“Which of you is Smith?” he shouted over the noise of the propellers, cupping his hand beside his mouth to direct his voice.
“I am,” Foxx called back. The man cast a rope out of the ship and Foxx caught it. Looping it over one of the anchor posts, he helped pull the dirigible in against the platform.
“I have orders to take you to the Versai,” the pilot said once the propellers had quieted. “You ready?”
Chance glanced toward the ports that lined the Spire. Somewhere up there, amidst the massive airships, was docked the Versai, probably finishing its final preparations for the long journey.
“Any luggage?” the pilot asked.
Foxx handed over his case and bag. As he was preparing to climb on, he hesitated.
“Chance, was it?” he asked.
Chance nodded.
“You’ve lost as much as I have this past week. Perhaps... well, there would be room for you on the Versai if you wanted to get away. I could use a traveling companion. You carry my bags and I’ll pay your way to whatever port you want to put in at. I’m convinced that this city really is cursed.”
Chance’s heart beat faster at the offer. He didn’t have much on him, but he could certainly make it on his few possessions. He had a few banknotes he’d sewn into his coat, but it was unlikely Foxx was about to rough it, even in hiding. For a moment, Chance saw himself in his daydream free and happy.
And then there was Ashworth’s face again. Those eyes. Pleading.
“I can’t,” Chance heard himself say. “Someone has to take care of Rhett. And someone needs to carry on their work. Ashworth and Keller were onto something important. I owe Ashworth for everything he did for me. I owe him this. You understand, don’t you?”
“You’re a braver man than I am,” Foxx said, a glimpse of a smile crossing his face. “You know, you sounded a little like Keller just then. He would have sided with you in a moment like this. But… I’m afraid I’m a lesser man in many ways.”
He boarded the dirigible, and Chance let a breath out. He was turning to leave when Foxx stopped him.
“Chance!” Foxx called him back. “Wait there.”
After a few words with the pilot, he stepped off the ship and took the key from around his neck. With apparent difficulty, he handed it to Chance along with Keller’s notebook.
“He told me to destroy it if anything ever happened to him. Obviously, I didn’t have the opportunity until now, but if you’re going to try and finish his work you’ll need somewhere to start. Perhaps you’ll find a way to make sense of it.”
“Thanks,” Chance said. He flipped through the notebook. As expected, the marks inside were gibberish. He was going to have his work cut out for him trying to decipher it.
“And take this as well,” he said, handing Chance a billfold.
Chance opened it and looked disbelievingly at Foxx. There was more money there than he’d seen at any point in his life—enough to take any number of ships out of Hatteras. Enough to begin again.
“My last contribution to Keller’s work,” Foxx said. “Just promise me you’ll finish what he began. He would want that, I think. I’m just... well, I’m just not the right man for the job.”
“I’ll see it through,” Chance promised.
Foxx nodded, and after a moment’s hesitation he boarded the ship again. The pilot cranked a lever and the propellers gave a lurch. The airship pulled away slowly, but picked up speed as it ferried upward toward the Spire in the direction it had come.
Foxx gave Chance a solemn salute as it went, and Chance returned it.
In the silence that followed, Chance watched the dirigible fade into the distance, soaking in a feeling he couldn’t quite identify.
As he descended the stairs, he watched the people passing by. He listened to the dull drum of the factories and machine shops, and breathed in their sooty air.
He held the notebook close, imagining if Ashworth was alive how he would be smiling—and then smiled thinking how he’d have reminded them not to be fools with it all.
Confidence. That was what he felt.
Part III
Chapter Thirty-Two
A Garden Party
Had I read the warning signs, I might have ventured to guess what all of this would mean what lay at stake if I saw it through. Yet, who among us can resist so tempting a lure?
— Excerpt from Mechanarcissism
T his whole business with Selaria has gotten out of hand, if you ask me,” Gentleman Carthus grumbled. “It is an entirely belligerent ordeal.”
Stoddard sat amongst a small cluster of chairs outside of Elector Sinclair’s estate. He and a company of other invited guests lounged under shaded boughs. They watched the other garden party guests with detached interest as they bobbed here and there across the lawn.
With the warm days of summer fading, Sinclair had decided to host yet another social gathering. And, as Sinclair was Stoddard’s distinguished patron, Stoddard was pressed to attend. He’d attended so many of them throughout the spring and summer that he’d completely lost count, in part for their number and in part for the redundancy which he experienced with each.
Emmaline sat beside him, enjoying herself among the present company. Stoddard shared little of her enthusiasm. He had found the fresh air to be momentarily diverting, yet the conversation had grown stale; he’d heard variations of it before. And would again.
“They have no place interposing themselves into our business with the colonies,” Carthus concluded.
“I don’t know,” Merryfield ventured. “I think I understand their trying to get our attention so desperately. If I recall, it was we who imposed some rather harsh restrictions after the war. I for one wouldn’t want to live long under such impositions.”
Stoddard had to give Merryfield credit where credit was due; he’d been persistent in reinforcing their association in the past few months. Though Stoddard had always thought the man a bit daft, he’d proven exceptional prowess ingratiating himself into influential circles when opportunity arose. He was a socialite of the subtlest kind.
