She turned back inside, leaving the door open behind her. Chance’s shoulders slumped, but he abandoned the gutter and followed.
The place was quieter than usual. Chance couldn’t remember a moment since he’d arrived when there wasn’t a cluster of women talking freely and laughing loudly. It had become something of a pleasant backdrop to contrast the gravity of the world beyond their walls. When he entered now, however, he was greeted by silence and the sound of Margarete’s footfalls down the hall.
“Come on to the back,” she urged, and Chance followed her to a communal room full of boxed storage and furniture arranged to provide as much sitting room as possible for the space.
“Take a seat,” she said.
“I know what this is about,” Chance said, finding himself a sturdy box to perch on. “It’s about Ponti, right?”
“And other things.”
“Look, I’m sorry he’s come around. I’ve tried to keep him away, but he’s not exactly the type of guy you can order around.”
“So that’s what he meant when he came by last night when he said you’d sent him.” She gave Chance a teasing look.
“Okay, I did send him last night to drop off a few things of mine, but that was it. I swear.”
“Huh,” Margarete smirked. “I’m not worried about last night. It gave me an opportunity to boot him good for skulking around earlier.”
“Wait? So, you aren’t upset?”
“No,” she said.
“Then what’s all this about?” He waved his hands in the air.
“All what?”
“Your stern look just now and leading me back here like this,” Chance said. “And where is everyone?”
“How should I know?” she shrugged. “My girls do as they please. No one’s stopping them, and I certainly don’t keep tabs on them every waking moment. I have my own matters to take care of.”
Chance didn’t know what else to say, so he occupied himself with poking at the lip of the box.
“Actually, I wanted to ask how you are doing,” she said.
Chance kept his gaze down.
“How are you doing, Chance?”
“I’m fine,” he shrugged.
“Are you?”
“Why wouldn’t I be? I’m dandy. I’m chipper even!”
Margarete sighed and took a seat across from him on one of the couches. “I was talking to Rhett,” she said. “He worries about you.”
“I’m surprised he has the time. He’s awfully busy these days.”
“I worry about you, too,” she said. “You’re not your usual self. I should know more than anyone.”
Chance stood up, his arms out to the sides. “Take a good look. I’m still the same mangy rat as always.”
“That’s not what I see,” Margarete said, undisrupted by his outburst. “I see the young man whose eyes are bigger than his body. I see the dreamer who used to sit with me and share all the ways he planned to change the world with his work.
“But lately I’ve seen less and less of him. Ever since...” She paused and Chance felt the mood shift. “...you just haven’t been the same, Chance.”
Chance bit his lip. He missed that part of him, too. He felt the divide, between who he was and that overlooked piece. How long had it been since he’d even looked at his own work?
He had been tampering with transmutations, trying to figure out how to turn lead into gold. He remembered fighting to find moments between his other tasks to work out the problem, scrounging together a little extra money to run his experiments and sifting through every book he could find.
Somehow, those days seemed sweeter to him now.
“I think you might do with a break,” Margarete said. “I know you have nothing but the best intentions trying to finish Ashworth’s work, but I worry about the effect it’s having on you.”
“Someone has to do it.”
“Do they really?”
“Of course!” Chance snapped. “This was Ashworth’s life work, and he left it to me. No one else can finish what he started. Without it, Ashworth is dead.”
“Chance.” Margarete’s voice grew soft as silk. “Ashworth is gone. I can’t believe that he’d have wanted you to lose yourself over what he started.”
“Do you think I wanted this?” Chance asked. “I wish every day that Ashworth had never developed that cursed spark! I wish we were back in our lab together working on nothing more interesting than foot creams and primers.
“But, that’s not how it’s played out. Even if I wanted to turn back, there’s nowhere left to turn back to. This is the hand fate has dealt me. I can’t just abandon it now; it’s all that’s left.”
