private property,” the man said. “Anything here belongs to them.”

  “Don’t worry,” Chance shrugged, kicking a board aside and sorting through another pile. “I doubt either of them will mind anymore.”

  “It’s still their property.”

  “They’re dead. Their remains are scattered around this building somewhere. If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll find them.”

  “I’m not here to sort through their stuff. I was employed by Foxx and Keller to safeguard their property.”

  “I believe you when you say you worked for them,” Chance said. “But, I don’t believe for a second you’re here on goodwill. They’re dead. I hate to break it to you, but that means whatever job they gave you is obsolete.”

  “I don’t care.” He seemed upset. “I’m still supposed to—”

  The man caught sight of the open lockbox and lost his voice. A look of concern flashed across his face for a fraction of a second before he regained his composure, but Chance noticed. This man was no ordinary vulture. He was there with as much intent as Chance was.

  “You’re not just here to guard property, are you?” Chance asked, rising slowly. “What is it? What are you looking for?”

  “Nothing,” the man said. He took a step into the room, and Chance slid his carrier into his coat.

  “You’re lying,” Chance said. “You know how I know?”

  They circled one another, stepping carefully over debris as they sought out sure footing. The man watched him, the tension winding tighter with each passing second.

  Chance smiled. “Because we’re both telling the same lie.”

  The man reached into his breast pocket, and Chance was barely able to close the distance before he produced a wheel lock pistol. Chance collided with the man and the gun fired into the crumbling ceiling.

  The two of them stumbled backwards over the debris as Chance scrambled to wrest the gun away. He managed to wriggle it out of the man’s fingers and toss it aside. It fell amongst the rubble.

  Chance tried to pin the man’s hands, but he flailed so wildly Chance couldn’t maintain his grip. The man managed to turn himself over and seized a pile of loose ash, thrusting it into Chance’s face as he pushed him away.

  Chance snapped his eyes closed, but he was too slow. The dry ash raked at them, and the man squirmed out from under him. Scrambling to his feet, he fled across and out of the room.

  Chance knelt there, blinking the ash out of his eyes. He caught sight of the pistol and seized it as he rose to give chase.

  At the stairwell, he caught up to the man turning the corner on the lower platform. Chance leapt and landed on him, sending the two rolling the rest of the way down. They came to rest at the bottom of the stairs, sprawled in an unceremonious heap.

  Both of them were slow to recover. Chance felt the many tiny aches from the impacts down the hard metal stairs, but he managed to push himself up off the ground. Crawling on the man again, he seized his arm and held his own against the man’s throat.

  “Who sent you?” Chance shouted. “Tell me, or I swear they’re going to find you stuffed in that lockbox come morning!”

  “Please,” the man choked. “I’m just a hired hand.”

  “Fancy pistol for an errand boy,” Chance said, waving the wheel lock in his hand. “Who’re you working for?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “Tell me!” Chance pressed harder into the man’s throat. He coughed as he fought to speak.

  “Foxx�
�” he gasped, “and... Keller.”

  “Liar!” Chance pressed harder. “Foxx and Keller are dead.”

  “Not… Foxx,” the man coughed. Chance eased up on the pressure and the man sucked in air.

  “What do you mean, not Foxx?” Chance asked. “He’s still alive?”

  “Yes. He’s in hiding. That’s why he sent me. He wanted Keller’s notebook. I need to get it back to him before it’s too late. He’s leaving tonight!”

  “How do I know you’re telling the truth?”

  The man pulled a slip from his pocket, and Chance seized it. “It’s a receipt, for a ship out of Hatteras. He had me purchase it for him earlier today. It’s his ticket out of here.”

  Chance looked over the receipt. Sure enough, the ticket was for that evening, made out to a Mr. Smith. Chance wasn’t certain the man’s story was true. But then, Chance had little else to go off of.

  It was enough. Chance released him, and the man stood up slowly, nursing the bruises on his throat.