“Count yourself fortunate that you don’t,” Carthus said. “It is a privilege hard won.”
“Do they truly intend a war, do you think?” Emmaline asked.
“There have been no direct engagements,” Sinclair affirmed. “But, they continue to refuse to relocate their fleet outside of our trade routes.”
“How else are we supposed to interpret their actions but as hostile?” Carthus asked. “Camping half of their bloody fleet in the middle of the sea is an act of aggression—I don’t care what excuse they make for it. They’re growing too bold. If you ask me, I say it’s high time we reminded them who it was that won the Great War.”
“If it comes to a confrontation, rest assured our armada stands prepared to quell it,” Vanzeal said. “It wouldn’t last a day.”
Stoddard couldn’t help frowning at Vanzeal’s hubris. He’d seen firsthand Vanzeal’s incompetence.
Vanzeal caught his eyes for a second, and they exchanged glares. Their encounters had only grown colder with the passing months. While Sinclair did not often require their company simultaneously, they were not immune to the occasional shared event. Stoddard made it a point to keep their conversations to a minimum.
“I assure you, the situation is not so dire as it’s been made to sound,” Sinclair said. “At its worst, they likely wish to have the terms of their treaties reconsidered. Our ambassadors are in contact with their government as we speak, and have clear instruction how to negotiate a withdrawal.”
“And in the meantime, what becomes of Madura?” Carthus said. His voice denoted an acute impatience. “I haven’t been able to get a ship to her for nine weeks because of that cursed blockade, and, from what I hear, Madura is growing all too comfortable with their detachment. What are we doing about it?”
He looked expectantly at Sinclair.
“I agree, it is cowardly of them to use Selaria’s blockade as an excuse to grow lax in their obl
igations to the city,” Sinclair said.
“It’s all planned out,” Carthus said. “Madura is not just taking advantage of an opportunity; Selaria is creating one for them. They should be dealt with swiftly before they get too much of a head on them and other colonies get the same idea. From what I hear, Sorrento isn’t far behind.”
“Of course, they’ll have to be dealt with. Don’t you think the electors realize that? The question is how.”
“Selaria and Madura would not be so foolish as to goad a real conflict from Hatteras,” Sinclair insisted. “They haven’t the forces, even together. Confrontation could not be their intent.”
“Then I say give them confrontation!” Carthus said. “Let them feel the force behind our military, and send them back to their ports with their tails between their legs.”
“Their intentions are still unclear,” Sinclair said. “Once our ambassadors return we’ll know better what they’re hoping to gain from all of this.”
“And all the while, our commerce suffers,” Carthus fumed.
“They’re only trying to assert their individuality,” Arden said. “I don’t see what’s so outrageous. Isn’t that what we encourage here in Hatteras?”
Stoddard couldn’t help a smile. Ever since he’d begun working alongside Arden he’d observed a growing eagerness to resist the common thought, which tickled Stoddard. For the son of an elector, Arden had a rebellious streak.
“That is the privilege afforded to citizens of Hatteras,” Carthus explained. “Not barbarians across the sea.”
“There is a fine line between demonstrating one’s individuality and asserting one’s independence,” Sinclair added. “Independence is the product of the vain fool’s imagination. We, all of us, exist in a state of dependency; that goes for ourselves and the colonies who swear loyalty to us. To believe—or go so far as to act—as though we could exist independent of established society is renegade.”
“And must be quelled!” Carthus said.
“In its proper order,” Sinclair concluded.
“Perhaps someone simply needs to go there and talk some sense to them,” Lady Merryfield suggested.
“My dear, that is precisely what we’re doing,” her husband said.
“But have you met one of them?” Carthus said. “They’re not exactly the most sensible breed. Miss Emmaline should know, I’d think. Doesn’t your father do business in Madura as well?”
“He does,” Emmaline said.
“And how has this little show of Selaria’s affected his trade?”
“It’s been dreadful. He comes home almost every night with more news of misfortune about his fleet. His airships can avoid the blockade without too much difficulty, but his ships have had to round Port Elliston to avoid it, which is a dreadful inconvenience traveling so near Pendambu. The islands near Pendambu are riddled with pirates you know.”
The others gasped at the mention of pirates, but Stoddard sensed it was more for show than real surprise. The topic was entertaining. That was all.
“Oh, it’s been terrible,” Emmaline continued, taking her cue. “Why, just last week we received news that another of my father’s ships was chased down by pirates on its way home.”
“Oh, dear! How awful!”
“It seems there is nowhere that’s safe,” Carthus said. “Apart from our own blessed harbors.”
“Father is incensed about it. The colonies won’t do anything to hunt down pirates, so he’s had to commission ships to hunt them down himself. “
“Is there no end to the trouble brewing overseas?” Carthus fumed.
“It’s almost as though it were fashionable to cause mischief these days,” Merryfield laughed. “I might take it up myself had I the disposition, just to see what the attraction is. Fortunately, we have men like Vanzeal and the guard here to right it for us.”
“At your disposal always,” Vanzeal said. The company of duelists standing in attendance each bowed in a humble salute.