Margarete rose and put her hand on Chance’s shoulder. He thought to pull away, but didn’t. Her touch was comforting, and for a moment he let it calm the heat which simmered beneath his skin.
“It should have been me,” he mumbled. “I should have been the one to die, not Ashworth. If he were here he might know how to salvage this mess, but I don’t. I’ve tried, but nothing makes any sense to me. I still have no idea what the Aether spark really is, or how to create it. I don’t even know how to know if I’m on the right road to finding out.”
Margarete pulled Chance close, and he went limp in her embrace, his emotions rising up in him so strongly that his body shook with effort to restrain them.
“It should have been me,” he repeated.
“Nonsense,” Margarete said. “You can’t blame yourself for what happened to Ashworth. He knew the risks he was taking. Even if it didn’t go how he planned, that doesn’t mean all is lost. You’re forgetting; you were one of his projects too. I think he’d be proud to know you’re still out there trying to do good.”
“And bringing misfortune everywhere I go.” Chance pulled away. “I’m nothing like Ashworth. He would never have let so much ruin come upon his friends. He never would have hurt so many with his work.”
“But he did,” Margarete said.
Chance shot her a glare.
“I know you don’t want to think of it,” she continued, “but whether he intended to or not, his work has hurt others. It’s hurt you.”
“I’m fine,” Chance insisted.
“No, you’re not. I know what you’ve been up to. You’re not just working on the spark...” She swallowed hard as her emotions rose into her face. “Rhett told me what you’ve been mixing.”
Chance’s cheek twitched. Ever since the raid on Ponti’s place, he’d wrestled with the increased paranoia as he felt the guard closing in around him. He’d fallen back into old habits, mixing a cheap narcotic to ease his anxieties.
“Rhett should keep his mouth shut,” he hissed.
“Is it true?” she asked. “Are you drugging yourself?
“What’s it to anyone what I do with my own time?”
“It matters to me,” she said. “Chance, it could kill you!”
“Then it might as well get to it sooner than later,” he snapped. “Save everyone some time and misery.” He pushed his way past her and trudged for the door.
“You don’t mean that,” she said. “You don’t really mean that.”
Chance paused. Margarete’s eyes were wet. He saw plainly the pain he was causing her. She didn’t deserve this. None of them deserved any of this.
Which only added to his guilt.
“More than you can know,” he said. “Maybe you’re right, Margarete. Maybe I have changed.”
“Chance!” she called after him as he hustled down the hall. But he ignored her. Throwing the door open, he ran as fast as he could. He needed to get away.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
A Chance Encounter
Try something new. And if that doesn’t work, try something else.
— Alchemical Proverb
S kaggs cursed bitterly as he limped his way down the crowded street. The uneven paving, the jostling passersby, the loose fit of his left shoe—it didn’t matter. He cursed everything. He had no lack of curses
in his repertoire.
But above all, he cursed the blackened depths for his blighted leg.
He’d been at it for months, dredging the pits of society and scouring the most forgotten nooks for any scrap of information which might satisfy his employer’s incessant hounding.
He’d had a spot of luck when he’d caught wind that Ashworth’s apprentices were still alive, but that trail had gone cold the moment he’d turned over the information. One botched raid and months of his time were wasted.
The list Stoddard had provided had proven rubbish. None of the alchemists he’d suggested were working on anything of real significance. They were too busy scrounging together their own meager existences to be preoccupied with anything as grandiose as the Aether spark.
More disappointing, he’d learned firsthand that many of the alchemists—including ones he’d turned to for remedies to treat his leg—were nothing more than fakes. Fortunately, that revelation had been soothed some by the sheer number he found who dealt in narcotics.
Skaggs had spent much of his search painless.
But today, the pain was back in force. With every step, the bone in his leg panged with a fire that twisted his stomach and emptied its contents into his throat. He needed relief, but where he was going he knew he couldn’t expect much.
