by Sean Little
“Thank you, sir, but no. I’m keen to just retire and disappear. I think I’ve had enough fun for this life.”
“I suppose you have,” said Bobbins. “Shame. I will be keeping an eye on you, though.”
“Not where I plan to go,” said Clarke. “I’m going to do my best to disappear into the wilderness and never been seen again.”
“I have many, many eyes, Mr. Clarke. You can try your best, but I imagine I will always know where you have gone.”
They left the windy gondola rail and retreated to the plush comfort inside. Seated in the sitting room of the gondola, they sipped tea from fine china cups and ate a bit of the charcuterie that Chef prepared; his injury made him slower, but the food was still of excellent quality, rich and full of flavor. Each bite was better than the last.
“It will be hard to replace Sandsworth,” said Bobbins. “He was a good man.”
“He was,” said Clarke.
“He served my family for many, many wonderful years. I trusted him completely. I can only hope that young Hornsby lives up to his legacy. To Sandsworth.” Bobbins held up his tea.
Clarke clinked his cup to Bobbins’ cup. The china made a delicate ting. “To Sandsworth.”
Dolly Shaw reclined on the couch in the sitting room. She had a stiff, temporary prosthetic as a replacement while Tesla worked on repairing her clockwork leg. It was clunky and awkward. She grimaced as she shoved it into place on the couch. “Lord Bobbins, I believe I require a vacation.”
“Well said.” Bobbins passed her a plate of biscuits. “As do I! I am utterly exhausted from this whole affair. Did you see me carry a wheelbarrow of crystal? I honestly think I may have even formed the foundation of a callous doing that. I shall have to see my masseuse immediately.”
“What about you, Mr. Clarke?” said Shaw. “Vacation?”
Clarke refilled his teacup. “No, thank you. I just want to get my promised money and go back to America. I want to find a spot to build my house and spend my days fishing. And not falling from high places.”
“A fine goal,” said Bobbins. “When we get back to England, I shall arrange transport back to America for you. I will have that promised money put into an account. You shall be able to do anything you wish with it.”
“Many thanks, Lord Bobbins,” said Clarke. He inclined his head in lieu of a formal bow.
“What will you do?” Shaw asked.
“I’m going to buy some land, probably in Colorado the more that I think about it. And then I’m going to build my cabin and fly-fish and retreat from society. I think I’m done with adventuring. It’s time to rest.”
“Oh, I do hope you are able to get some rest,” said Bobbins. “You certainly look as if you need it. You look tired. Maybe tired is not the right word…Old, perhaps? Yes. Mr. Clarke, you look mighty old.”
“I feel mighty old, so it fits.”
“Old men need to stop falling off of buildings so much,” mused Shaw. When Clarke glanced her way, she gave him the barest hint of a wink.
“What about you?” asked Clarke. “What is the Esteemed Lord Bobbins going to do now?”
“You know,” said Bobbins, “I’ve been reflecting on this little touch of excitement we endured, and I came to the realization that others need to know about this adventure.”
“You’re going to write a novel? You don’t strike me as the Charles Dickens type, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Oh, heavens no—a show, Mr. Clarke! A wonderful show! A performance on the grand stage! The West End! I believe I just might write a play. Don’t you think this would be a wonderful story for the theater?”
“I don’t think I’d make a good stage character.”
“Quite right,” said Bobbins, “but I’ve already thought about that. I think it will be better with a quartet of young people at the helm, maybe an attractive couple with a will-they-or-won’t they tension between them, and a smart but spunky girl, and a weird young man for comic relief.” Bobbins paused to sip tea. He gave a mischievous smile. “Who knows? Maybe even a large dog.”
EPILOGUE
Nicodemus Clarke was covered head-to-toe in mud. He needed a bath in the worst way. He was also cold as a polar bear’s backside. The mud was freezing; the water he was using to keep the mud soft was icy, plucked from a river fueled by glacial melt. However, he was bound, set, and determined to finish building the chimney on his small cabin before nightfall. The mud-and-daub he was using to construct the top of the hearth was messy, but once that mud dried and hardened by the heat in the hearth, it would be almost as good as any mortar whipped up by the masons in the big city.