  Even with the good news, Chance was frustrated. He’d thought he’d met with the face of his enemy, not some hired hand. But, his hopes were vain. Whoever else was after the Aether spark, Chance still had no sure leads.

  Yet, there was a small light to follow. If Foxx was still alive, then the secrets of the Aether spark weren’t entirely lost. Not yet.

  “You said he’s skipping town?”

  The man nodded, glancing at his watch.

  “Where is he now?”

  “Why should I tell you?” the man asked.

  Chance raised the gun and leveled it at the man’s heart. “Because I’m getting impatient.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Tracking a Foxx

  When the winds blow, some take to ground while others raise fresh sails.

  — Alchemical Proverb

  C hance raced down the street, his coat flapping behind him. Foxx was skipping town, but there was still time—still hope to find help with Ashworth’s research—and Chance wasn’t about to lose the opportunity.

  Turning a corner, he caught sight of the platform the hired man had described. There, pacing between the iron buttresses at the top, was the figure of a man. Chance sprinted to the platform, climbing the spiral stairs three at a time as he pulled himself up the railing. At the top, he doubled over, short of breath, but he didn’t allow himself time to recover.

  “Foxx!” he called out.

  The man slowed to a stop, hesitating before he turned around and considered who was calling out to him. He looked tired, his eyes heavy and bloodshot, his hair wild and ungreased. He stood with a slump in his back and his arms hung low at his sides.

  Chance gulped down air.

  “You have a message for me, boy?” Foxx asked.

  “Foxx...” Chance struggled to speak around his gasps. “It’s me. Chance?”

  Foxx didn’t appear to recognize him.

  “Ashworth’s apprentice?” he tried. “I need to talk to you about Keller. About why they came after him.”

  Foxx’s head bowed, and he glanced out over the platform. “How did you know to find me here?”

  “This.” Chance held up the notebook and the other articles from the lockbox, and Foxx’s eyes widened. “I think you and I had the same idea tonight.”

  Foxx advanced. “May I?” he asked, holding out a hand.

  Chance obliged, and handed them over.

  Crouching down against one of the support beams, Foxx studied the ring and lipstick in his hands. He chuckled weakly before pocketing them. He produced a key on a chain around his neck and, with a twist, the lock across the notebook clicked open. He flipped through the first few pages slowly. His eyes were intense as they searched—for what, Chance didn’t know.

  “Useless,” he said after a few minutes. He closed the book and set it down beside him. “Keller guarded his secrets in life; it seems he’ll keep them forever in death.”

  “Foxx, I need to talk to you,” Chance said.

  “Be my guest,” Foxx said, gesturing to the spot next to him. “I’m not going anywhere just now.” His head lolled back against the pillar, and he gave Chance a stare. “You know, apart from that man I sent back to fetch this, I haven’t spoken to anyone for a week? Bloody pain, being dead. I suppose he was the one who told you where I was?”

  Chance nodded.

  “I thought as much,” he said, to the air as much as to Chance. “This is why most partnerships are so bloody pointless. No matter how much you want to, you never can count on the other party to come through on their end of the bargain.”

  Chance frowned. Since they’d first been introduced early in his apprenticeship, he’d always viewed Foxx with admiration. He was a charismatic figure with a pleasant wit that could make any situation feel lighter than it was. But, the man before him now resembled very little of the Foxx Chance esteemed.

  “Foxx,” Chance said. “Foxx, what are you doing?”

  “Right now?” He shrugged. “Running. I’m supposed to be dead. I have a reputation to uphold.”

  “But you’re not dead.”

  “I am Keller’s partner, in life and in death. I’m doomed to share his same fate.”

  “That’s why I need to speak to you. You were Keller’s partner.”

  “I am Keller’s partner!” Foxx turned on Chance with such energy and passion that Chance jumped.

  “You are,” Chance corrected himself.

  “Partners in life... and partners in death.” Fox squeezed his eyes shut, and Chance saw tears forming on their edges.