Stopping momentarily outside the Pub & Brawl, Skaggs tightened the rag which held his flimsy brace against his leg. Leveling his eyes, he gave the doors a deliberate push and hobbled through with as dignified a stride as he could muster. He kept his gaze forward, knowing his entrance would spark whispered conversations. As usual, nervous glances passed between the patrons and a suspicious quiet descended upon the room.
They knew something. Every aching bone in his body suspected a secret was being kept here. But how to discover it? That was the real challenge. He’d been at it for weeks, with no luck.
He couldn’t understand why.
“Can I get some service here?” he said loudly, stepping up to the bar. He lifted his leg and swung himself onto an empty stool, banging on the counter. “Taking your afternoon naps, are you?”
“We’ll get to you in a moment,” the barkeep said. “You’re not the only one here today, Mr. Skaggs.”
Skaggs gave a look up and down the bar. Apart from himself and pair of sorry sods seated nearby, there wasn’t anyone else but those at the tables.
“Don’t suppose you could pick it up a bit? How’d you be if you had to walk around all day on a bum leg? You’d be starving for a drink right about now, I swear it.”
The barkeep’s eyes rolled, but he put down his glasses. “What can I do for you?”
“Gin. And don’t you skimp on me,” Skaggs warned. “I want a full glass if I’m paying full price.” He pulled a few coins from his pocket, setting them on the table.
The barkeep took them and poured Skaggs a glass. He was turning to leave when Skaggs protested.
“Don’t you turn your back on me like that,” he barked. “Was I done with you?”
“Is there a problem here?” Liesel stood in the doorway. Her expression turned unpleasant as she caught sight of Skaggs.
“Your boy here is begrudging me service. Is this the way you treat all your regulars?”
“I’m not sure you qualify as a regular,” Liesel said coolly. “The way you carry on I’m fairly certain you never will.”
“Know my name, miss?” Skaggs snapped. “Know my face? I bet you do. Then I’m regular enough. Is my money not as good as yours? Or the next man’s?”
“Did you need anything else?” The barkeep was visibly losing patience.
“Just the respect every decent man deserves!”
The barkeep groaned and stepped into the back. Liesel took his place. She exchanged an apologetic glance with the nearby patrons, making no effort to mask her distaste for Skaggs.
Skaggs glowered at her.
“Can’t get anything around here without some sod giving you trouble for it,” Skaggs muttered, taking a gulp of the gin. His lip curled in disgust at the bitterness, but he quaffed another nonetheless.
“Only trouble you get from us is the trouble you bring through that door with you,” Liesel said. “I’m not in the habit of turning away those who find themselves in dire circumstances, but your patronage has been nothing but unpleasant. Consider yourself warned.”
“Oh,” Skaggs feigned fear. “What you gonna do? You gonna throw me out? You gonna sic the constables on me, are you? Go ahead. While they’re here, let’s have them give you a shakedown as well. Turn this place over a bit.”
“Whatever for?” Liesel looked confused.
“Don’t play coy with me,” Skaggs growled. “I’ve been coming here long enough to know something ain’t right. I’ve had my eyes on you for some time. You’re hiding something.”
Liesel’s lips pursed, and she focused on tidying the bar. The other patrons took a sudden interest in Skagg’s conversation and leaned toward him.
Skaggs saw it. He read it. He’d struck the right cord.
“Yeah,” he sneered. “I knew there was something going on. So, what is it? Not a black-market hub, I reckon. You’re too prissy to dabble with the likes of them, aren’t you?”
Skaggs gave her a slow once over, then caught her eyes.
“You’re the fighting type—says it on your sign. Kind of person who needs a little action every now and then? Getting tired of the same old day in, day out? Bet you this scrap with the colonies excites you, doesn’t it? Gets the blood pumping.”
“You’re talking nonsense,” Liesel warned. “You might want to look to that.”