“If you don’t mind me saying, you look like hell,” a female voice with a lilting Sussex accent called up through the branches of the trees surrounding the cabin.
Clarke looked down and saw Dolly Shaw sitting on a horse. She was wearing riding slacks and a thick, black jacket with a hood lined with burnt orange fox fur. The color brought out a life and sparkle to her eyes that he hadn’t noticed prior. It suited her well.
“I don’t mind,” he said. “It’s probably true.” He let a smile creep onto his face. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you look lovelier.”
“Flatterer. Save it for someone who will buy your lines.” Shaw smiled back.
She got off her horse and walked it to the hitching post next to the small barn Clarke had built next to his cabin. She tied her horse and waited at the base of the ladder next to his cabin.
Clarke climbed down and stood before her, wishing he didn’t look like a swamp monster. “I’d offer a handshake or a hug, but given my current condition, I doubt that you’d accept either.”
“You are correct there,” she said.
“Can I ask you in for coffee?”
She made a face. “Horrid drink.”
“You’re in America now,” said Clarke. “We drink coffee here.”
“No excuse.”
“How about something to eat? I’m sure you’re hungry. It’s a good four hour ride to the nearest town.”
“It is,” said Shaw. “You certainly found a remote enough location for your cabin.”
Clarke nodded. “It serves its purpose. I can make a day out of a trip to town if I need supplies. The rest of the time, I’m left very much alone. I like it that way.”
“Csupo asks about you occasionally. You made an impression on him. He practices shooting a long-barreled Colt revolver every day and asked Bobbins to find him a long, gray canvas duster. Bobbins had to order it from America. Csupo is rarely seen without it now.”
Clarke leaned back against his cabin. “He’s a good kid. How is he?”
“Married now,” said Shaw. “He’s also been promoted to head of livery at Bobbins’ estate. He works mainly with the working horses, the teams and such, but Bobbins has him training to work with the thoroughbreds, too.”
That made Clarke very happy. “Good for him. How is our good friend Bobbins?”
“That’s why I’m here,” said Shaw.
Clarke felt his gut tighten. “Has he been kidnapped or something? Maybe gotten himself lost in the mountains?”
“No, quite the opposite. I know precisely where he is,” said Shaw. She smirked at Clarke. It made him uncomfortable. She looked like she knew something he didn’t. He’d seen that look at enough poker tables to know that he should fold now or he’d be losing money.
“So what do you need?”
Shaw raised an eyebrow and stepped closer to him. “You want to know what I need?” Her eyes had a mischievous glint in them. She licked her lips slowly, seductively. She leaned in close to his ear. He could feel the heat of her breath. She whispered, “I need for you to hold still.”
Clarke wasn’t expecting that answer. “What?”
Before Clarke could say anything, a rope harness dropped out of the sky. Shaw secured it around his chest under his arms and snapped the buckle closed. He tried to protest, but the second he opened his mouth, he was yanked upward, and in t
he span of a blink he had cleared the roof of his little cabin. Clarke looked up and saw a Dark Runner airship above him. The same winch contraption that Enwright had used to bring the crystal onto his own ship was hauling him to the gondola. Etched in glossy, dark silver on the vessel’s naming plate in a simple, bold script was the name Sandsworth. A familiar mustachioed madman in a bright red wool coat laden with medals was waving at him.
“Hello, Mr. Clarke! So good to see you again! If you don’t mind me saying so, you look like hell!” called Lord Bobbins. “I’ll have you to a hot bath and a change of clothes within the hour! Would you care for some tea?”
“Bobbins?” Clarke was stunned. He didn’t know why he was stunned, though. A part of him had been expecting this to happen for over a year. If anything, he was impressed Bobbins had left him alone for a year.
“Adventure calls, Mr. Clarke! Adventure calls!” said Bobbins. There was a mischievous glint in his eye. “Tell me, my friend, what do you know of Egypt?”
