by Ren Cummins
Favo’s voice lowered just enough so that she couldn’t hear his comment to Cousins as they walked back into the stone road leading to the temple after her. “Ah, lad, it is a fool who waits until the night has fallen to find his way home.”
“Beg pardon?”
But Favo just waved off the confused Cousins. “Best hope you make sense of that before it’s too late,” he said. “I simply mean that she’s quite a young woman, that one.”
“I know,” Cousins said a touch more emphatically than he’d intended. “But perhaps you should follow your own advice. Or did you think we don’t notice the way you look at Briseida?”
One of Favo’s boots caught on the crack of one of the paving stones, causing him to stumble slightly. He quickly recovered, but the misstep seemed far from coincidental. Cousins patted Favo on the shoulder and accelerated his pace to catch up with Kari, leaving Favo momentarily alone and thoroughly gob-smacked.
On Favo’s lips was an unspoken question for which he feared he already knew the answer; one with lovely red hair, drawn up in jewels and braids, aromatic and intoxicating.
“Oh,” he said.
Cousins clapped Favo on the shoulder when he caught up to them. “Fear not, sir, better men than you have fallen prey to such things.”
“Nonsense,” Favo said, looking at Cousins as if he’d just turned into a turnip.
Nodding, Cousins said, “It’s true. People fall in love all that time.
“That’s not what I meant,” Favo waved his hand. “It’s nonsense that there are any better men than I.”
Kari interrupted with the professor voice she’d been working on. “If you don’t mind, you two, you need to stop talking and give me a hand. We have a Rom to rescue.”
Both men glanced briefly at one another, and nodded in unison. “Yes, Kari,” they said.
With a satisfied nod, the young steamsmith began to point and give instructions, resolved to get her plan right on the first try. After all, it was not every day one had the responsibility of saving their best friend’s life.
Epilogue
Aesirium, proud bastion of Science and like knowledge, stood boldly with gleaming towers to all its citizenry. Would any member of any caste for a moment falter in their constancy or love for the city of which they played (as they were so often reminded) an essential part, all they needed do was look upon the perfection of design and functionality their city had achieved.
Sunlight shone down and was caught and reflected into each corner and window; even the last rays of the evening managed to be illuminated in the mirrored tops of the royal palace, the key symbol of their idyllic lives. “Look to the light”, as they were often told in their education. Light was defined as illumination, as education, as knowledge; “may the light keep you” was a common utterance at the end of most polite conversations. And even after the last rays of each evening faded from the topmost towers of the palace, the artificial lights would then engage, chasing away what shadows could be coerced from their hiding places.
Aesirium called itself the city of light, the city of science, and for that it was proud and confident in its refusal of the heretical teachings of the exiled masses that still inexplicably huddled outside their Wall. “The Folly of the Faithful”, they would whisper, shaking their heads in practiced sincerity.
However, far below the royal palace, a secret machine had been designed, one which unknown to all but a select few, had been designed to achieve the unthinkable.
Down a long circular chain of stairs she walked, clad in a man’s sleeveless jacket, swords strapped behind each shoulder and a mighty war hammer slung at her side. Pale green hair curled away from her face and down to her shoulders, and three dark gems in her forehead seemed to draw away the light from the room. With a merry and childlike jump that covered the last five steps, her metal-shod boots came to rest momentarily on the stone floor.
Her grin was wide and almost feral as she took in the room. A central machine stood watch over the other, smaller devices, and three perfectly spaced cages sat at the perimeter. Although each door was locked, the cages appeared to be empty.
The young woman strode confidently to the central machine, keenly aware that she was not alone in the circular room. She looked into an upper chamber in which a clear gem glowed and looked to her right, into one of the apparently empty cages.
Her eyes flashed as she shifted her perceptions into the land of the spirits, where she had long ago sealed off any hope of escape for all those she sent there.
“Hello, Brother Ian,” she said, her voice a symphony of malevolent seduction. “I trust you find the accommodations acceptable?”
Secured in his cage, the tall thin gentleman shrugged. “Were I to complain, could I be moved to a nicer location? I would certainly enjoy a more pleasant view. Something overlooking the ocean, perhaps?”
Across the room, another man laughed softly. The green-haired woman glared in his direction. “I do not require you,” she hissed. “You and your poorly educated sister trespassed upon my home, and so I keep you. But only to prevent having to capture you again later.”
“Poorly trained--?” Force replied, her voice rising to fill the room.
Inertia waved her off from within his cage. “Do not let her bait you, Force. We are her prisoners, yes, but this does not make us animals.”
Ian stood within his cage, his head coming to just below the top row of bars. “Artifice,” he said, addressing the green-haired Sheharid, “Why do you keep us here at all? You have my gem; what else do you require?”
She shrugged, turning her attention back to him. “Ah, Ian,” she purred. “Your attempt to draw pity from me is laudable, but pathetic. Do you not believe I can do what needs to be done? Do you think me a fool or a coward?”
Force rattled the door of her cage. “Open this and I’ll find out which, you cow.”