“Or maybe it’s not just interest,” Skaggs kept on. “You think they’re in the right. Don’t you? You sympathize with them. Feel for their plight? Think it unjust what they been through? And now… you want to do something about it.”
With every question, he read the response in her eyes. Saw the truth she tried to withhold from him. Saw her clear through those guarded hazel eyes.
It was his gift.
“Forgive me,” he grinned wickedly. “You’re doing something about it.”
Skaggs picked himself up off the street with some difficulty. His forearms were rough where he’d caught himself after they’d thrown him out, and his cheek was sore where she’d struck him.
“You’re no longer welcome,” Liesel warned from the entrance. “You steer clear of the Pub & Brawl next time you come creeping this way, filth!”
She tossed his cane on the ground and slammed the door behind her.
Skaggs rubbed his arms and touched his cheek gingerly. She’d pay for that, he swore. He swore it to every unholy entity he knew, which was quite the list.
“A pox on the whole lot of you!” he shouted back.
He’d exposed the tender spot, alright. There lay the woman’s great secret. She was involved somehow with the conflicts overseas, if his gut could be trusted. And Skaggs, despite his sundry flaws, prided himself in his ability to read people.
He’d have to pick at that spot a bit more before the week was out.
Regardless, he’d have no more luck in this part of the Basin—not for a few days at least. He decided it best to take a break for a while and let hostilities cool before trying again.
He knew one establishment that’d never turned him away. Taking up his cane, he turned in the direction of the bay and sauntered off under the glares of the passersby.
“Ah, Skaggs. It’s good to see you again,” Bracken said, welcoming him as he hobbled toward the bar. “It’s been a few days. I was beginning to worry something had happened to my most distinguished patron.”
“Spare me the jabber and get me a bottle of whatever is strongest,” Skaggs grumbled, setting down a few coins.
Bracken chuckled at his curtness, but swept away the coins. “You’ll understand if I can’t get you your usual. Times are a bit lean.” Bracken set a bottle down in front of Skaggs. “Might think about pacing yourself to make it last.”
; Skaggs grumbled as Bracken left to greet another patron. It wasn’t ideal, but it was enough to nurse his bruised pride.
“Tough day?” a young man next to him asked.
Skaggs eyed him. He was a scrawny thing, frail under his otherwise bulky coat. His eyes were red, and he sat hunched low over his drink. When he spoke, his words were saturated by the thick slur of alcohol. Clearly, this one had been dragged through the mud a while, but Skaggs wasn’t used to people initiating a conversation, and he recoiled at the interest.
“What do you care?” he snapped, taking a greedy gulp from his bottle.
The young man shrugged.
“I suppose I don’t. It’s just nice to talk to someone new once in a while.”
“What about you?” Skaggs asked, though he didn’t much care.
The young man nodded. “Whole life.”
Skaggs rolled his eyes as the kid reached over the counter, picking a bottle off the wall and pouring himself another glass.
“Well,” Skaggs grumbled. “Aren’t we the privileged one?”
“Bracken knows I’m good for it,” he explained. “I’ve been coming here a lot lately.”
“How fortunate for you,” Skaggs said, not trying to mask his sarcasm. “You don’t happen to know if they’re hiding anything stronger behind there, do you?”
The young man reached into his coat and produced a metal flask, offering it to Skaggs. “Something of my own make I keep on hand for days like this.”
Skaggs took and uncapped it. Whiffing the contents, he grinned at the strength of the fumes and dumped a liberal amount into his glass before handing it back.
“Cheers.”
Skaggs drank deeply, the new concoction raking his throat like no alcohol had before. For a moment, he was afraid for the damage it might do, but the viscous blend turned warm and comforting in his stomach. He felt an empowering glow spread through his limbs, and he smiled.
“You, my friend, are quite the mixologist,” Skaggs said, taking another, smaller, sip.
“It comes with the territory,” the young man shrugged. “Almost all alchemists know a thing or two about mixing drinks.”
Aether Spark Page 32