Here’s a sneak peek of next year’s TeslaCon Adventure:
Lord Bobbins
and the
Dome of Light
Coming Late Fall of 2018
CHAPTER ONE
The Broken Harpoon
There was a profound funk that permeated every inch of the Broken Harpoon; a thick scent of rotting fish that seemed to coat every surface. The pub’s location just off the Pier Six fishing docks along the East River was half the problem. It was impossible not to notice the profound odor when the ships brought in their hauls each day. The other half of the problem was that an entire crew of a whaling ship had been celebrating their shore leave for the better part of a day and a half. Whalers, by nature, were not the cleanest bunch in the oceans, and they tended to wear the reek of whale blood and subcutaneous fat like a badge of honor.
At a barstool in the corner, Nicodemus Clarke kept his nose in his beer glass and tried not to inhale too deeply. He’d been around whalers before. They were loud and obnoxious, always looking for an excuse to tell tall-tales and outright, bald-faced lies about their latest kill. Whale oil, whalebone, and the rest of the products processed from the carcasses of whales were vital to the economy and the maintenance of the current lifestyle, but Clarke had always found it a distasteful practice. He didn’t like the idea of the magnificent, powerful animals being reduced to corpses by the mechanically efficient harpoon guns used by most modern whaling ships. It was one thing to row out in a boat and stab into the creature with a handheld spear, to face it in mortal combat, but it was another one entirely to blast it with mechanical weapons.
Clarke swirled the lager he was drinking to refresh the bouquet. He inhaled the scent deeply. It didn’t kill the fish smell—nothing could—but it helped a tiny bit. Clarke wasn’t happy to be back in New York. He had a cabin in Colorado, a little place that he’d built out of the land with his bare hands, a tiny little building far removed from civilization next to a spring-fed trout stream with the coldest, cleanest water he’d ever tasted. He’d rather be there than just about anywhere else, but after two years there, he was forced to admit something to himself, something he never would have believed: It bored him.
Clarke liked to go out there to recharge himself, to enjoy the quiet and the remoteness. He would hike in the mountains and lose himself for days, but after a while, the itch to do something would return. Sometimes it came quickly, and sometimes he could fend it off for months, but it always returned. It was the itch that made him want to travel, to see new things. The itch was what brought him back to New York. New York was nothing new to him. He had been in the city often. Even the docks were nothing new to him. He’d been on many ships in his lifetime. The Broken Harpoon was new to him, though. He’d been in whaling bars before, sure. They were all the same, more or less: Massive jawbones from whales above the bar, scrimshawed rib bones on display, snapped and bent harpoons tacked to the walls like trophies. The Broken Harpoon was no different. Clarke just wondered why he’d been given a note to be at that particular bar on a particular night.
“Oi! What’s up wit’ you, then?” It was a rough voice with a thick Cockney accent.
Clarke felt someone jab him in the ribs. He turned and found one of the whalers poking him with the end of a billiards cue stick. He was wearing an ill-fitting sleeveless shirt cut from oiled canvas and a necklace made of some kind of bones threaded on a hemp cord. He was at least a head shorter than Clarke, but he was goading him confidently. Given Clarke’s rather more upscale fashion than the whaler, it was possible that he looked something like an easy mark.
Nicodemus was anything but, however. He was a former Union sniper, an accomplished soldier, adventurer, and field agent for various countries at various times. In a black sport jacket and twill slacks with black bluchers, he looked quite out of place for a Brooklyn dive bar.
“You play?” said the whaler. He gestured toward the felt-topped table. A game of nine-ball was racked and waiting. “How ‘bout a friendly game, then?”
Clarke knew this racket. It was a hustle. Get the newcomer to play for money. Let him win once, maybe twice for small bills, then beg for double-or-nothing. When the newcomer, full of excitement on his wins, agrees—the hustler wipes the floor with him. It was one of the oldest hustles in the book. Clarke had done it a few times, himself. He couldn’t resist the lure of a hustle. It had often gotten him into trouble. Clarke took a sip of his beer. He appraised the whaler. “I take it that this ‘friendly game’ would have a few bills wagered on it?”
“We wouldn’t be friends unless there was,” said the whaler.