“Well, I feel better already,” Merryfield beamed, helping himself to another sandwich.
“I only hope they sort this out quickly,” Carthus grumbled. “If it weren’t for their exquisite textiles, I’d say just let the colonies have their way and go. However, my wife would have a fit should we ever lose their mercantile.”
Stoddard felt his head bob and he caught himself, glancing around to see whether anyone had noticed his lull. Try as he might, his interest in the conversation was wearing thin.
What had been intended as a luncheon had evolved into tea, a game of stoolball, and yet another round of tea. And they were still mingling. Still prating on with the same inane conversations. The whole event was a bore, and Stoddard’s heels itched to escape.
How he longed to be back in his workshop. He still had much to do if he was ever to get to the bottom of Ashworth’s research. Every invitation he was forced to entertain delayed his progress.
He’d devised a plan to compare the records Ashworth had kept of his incoming components with the concoctions he sent out, hoping to discern a more complete ingredient list for the Aether spark.
This had proven a difficult task, even after hiring a pair of alchemists to help him understand each component’s use. Often the records were incomplete, and there was no way of being certain if Ashworth had left particular components off the books. Gravatts had mentioned he’d helped Ashworth cut corners.
He glanced toward Sinclair, gauging his attitude. Events overseas occupied his focus for now, but Stoddard knew he would run out of time if he had nothing to show for his work soon. The steel trap was closing in on him.
Sinclair looked his way and Stoddard diverted his eyes to Emmaline, feigning interest in her story. He’d heard it repeated at a half-dozen other gatherings. What did she find so appealing about repeating it again?
“Oh, it’s horrible the tales that come back. The Paulina was defenseless when she was set upon by three other ships! They could hardly raise an alarm before she was sunk and the whole crew lost. Not a single survivor.”
“Terrible,” Merryfield said solemnly.
“Disgraceful.”
“If it were my call,” Carthus said, “I’d say we purge the colony and send our own citizens to inhabit it. Establish some finer breeding abroad.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that easy,” Sinclair said. “But, I assure you, we’re looking into every possible solution. Your wife will still have her dresses in years to come.”
“The true sign the world remains in balance,” Carthus smiled.
“But enough for now,” Sinclair said. “It’s not good to remain so long on such heavy topics. It’s obviously wearing on the women. We could do with a diversion.”
“Perhaps your duelists would be willing to entertain us with a demonstration?” Lady Merryfield suggested. “Like that time at Timberman’s?”
“Oh, please do!” Emmaline said, clapping giddily.
“I’m sure most of the guests have already seen the trick,” Vanzeal said.
“Nonsense, and if they have there’s no harm in once more.”
“It’s quite diverting,” Emmaline smiled. “Please show us.”
“Very well,” Vanzeal conceded. “Ringgold, perhaps you would do the honors?”
One of the duelists standing at attention bowed his acknowledgment and stepped forward. “Is there a young woman who possesses a handkerchief she’d be willing to part with?” he asked.
Emmaline was quick to produce hers and handed it over delicately.
“You’ve heard it said that swordsmanship is more than a skill,” Ringgold began, pushing his cape over his shoulder and freeing up his arm. “It is an art, filled with flair...” He waved the handkerchief dramatically in the air, then, with a motion, it vanished in his palm. “...and deception.”
The little company clapped approvingly at his trick.
“But above these, it is an art sustained by honor.” He drew his sword, its straight edge gleaming in the sun as he held it high
in a soldier’s salute. “The same principle upon which our great city was founded.”
From his other hand he produced the handkerchief again and waved it before the group. Stoddard, however, noticed his thumb press forward a small lever on the hilt of his blade.
He was pricked with intrigue, and he leaned in for what he knew was coming.
“To master any art, it takes years of practice and dedication. Patience. Discernment. Decisiveness. All of these must be employed when facing a foe, even one so delicate as a handkerchief.”
He grinned as the little company laughed politely.
“But above all of this… is timing.”
There was the sound of springs and gears as the complex mechanism within the hilt activated. The blade became a blur as he slashed three times through the air in what time a normal man might have swung once, and the severed handkerchief fell to the ground gently, like four wounded feathers.
Their company applauded politely, and Ringgold bowed low just as another call for tea was heard across the lawn. Each of the husbands rose stiffly and took the arms of their wives as they retired to the house. Stoddard dutifully took Emmaline’s arm, but as they crossed the lawn his eyes lingered on the duelist as he reset the mechanism within his blade and sheathed it once again.
Chapter Thirty-Three
A Grisly Ordeal
It’s the nature of a meritocracy, while one life rises out of obscurity another must descend. Attention is a fickle favor to keep.
— Excerpt from Mechanarcissism
C an I help you, sir?” the server asked.
Stoddard rested his hands on the counter of the bar, tapping its surface anxiously. “You’re not serving anything stronger than tea, are you?”
“Yes, sir. What will you have?”
“A gin and tonic.”
The server reached beneath the counter and fetched up a bottle, glass, and a small icebox.
“Doctor Stoddard, I presume?”
Stoddard turned to see the duelist from earlier step forward. “I am,” he said.
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