Artifice shook her head and continued to speak to Ian, otherwise unfazed. “You could not possibly comprehend, brother. I…” she paused, her voice softening. “I once thought, of all of us, you would understand me.”
“I have tried,” he answered. “But this…you go too far.”
Her eyes glistened; Ian could see a faint glimmer of tears building up in eyes that looked far too old for her young appearance. She had carried this burden, whatever it was, for so long; she did not need carry it alone. Especially when there were others here who cared about her, and would gladly help her. If only allowed to be free to do so…Suddenly, she gasped in surprise, the flash of emotion being replaced by keen resentment. “I should scatter your essence for that, bastard.”
She turned from him quickly, returning her attention to the machine while the trapped spirits of the three Sheharid Is’iin looked on.
“This is the last time I shall speak to you,” she said evenly. “No other stones have fallen from the sky, so when I find and destroy your dear little sister, it will be long before any others could stop me.”
Satisfied in the output from the device, Artifice looked back around the room, smiling cruelly at the imprisoned Sheharids, secured in their cages within the world of spirits.
She could feel the approach of that same annoying child; the time of their inevitable confrontation would soon be at hand. Artifice smiled, burying away any remnants of regret she might have otherwise felt at the prospect.
No, she reminded herself; the young white-haired Reaper must die. There was simply no other way.
To be continued in part 2 of the Steampunk Tales collection
Appendix A:
Assorted Pages from the Journals of Favo Carr
Oldtown-Against-The-Wall, glorious boil upon the hindquarters of Aerthos, how I do enjoy your enthusiastic resilience! The odds have been against you from the beginning, dating fully back to your exiled origins by the citizenry and Royalty of that glimmering center of industry and presumed technological wonders, and yet you persevere, if not actually prosper in the face of adversity and abandonment.
> I have decided to keep these records as a means of maintaining a personal history of my time among you; a memoir of my many adventures from birth and youth thus far and proceeding forward until such a time as I am no longer capable of such endeavors.
But to begin, I should think that a brief reminder of the history of our fair township would be in order, so as to help set the scene for what is sure to be an exhilarating account of brave and dramatic derring-dos. Or, at the least, a greater understanding of the community from whence my humble beginnings found their origin will place in proper scope the magnificent adventures which have thus transpired, or, as might be anticipated, shall only escalate in excellence going forward from the time of this writing.
Firstly, it should be known that once upon a time ours was a contented and integrated people. And when I say “ours”, I must use that term only insomuch as it is temporarily and technically accurate; as word of my exploits grows, I can only imagine the reach this history will have achieved. Having arrived in this land hundreds of years past, the magnificent city of Aesirium was constructed through the conjoined efforts of Science and Art, utilizing the best elements of each to power and enhance the lives and livelihoods of our ancestors. Functional mastery over the Elemental Path – a philosophy governing the physical elements of our world – as well as the Ethereal Path which defined the arena of the mystical allowed, in theory, all things to be possible, and the fruits of such a belief were evidenced by all that resulted from this idyllic time, according to our few remaining written histories. If such a state of affairs seems dreadfully boring to you, it is not a construct of your imagination. I myself imagine that period of time to have been of a horrifying and interminably impractical duration.
Fortunately, as it is in our nature to do, a devastating and unavoidable division transpired between both philosophical paths. The leaders of the schools of Science and Art grew intolerant of one another’s presumed elevation, and this intolerance led to a schism within the people of Aesirium. In comparison to the paths of Science, the Arts were seen as a decidedly un-Scientific approach to the relationship between mankind and our world, as it borrowed in what was determined too unseemly a degree from the energies of the human soul. Conversely, Science was seen by the opposing forces as an unlimited process by which the peoples of Aerthos could benefit from industry and construction, and so reap the rewards of good health and prosperity without the purported burdens of the mysterious Arts. Unable or unwilling to make concessions for the opposing Paths, the two sides of Aesirium went to war.
The details of the events which transpired during this great and terrible Culture War have been lost to us; there has been much speculation that a devastating cataclysm occurred, although the nature of this has been lost in the absence of verified documentation. What is agreed upon is that many citizens perished on the final day of the conflict, the scope of which removed the heart for a continuance of the violent aggressions. The royal family was turned to in that day to act decisively; being practitioners of the Elemental Path, they spoke in favor of the side of Science, and demanded an end to the practice of the mystical Arts. Any who might still cling to such forbidden knowledge was thereby exiled from the city of Aesirium, cast out beyond a mighty Wall crafted for the citizens’ protection and defense.
These exiled masses formed, with the benevolence of their Majesty’s aid (or magnanimous sense of irony, concurrent with one’s perspective) of living structures and great steam-powered Machines, a community presumably to assist them in the first few seasons of their exile. In time, what had been thought temporary changed to a more permanent construction, and in the two hundred-plus years since War’s End, the people of Oldtown-Against-The-Wall have managed to survive against all odds into an essentially thriving community. Their faith in the old gods has mercifully dwindled, embracing a more balanced application of Science and Art in their daily struggle for survival, a fact which might amuse the general population of Aesirium, if in fact they are even yet aware of our existence.