“How much you got?”
If the whaler had been smart in the least, he would have known right then and there that he should not have gone any further. This one, however, was not smart in the least. He stepped back, looked Clarke head-to-toe, and a smirk came over his face. “You look like you got some money on you. Say, two bills too rich for your blood?”
“Two dollars. Easy.” Clarke knew what he meant, but he liked to play the rube.
“Two hundred,” said the whaler.
“Two hundred! My, my,” said Clarke. He made a big show of pulling out the wallet from his jacket. It was like chumming the water for sharks. He looked into the billfold and shook his head. “I’m afraid I only have coin. Would you care to play for this?” He pulled out a fat coin of solid gold. It was easily worth several hundred. The whaler’s face went slack for the briefest of seconds. He tried to cover it with an easy smile, but Clarke knew he was on the hook. Here, fishy, fishy, fishy.
The whaler consulted with a couple of the other whalers and in a few moments had a large stack of bills. It was probably a few short of matching the value of the coin, but it was close enough. Clarke was not going to quibble.
“Please,” the whaler said. “Why don’t you have the honor?”
“No,” said Clarke. “By all means, you break. I’m afraid that I’m not very good on the break.” The whaler’s smile grew. Clarke wondered if his cheeks hurt.
Nine-ball is a simple game. There’s a break. The players try to drop the balls in order from one-to-nine, and whoever drops the ninth ball wins. The level of skill it takes to not only sink a ball, but also set up the next shot—and the next shot after that one—is very high, however. Even the greatest players need a bit of luck on the break to help them run a table. Clarke was gambling that the whaler’s luck being not that good. After all, he’d been at sea for a long while. It’s hard to polish one’s billiards game while harvesting whale oil.
The break cascaded the balls around the table. Two dropped in—the two and the six. The one was still on the table. It was a simple shot to drop it in the corner. The three fell next. Then the four. The ricochet the cue ball took off the four blocked the shot to the five however, and the whaler had to try to dodge into a trap so Clarke wouldn’t have a shot, either. The whaler’s shot coasted a little too much and it sat the rail. Clarke had a shot, but it wasn’t an easy one. Luckily, this w
as not his first time at a table. He sank the five, the seven, and the eight in short order.
The light was going out of the whaler’s eyes. “You’re a cheat.”
“How could I possibly be cheating? Have I committed a foul? Did I bring a magic cue stick? Do I have telekinesis?”
“You hustle,” said the whaler. “That’s cheating.”
“You were going to hustle me. As far as I’m concerned, this has been a fair contest between two less than honorable men.” Clarke leaned over and pocketed the nine ball. He tossed the cue onto the table. “Game. Pay me.”
The Cockney gave him a crooked smile. Clarke had seen that look many times. It was the look that says I ain’t gonna pay you, mate. The whaler shook his head. “If I pay you, then I’m out coin to me mates on the ship, right? They’re like to kill me if’n I don’t pay ‘em back. So…I’m going to take your coin, ‘cause you’re a bloody cheat, and you’re going to stand me and me mates to a few dozen rounds.”
“I don’t think that works for me,” said Clarke.
The smile never left the whaler’s face. “I don’t think I give two flippin’ sheep arses about what you think. Look around you. You see all those men? What you see is the crew of the HMS Artful Dodger. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”
“I doubt it.”
“We’re the roughest, toughest—”
Clark cut him off. “—bunch of whalers and salty sea dogs who ever stabbed a Blue in the eye. You all eat fire and piss smoke, right? I’ve heard this spiel before, and by men who can deliver it more convincingly than you.”
The whaler’s face turned a fiery crimson. He huffed and spat out his words. “You’re a tough guy, ain’t you? A real fighter. Well, you better think carefully before you start something, Mr. Tough Guy. If I so much as snap my fingers, my boys will—”
Clarke’s right hand crossed the Cockney’s jaw so hard and so fast that he didn’t even see it coming. It spun him around and planted him face-first into the floor. Clarke plucked his gold coin and the wad of bills from the edge of the table. “I didn’t cheat. I’ll be leaving now. Thanks for the game.”