  “That’s what I need to ask you about. I need to know more about your work with the Aether spark.”

  “It wasn’t my work.”

  “But you were with Keller. You must know something about how it was created?”

  “Not a lick. Not a single iota.” He clasped his hands together nervously. “It’s his work. His genius. I’m afraid all I’ve ever amounted to was an investor.” He held out his hands helplessly and shrugged. “It’s all I ever was.”

  “But I need to find out how they did it,” Chance said desperately. “There has to be something he left behind—some clue we could follow to recreate it.”

  “Anything left of his work is right there,” Foxx gestured to the notebook. “But I’m sure you already know that it’s written in gibberish. Only Keller would be able to understand what he wrote.”

  Chance knelt and picked up the notebook. He didn’t bother looking inside. He knew what he’d find.

  “Look, I know what it’s like to survive a friend,” Chance said. “I’m feeling the same loss. But, how can you turn your back on them so quickly? He’s your partner. How can you ignore what was going to be Keller’s greatest work?”

  Foxx choked back tears as his eyes grew redder.

  “Because,” he managed to say. “I’m a coward. I know I don’t look it, but that’s what I am. Keller was the quiet visionary, and perhaps without me he might not have had the success he did, but without him I’m just hollow noise—a charlatan. I’ve got nothing of myself.”

  “But his work is still here,” Chance tapped the notebook with his finger. “His dream is still alive right here. And so is Ashworth’s. If we try, maybe we can figure it out. Maybe we can fix this.”

  “I’m sorry,” Foxx said. “I’m sorry, I just can’t risk it.”

  Chance stared dumbfounded at the man sitting before him. His frustration boiled inside him until it was a steady anger. The pressure built inside his chest until he feared it might tear him apart.

  He loathed Foxx.

  But then, the anger seeped out of him as quickly as it had come. He knew it wasn’t Foxx’s fault. He was running from what he considered a failed enterprise. Septigonee knew, if Chance had the opportunity to leave all of this mess behind he would. He couldn’t hold it against the man.

  Chance took a seat beside Foxx, setting the notebook down again. “So that’s the end of it then? Just like that?”

  “Just like th
at,” Foxx repeated.

  “Every single time,” Chance sighed. “It’s like fate isn’t satisfied with just destroying me, she wants to see me break first.”

  Foxx nodded. “She’s a cruel lady, fate.”

  “We were almost there, too. We had a ticket out and into...” Chance gestured to the city around them. “Something else.”

  Chance and Foxx sat for a few minutes in silence. Chance felt his emotions writhing inside him—a potent blend of desire for vengeance and a wish to simply roll over and give up. He wanted to cast himself over the edge of the platform and into the sea, and let the waters bury him in their depths. He’d thought about it before, and sitting above the waves now he felt the thought tugging at his will.

  Chance forced himself to look away from the waters. In the distance, he saw the lights of a small dirigible moving in their direction. Its lamps cast a soft, warm glow through the dark.

  “Is that for you?” Chance asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Where will you go next?”

  “I thought of going to Selaria originally, but that cursed barricade has discouraged most ships from passing that way. Perhaps I’ll try Pendambu. It’s plenty far. It doesn’t really matter to me as long as it’s beyond the memory of this place. Somewhere I can start over again.”

  Chance scowled. How nice it must be to have the option of starting over, to skip town and begin a new life. If Chance had that liberty, he’d choose a country landlocked on all sides without a city within a hundred kilometers. He’d live his life without a thought or care, and no one to account to or for.

  The image of Ashworth’s face interrupted the daydream, his eyes full of... it wasn’t fright. They were heavy, full of sorrow and longing. They were pleading.

  Foxx picked up the notebook and rose to his feet, brushing off the dust from his trousers and dabbing his eyes on his sleeves.

  “I suppose it’s time,” he said.

  Indeed, the dirigible was only a stone’s throw out now. It maneuvered sideways as it came abreast the platform. A man in flight garb hailed the platform.