To date, it has been several years since any new exiled practitioners have been cast out, and the regular mandates from the Royal family to the general public of Oldtown have long since ceased. Even the powerful Machines have vanished, leaving the exiled masses to wrestle their own sustenance from the soil. Inherited fear chokes off most any thought of defying the laws, and, unwilling to devise a means by which to scale the great Wall, the people of Oldtown have sought contentment in their day to day drudgery. Contentment breeds disillusionment; and that sort of unfulfilled wishing brings you to my door. For when I say fear chokes off most thoughts of defying the law, I clearly do not include my own in that condemnation.
Fret not, beloved reader; all is not lost. Even in so troubled a time, there is yet a glimmer of hope. In point of fact, the incentive for these humble pages is to mark the heralding of a new age for Oldtown-Against-The-Wall, pending a new offer of commerce with respect to yours truly. Upon successful completion of the task at hand, wondrous change will come to the exiled masses; a hint of a promise of a new order would not be remiss. For starters, a fair quantity of coin will change hands, and even the generosity of a scoundrel can benefit the masses. And make no mistake: I am no ordinary scoundrel.
Alas, my business partner informs me that the young lad who bears the focus of our good fortune has come into our sights, and the time for pleasant reminiscences has past, replaced by the time for action. Thus do all tales of legend begin, faithful readers; with a bold act of a heroic soul.
Year of Exile Two Hundred Five;
Carr’s Services and Acquisitions
Favo Carr, proprietor
Oldtown-Against-The-Wall
Aerthos
Faithful reader, is it to much to ask that, on occasion, one need not excessively strain the limits of their resources for a quest – though the degree of righteousness be found questionable to the misinformed eye – whose purpose could otherwise benefit so many? And though I must confess that I am clearly included on the side of those rewarded by my efforts…but alas, my words charge ahead of my introduction.
I spoke previously regarding the history of Oldtown, albeit in broad strokes, indulging, as I am wont to do, in the faintest blush of poetic discourse. Perhaps a more specific and recent history would be additionally appreciated, given as to how it pertains to the present circumstances in which yours truly is found.
Oldtown-Against-The-Wall should, by all rights, be a cesspool of misery and despair, of an exiled populace, caught between the Wall and the Wild, raising their collective fists in impotent rage against an apathetic ruling caste. By all rights, I’m shocked that the sad batch of refugees survived their first winter beyond the protection of the Wall; but, then, they once upon a time had the mechanical thralls, those towering Machines, to tend to their every whim and need.
Ah, the Machines. Whatever could have caused them to abandon these very people they were oathbound to serve and minster to? Reportedly, that first morning was a day of profound panic; the lamentable wretches were forced to accept their lot as one of a more permanent aspect. They embraced industry and interpersonal responsibility; they accepted that an acceptance of both Science and the Arts would aid them more greatly in their production and development than they would achieve by the banishment of one or the other.
Also, the hold of the old religions weakened. Funny thing about people in slowly-passing times of trials, but they abandon the sentiments which are clung to out of no other pretense than tradition and serve no great purpose.
A variety of organizations catering to the lesser appetites and impatience of the community members at large were created; these battled for supremacy, eventually becoming whittled down to a core few. Even with the established council in Oldtown, some requests simply could not bear the light of a committee’s deep scrutiny, and in those times of need, people sought out those who could accomplish essentially anything in a more expedited fashion.
Enter yours truly, the infamous Favo Carr,
proprietor for one of the few progressively successful institutions of its kind. No task too great, no risk too costly; it’s not merely a business model, but a way of life. It was one of these tasks which brought me into line with what turned out to be quite a turning point in my life.
I hear dying often has that effect on a person.
Year of Exile Two Hundred Five;
Carr’s Services and Acquisitions
Favo Carr, proprietor
Oldtown-Against-The-Wall
Aerthos
To whom it may concern;
I am uncertain what else to do with myself this morning. In the past two years, my organization has prospered, albeit much changed in the course of its time. It has, with my guidance, evolved from an organization founded upon the principles of greed and corruption into one which services a subtle need of protection and security of the populace of Oldtown itself.
With the retirement of my predecessor, it appears to have fallen to me to not only provide services that the council-supported constabulatory is too lethargic to address, or which lies on the perimeter of policy to the detriment of the common man.
As with these otherwise neglected requirements, the recent re-establishment of the Machinekind to the agricultural fields has developed a dramatic alteration to the lifestyle to which we had, over generations, become accustomed. The liberal acquisition of goods and necessities has freed up a formerly compulsory segment of our populace; these have been re-allocated to the colleges and are apprenticing in a variety of avenues. But this remains a long and difficult process.
I am uncertain what else to write. As a functional requirement of my position – at the least, following in the steps of my predecessor – the inclusion of a regular record of my activities and the progress of our people has seemed essential. But in truth, I am bored.